5 - The Rundown

Sitting in the room, staring at the ceiling, Melissa made as many faces as she could, figuring out a plan of attack. Or anything, really.

Her ears wavered around until she finally piped up. "Alright, so I don't have a real plan."

It's been much longer than an hour in the room. The Dutch woman hadn't returned. It probably means that they meant to spy on me, but frankly, I have completely forgotten about her. All that mattered to me now was getting out of this place and getting home. From the way Melissa spoke, she wanted to as well. And that was good enough for me.

'Course, now that meant a plan needed to be made. And that had been a massive time sink.

"So, you were out there with them?" I spoke up, sounding as demanding as possible. I needed her to remember that we were on thin ice as it was.

She looked at me, confused. "Yeah?"

"That means they have had to bring you in from somewhere else. Which means..." I went to the clipboard, turning a page over and placing the pen to it. "You had to have seen something. At least the room adjacent."

She thought about it, her face frowning as she did. "Hmm, I remember that there were three other rooms connected to that one."

As she spoke, I managed a good enough diagram of the area she explained. Of the central room were four backrooms: ours, three others. All had the same door type, so we needed to hit the right one and just bolt for it. If we don't, we weren't getting a second chance.

"Now it's all a matter of dodging Blue." She said. The realization of this came over us at once. "Yeah, I don't think we'll be able to manage that one."

I thought back, and realized that I might be able to try something. "Nathan's only got the two arms to hurt us with. Those legs of his don't seem two bad." I pulled out the switchblade. "I might be able to pull something off that will leave him... struggling."

She stared at the switchblade, then her eyes opened with realization. A smile, then a frown. "Then we have to be hoping that the werewolf over in the back doesn't show up today." She sighed, leaning back against the bed frame. "Man, this was not how I was hoping to spend my weekend."

I put the switchblade, turning to her. "So, how did you plan on spending it?"

She looked at me, looking as if she was checking my face, probably for any means of telling whether or not I was lying or joking. After a second, she leaned against the frame again. "I don't know if you realize it, but I'm not exactly..." She looked for the right words, then gave up on it. "Normal."

I flipped the blade closed. "Well, the ears kinda gave it away, hun."

She felt her ears. Her face went wide and blushing red with shock. She covered them, then whispered words in that strange language from earlier, trying not to stutter. Her hands glowed with a strange mist, a yellow fog, then it vanished. Her ears were now ordinary rounded ones, as if she removed them like a Halloween costume.

I flicked the blade out, but kept it between my hands and the ground. "So, you mind explaining that bit, or am I gonna have to redact my handshake from before?"

She looked at her hands, a look of sorrow on her face, then turned to me, looking slightly confused. "I... covered them. With magic."

I scoffed, frowning at her. "Are you fucking serious."

She sat up and showed me her hands, as if to show the parts of her ears weren't there. They were empty. "No, I..." A deep breath, and she began. "I am. You know, a lot of people in the world aren't... people. Like you, you know. They're, like, other people." She felt one of her ears. "People like me. And that scares a lot of people..." She pointed at me. "People like you."

I nodded, getting most of what she just attempted to say. "So, those stupid stories about fantasy creatures invading Times Square and the like that you'd see on the dollar shelves at bookstores."

"All true." She finished, then grinned. "Although, we didn't take over Times Square, we kinda helped build it. They never bother to include those parts."

I threw my hands up. "Well, see, that's... people like you, if you want to go with that." I pointed at the door. "What about people like them?"

She blew a bit of air, then leaned forward. "Okay, so." She stopped, trying to find the right words. "There are..." She scratched the back of her head. "Okay, so fairy tales are real." A desperate grin appeared on her face. "Like, those stupid bedtime stories, those games that the kids play nowadays, all that shit - that stuff is real."

I ran my fingers through my hair and felt the back of my neck. "Yeah, I kinda got that once I saw the entire bar staring back at me. I'm wondering about the assholes who have us locked up back here and are probably buying new shovels for us."

