Because everyone else is doing it, I wrote a story too. It's a (lame) first person narrative. Yes, I know I'm putting down my own work.
The Bad Old Days- part 1
It was a cold oppressive November night, the dead grey skies hung claustrophobic. It was the kind of night where you would slit your own wrists to provide some sort of relief from the monotonous grey. I was in a dive I frequented, the sort of place where only the dregs of humanity were. People there would trade their last shred of dignity for another shot of watered down rotgut. Fitting that it's where I ended up.
Piano music tinkled slowly through the thick smoke clogged air. The dull murmer of bar conversation mixed with the sweet melody of the piano, turning it into a mournful tune. I took another puff of my cancer stick before crushing it out, these things are gonna kill me someday. Of course, we all have to go sometime right?
I shivered as a blast of cold air hit me, I looked up to see who'd come in. The man was tall, he had on a nice leather trench and a black fedora. His clothes were slightly worn, but nowhere near as bad as the alkies who lived in the bar. I figured he was just some middle class stiff slumming to try and make himself feel better about working a dead end nine to five.
I took a sip of my drink, feeling the warm glow of the spirits. It's the closest feeling to good I can get... The last time I felt good, felt alive, that was back in the bad old days. My hand slips down to my stomach and feels for that familiar spot of scar tissue. I don't miss bad old days so much when I think of that injury- the bullet'd gone straight through. Shot in the back, I never did find out who did it... It nearly killed me, but there are days when I wish it had.
I watch the man chatting up Joe the barkeep, and show him an 8x10. I can't see who's pic it is, but I reassess the stranger, looking at him closer. The worn shoes, the rumpled clothes, five o'clock shadow, he's no working stiff, near as I can tell he's a dick. Figures, we get a couple of PIs in every now and then. The dick tosses Joe a couple c-notes, Joe points him in my direction. I hope it's enough to cover the medical bills Joe, because I'm not gonna let that slide.
The gumshoe saunters over, that despicable swagger of a man with a gun. No matter how many times I see it I still get riled up, men and their ego. Heh, I guess to them you don't need confidence if you've got yourself a bang bang. He puts his hat on my table and pulls up a chair uninvited.
I look him over, square jaw, well muscled, rough and tumble with blue eyes and dark hair. There was a time I'd have found him gorgeous and wasted no time getting him into my bed. Not anymore, I haven't cared about things like that for a very long time.
His lips move, I hear what he says but ignore him completely as I look away. He may as well be talking to the wall for all I care. Finally he says the one thing that registers, a single name that sends shivers down my spine and sends my mind whirling with memories I'd thought I'd forgotten.
"Blinky."
For a long moment I'm silent. Some part of me hopes that when I look back he'll be gone and it was just a bad dream, but the rest of me knows that's not the case. I've always had rotten luck like that. I look at him, a cold feeling grips my insides and twists them. Doom. If he traced me this far, then there's no way I could bluff my way out of it. "I, haven't been called that in a long time." My voice is quiet and hoarse, barely a whisper.
End part one