She looked at the door, probably expecting one of the henchmen to burst in and shoot her for saying anything. Turning to me, she fished around in her front pocket, and brought out a flat circular disc. It appeared to be made of stone, but what was curious was the glowing magenta lettering on the face of it. Almost like a warning beacon. "Mickelson."

My eyebrows rose. "Yeah, that bastard. The psychotic fucker."

She looked to me, then put the disc back. "Mr. Mickelson is kind of a big deal in the... underground." She rolled her eyes, looking like she was searching for the proper words. "He ran the Open Door Bar a good... god, what was it, fifty or sixty years ago?" She scratched her head, trying to remember. "Before an arson took the place."

I remembered the burned building upstairs, the frame being the only thing intact and keeping up the facade. Wait. "So, hold on. An arson took the entire building?"

She nodded.

"Then how is that bastard still alive?"

She held the shadow of a smile. "Rumor was, Mickelson set the fire himself. See, the bar didn't exactly attract a lot of well-paying customers - no uptown socialites, no rich yuppies looking for 'common drink'." She closed her eyes for a second, making motions and mumbling, trying to remember. "Ah, yeah. It was, I think, the first time regular blue collar folks got to see anybody from the... er, underground, in person."

The flyer from the attic flashed back to my head; opening day, all those years ago. And my grand-father was part of it.

She stood up and walked to the broken TV, inspecting it while she spoke. "Mickelson probably felt like he needed a return on his investment." After tapping the buttons and poking at the screen, she gave up and walked over to the other side of the bed. "So, boom. Up it goes in flames." She made a little motion to indicate the fire, and for a second, a small spark appeared between her hands.

"So what about them? The Dutch woman? The bodyguards? The patrons?"

As she was about to start, a knock on the door brought us both back down to earth and our eyes to the door. A voice, the Slavic werewolf, came through. "Faelin, Ferguson, get up. Mickey wants a word."

We turned to each other, concern, anger, and agreement on our faces. This was it.

The door opened, and the werewolf walked on, hunched over but trying to keep a dignified face. It didn't matter; the snout got in the way anyways. He gestured his head towards the doorway and walked back out. We stood up and followed him, my switchblade still held and still hidden my coat sleeves.

Melissa wasn't lying; the holding area was accompanied by three other doors, all beat up and made to look like a motel door. The latches on these three were bolted four times over - looking back at our door, we had the same set, plus one more bolt at the top. Nathan and Leigh were gone, meaning the werewolf was the only one watching the door at the time. Fuck. We could've attempted something.

A new door, behind a couple of barrels, opened, and from here, we came into a hallway reminiscent of an English pub. The wallpaper was just as shoddy and falling apart here, but the lack of any decent light took some focus from that. A couple of windows were here, and from these, I got to see the entirety of the bar from a floor above.

The place was crowded, but from the sizes of the patrons, I could barely count how many people were in there. I could also scarcely count how many hoax animals and creatures were downing glasses. Here, I thought I saw what looked like Sasquatch drinking a large pint while chatting up what looked from here like several faeries drinking from thimbles. Every single... thing, just down there, drinking away as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I must've stood there for a minute or two, because I heard the werewolf growl behind me. Turning quick, he barked at me. "Move, Ferguson. I'm payed to get you to the boss, not to babysit ya." I saw him open a door at the end of the hallway, light streaming past the door frame.

Making sure Melissa was standing next to me, we walked into the next room. An office. His office. The desk was pine, an almost exact replica of the one in the burnt building. Where that one was covered in soot, this one was covered in receipts. A small pen holder was built into the side, and the entire thing screamed professionalism.

His smiling face. Mickelson was grinning from ear to ear, showcasing a number of wrinkles that really accentuated his age. His hat was removed this time, showcasing his gray hair and the streaks of white that were mixed into it. The hair mixed directly into his beard and mustache ensemble, only unable to dominate his nose. The wrinkles on his face were self-evident; the man, however old he was, wore it as well as he possibly could. And his eyes, still holding an intense gaze, must've been frightening when he was younger. As it were, they made his smile look less like a Rogers-style happy hello, and more like Peewee Herman about to climax in the dark.

None of this was helped by the black-and-gray pinstripe suit he wore, which made him look like the demented older brother of Scarface. And from the looks of it, there were stains on the suit. Scarlet, brass-colored stains.

"So, you enjoy the room?" He spoke, finally, as the wolf closed the door behind us. He sat up straight, lowering his folded arms to the desk. "I understand Charlotte came by to break up a little... spat."

I studied him, looking for an opening. If he was expecting a surprise, he wasn't giving me an inch. Looking around, I noticed Nathaniel and another bodyguard I hadn't seen before standing to both sides of him. No smiles, no frowns; they were like statues to this man.

"So." I looked back at Mickelson. "Ferguson."

My spine felt a chill. He knew my name. That meant he knew who I was. No point in hiding that bit, now. I made it out to look like I relaxed, and cleared my throat, keeping the blade in my wrist completely covered. "Liam. Liam Ferguson." I gave him a strict frown, hoping to get him to drop his guard. Nothing. "Although, with everything going the way it is, I'm pretty sure you knew who I was."

His grin faltered, but not through any action of my own. "Oh, yes. I try to do research on all of my employees."

I raised an eyebrow. "Employee?"

He opened his arms wide. "That's what you are, now, boy. You work for me, now." He grabbed the sides of the desk, and turned his head toward Melissa. "And young Faelin here will be your partner."

"What." I said, turning towards Melissa. She looked at me in surprise, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head in complete confusion.

"Don't worry." His voice came off as a hell of a lot more menacing, now. "I'll try to ease the two of you into this wonderful new job of yours. You see, I got a special project for you two." He opened a drawer behind the desk, and pulled out a stack of receipts, throwing onto the table. Bills, tabs, the likes, all banded together. "And you two have got a lot of debt."

Now he was talking crazy. "Hold on, there, Mickey, or whatever." The bodyguards stiffened, but didn't move. Guess they knew when to stay still. "I get that you think I'm a pushover or whatever, but I've never been to this fucking bar. I can't pay off a tab that I never had."

Mickelson stopped smiling. He picked up the bundle, and walked around the table to me. My hand gripped the switchblade hard, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to take his neck. I needed to hear this.

He handed me the receipts and stepped back. As I looked, my eyes went wide. "Henry Ferguson."

He grinned again. "Your grand-pappy owes me a fuckton of money, Liam. I intend to make my investment back."

4 - The Deal

I don't remember how long I slept, only that I could hear them all in my head, laughing hard. Leigh, Nathaniel, the stupid werewolf, and that crazy bastard, Mickey. All of them ready to rip my head off and throw me to the dogs - or werewolf, in this case.

In a fit, I woke, gasping. The same floor, the same dimly-lit backroom for interrogation, even the same pain in my side. Still, I had to get up. Trying to stand up, I checked my pockets. Flip lighter and cigarettes in the first, switchblade in the second, flashlight in the third. Same as before. They really need to learn to check the pockets of hostages.

I glanced around, and spied a clipboard on the dresser. Moving over to it, the pain in my side shot out and I bent over the bed, clutching at my hip. Whatever Leigh hit, I was really feeling it now.

Leigh. That fucking dwarf. Playing dumb for the time being, then strikes when she knows I couldn't get her. Soon as Mickey gave the word, though, she's an obedient little sheep.

I managed to get myself up with difficulty and picked up the clipboard. It had several sheets on it, filled to the brim with information on...

Others.

Here, a Hispanic. Then a Caucasian. Black. She read off the previous victims, that cold bitch. And she was keeping records. Age, occupation, medical, hobbies, familial. Holy shit, they were keeping track of us before we even got here.

I found mine. Twenty-seven, currently unemployed, physically healthy, it goes on. When did they get this, how did they know all this?!

A turning knob and several opening locks brought me back to reality. Shit, they're coming back. I drew the switchblade, primed it, then got near the frame, just behind the door for an ambush. First lock, then second, then third...

The door swung open, and I lunged for the nearest neck. I grabbed it, buckled back, and raised the blade. A scream flew out in some language, flowery and light. Her neck was thin, soft. And it was easy to handle, probably easier to snap.

Before I knew what was going on, I stood there, with my switchblade around the neck of a woman and a werewolf and the big lug looking for an opening. I couldn't let them see my surprise, so I kept my face behind hers.

Her. She had really soft, orange hair, smelled like peach. I couldn't see her face or the rest of her - you know, due to the hostage thing - but she was shorter than me, around neck height. She was shaking, trying not to struggle and get the blade closer.

The werewolf was growling. His fur was a deep brown, almost black, but his yellow eyes were glowing with fury. His teeth, longer than spikes, were bared, and his claws were ready to start on me as soon as I let her go. From the way they were positioned, I assumed they were this woman's bodyguards. Some job.

A good, solid minute of silence passed between the four of us, filled with the wolf's growling, Nathaniel's stare, my thoughts, and her whimpering.

The wolf spoke first. "Okay, I'm gonna give you to the count of five to let go of her before I tear your fucking throat out and shit on it." His accent placed him as European, probably Slavic. It didn't matter much. "One."

Nathaniel cracked his knuckles and smiled, intent on getting his boxing practice. He nudged his head towards the wolf, his neck snapping as well. "I'd do it, Smiley. He hasn't eaten all day."

I felt myself slightly lower the blade, then brought it back against her throat close enough to touch skin. She made a slight gagging sound. "Actually, I was thinking you'd help show me out. See, I don't know the run of this place, and you guys seem like you know your way around."

The wolf was frustratingly silent. "Two."

Nathaniel chuckled. "Yeah, that's a funny joke. Now hand her over and we can get back to beating the shit out of you." He smacked his fists.

I shook my head. "See, here's the thing. You guys might have some weight, but I'm making the demands here. After all," I pressed the switchblade edge, and heard more gagging. "I'm the one who's about slit her throat. And from the looks of it, that's a might bit more important to you than the blood in my body."

Her voice pipped up, and she tried to turn her head to get a look at me. "S-stop…"

The wolf started licking his lips. "Three."

Nathaniel, for the first time I've seen of him, stopped smiling and narrowed his eyes at me. "Buddy, you have no idea what kind of enterprise you're messing with. Do you even know who Mickey is? Do you even know who she is?" He pointed at the woman currently struggling in my hands. "Because you've been stepping into a world that you should never have walked into, never have known about."

"I don't care either way. I want out."

"Four."

He smiled. "Your grand-pappy wanted out, too, son. Didn't do him no good, neither."

"Five--" And on that, the wolf hesitated, as another person opened the door behind them, walked passed him into the room, and stood silent.

I gripped the blade, but had my eye on the newcomer. A decently tall woman, dirty blonde hair with orange highlights, human this time. Dressed in what looked like a weird mix of a flapper girl's dress, a modern coat, and black stockings, she was quite beautiful for what looked to be forty years of age. 'Course, she probably isn't. Her stance and the way that both the werewolf and Nathaniel pretty much fell silent in her presence told me that she might be a big one.

She took a moment to glance at the scene - her underlings trying to weasel their way around a Mexican standoff with a hostage-taking surface psycho.

She clapped, and both the wolf and Nathaniel left the room, quietly closing the door with a *click* as they made their way out. The girl in my hands stiffened, then relaxed within the span of a second. She focused on me, her eyes momentarily darting to the hostage girl, and smiled.

She spoke, and her accent betrayed her as another European, probably Dutch. "Resourceful, I see."

I felt a smile come onto my face. A wild one. "You gotta learn pretty quick, you see."

She gave a quick grin, then turned and walked out, speaking as she went. "We can't let you leave, hun, but we'll at least let you know your co-workers." As she stood in the door frame, she sighed and turned to me again. "You get an hour. Better be taking Mickey's deal, kid."

The door shut behind her, but I managed to catch one last thing she said: "Ain't no one gone through Vince the same way."

I stood there in silence, hands holding tight around a switchblade that was still rubbing against the girl's neck. She tried turning her head again, then spoke. "U-um, I'd probably take the offer if I were you."

I looked at her head, then let her go, lightly pushing her away and keeping the switchblade raised. I finally got a good look at her, too: short, and with long, pointed ears, almost like a fantasy elf. Wearing a soft hoodie, t-shirt, and skirt and leggings into hi-tops. It just occurred to me that she might not actually work here; still, the blade remained high and pointed towards her head.

She was keeping her eye on the blade, but made glances towards me, keeping careful of the distance. She finally worked up the nerve to speak. "Now, I understand that all this might be a bit too much for you to handle…"

I snapped. "No, it's all perfectly clear to me, girl. It's all clear."

She stepped back towards the door, afraid to turn around and handle the knob, in case I decided to lunged. Cautious. This girl knew to be scared, what to be scared of. "But, really, you, uh, you should take it. It's not so bad."

I swung the blade lazily, enough to scare her a bit. "Really? And I'm supposed to trust you? They looked like they were about break my neck just for grabbing you; you think I'm gonna trust anything you're telling me right now?" I pointed at the door. "Realize you're in the same room as a psycho. Start talking, girl."

She looked nervous, nauseous. I think I managed to get the point across. "Okay, so, first things first." She stuck her arm out, hand open. I think she figured she could get a handshake out. "My name is Melissa."

A good minute passed before she realized she wasn't gonna get me to drop the blade, so she reeled her arm in. "Right. Look, we're both in a bit of hot water here; I'm not your enemy. In fact, none of us are."

"Us."

She look confused. "W-what?"

"You're saying 'us', and you're supposed to be on my side?" I said, waving the blade slightly. "Stop it with that shit and maybe I might believe you."

She threw her hands up. "Fucking unbelievable. You see, this is why we're down here!" She hit the door with her fist. "That attitude of 'us or them' ain't gonna cut it here!" She turned to me. "Look, I get it. You are so not supposed to be down here. Neither am I. But we're in the same decaying backroom together and I'm pretty sure that Blue already locked the door on me, anyways."

She took a deep breath. "We need to work together on this."

"...And what's in it for you, anyways?"

She rolled her eyes. "Does it really matter? I want to get out of here - I'm sick of this shit already."

I thought for a minute. Why would they bring her here? She looked barely out of college, let alone one of their cronies, and she spoke like it too. Plus, I need to start making friends, in case I might end up with a knife in my backside or whatever these people intended to do with me.

I hesitated, then lowered the blade. "I'm taking a massive, fucking risk here." I picked up my arm and held out my hand. "But you better not be conning me." She looked at me, surprised that her sappy speech made it through. Smiling, we shook hands.

"If we gonna be buried, we'll at least have close graves."

3 - The Room

"Hey, you up, already?"

The dwarf's voice came out, and I opened my eyes. I was in what looked like a motel room, dim lighting blanketed over the place. The ceiling had chipped in places, and I felt the light bulb might detach and hit me in the head soon. Sitting up, I looked around. Drawers filled with clothing, both men and woman's, dominated the walls; they trapped an old television, a CRT, standing atop a wardrobe between themselves. The bed I was lying on was a double, made recently, and felt firm, almost hard. Slept fine, though.

To my right, the dwarf woman sat, carrying a clipboard and pen, possibly jotting down whatever I was doing in my sleep. She looked tired, but it didn't seem like she was aiming to take her eyes of me for nothing - like it was her job here.

Here. That word kept repeating itself in my head. Where is here? When is here, anyway?

I rubbed my face. "How long was I out?"

"About a day." She said, before yawning.

"Right." I scratched my nose, and sighed. "Any chance you're gonna tell me where I am?"

"You're in a back room we keep for..." she pauses, then looks around. "'Visitors'."

Ah. So this is where I die.

I got a better feel of the room. The wallpaper was peeling off in lots of places, showing wooden supports. Past the woman, there was a closet door with a mirror, cracked, probably from some former inmate. It was locked, so I could assume there was a body in there or something. The hallway leading to the door wasn't lit; if someone was hiding there, they'd probably get the drop on me before I managed to book it.

I need to get out of here. Chuckles might come back and want to have fun with his new pinata.

She yawned again, and turned to the door with anxiety, like she was waiting for someone to barge in. Probably back-up, in case things got ugly.

I hopped off the bed and nearly fell, my legs unadjusted and weak. Jesus, it feels like longer than a day.

Turning toward the woman, I saw she had her hand behind her back and was standing ready. She was prepared and wasn't keen on seeing me leave.

"So, when am I leaving, hun?" My voice was a little stronger, now.

She laughed. It was strangely amusing. "You ain't."

I felt around the back of my pants and found a cigarette carton. Taking one out, I felt around for the lighter in coat. Her eyes seemed to widen while I did this; apparently, none of them to check for a weapon. Maybe they don't get that many 'visitors'.

Fishing the lighter out and lighting the cigarette, I got several seconds of amusing looks from her before I realized I had to keep her talking; I needed to know what exactly their plan was.

"So, when Mr. Mickey or whatever his name is--"

"Mr. Mickelson," she said.

"Yeah, him. When he gets 'visitors', what's his modus operandi? His common 'courtesy'?"

The smoke in the room hung for a while before she piped up. "Well, usually, it's not having a dance with our favorite slab of steak in the other room."

Other room. So, the big lug was probably standing behind that door. That put a damper on my plan.

"We don't get visitors, buddy. Heck of it, you're the first to arrive in a while. Ever since the fire, at least."

It just hit me. "Wait, didn't you guys say something about 'three others' or something?"

She stood silent, but her eyes were now filling with an anger I hadn't seen before.

I found a button. Now, I just need to keep pressing it.

"So, who were they?"

She picked up her clipboard. "Two men and a woman. Hispanic, Caucasian, Black. 54, 32, 46. A jeweler, carpenter, and a schoolteacher."

I took a puff. "I assume each and every one was murdered--"

She laughed. "Murder? That what you think we do here? They're fine."

"So what do you do here?"

"We serve drinks. It's a bar."

"What kind of bar runs long after an arson, several hidden kidnappings, and holds interrogation cells probably a mile below the surface?"

"A pretty damn good bar, if Nathaniel had anything to say about."

I pointed at the door and at her. "So, Nathaniel and...?"

She pointed at herself. "Leigh Stafferson."

"We on surnames now? Haven't even known you a full day." I threw the cigarette down and stomped it out. "Heck, I haven't even known this place for a full day. The hell kind of place is this, anyway?"

"It's a bar."

"I got that already, hun." I walked up to her, putting barely an arm's distance between us and looking straight down at her. Worst comes to worst, I have the lighter to burn this place down and a switch to take a hostage with me. "I mean, what's with... you? And them? All of them?"

Her hand went behind her back again. Good. "Customers. Regulars. And I'm here to... keep the peace, as it is."

Alright, this game of cat-and-mouse was getting me nowhere. "Fess up, hun. You know you guys can't hold me forever."

The sound of a door opening and footsteps drew the switchblade from my back pocket and into the face of the old man, still smiling like he won the lottery. I heard the growl of a wolf, a hiss, and Chuckles, all ready to jump in and beat me seven ways 'til Sunday. A click behind my back also told me that the little dwarf was packing heat.

Mickleson merely chuckled, and pushed the switchblade down. I don't know why, but for a moment, I realized they weren't here to kill me. At least, not at first.

"Well, a few days out cold doesn't seem to faze you, boy?" The old man removed his hat and handed it to the big ball of walking fur - a werewolf? - behind him, who stared daggers at me before leaving the room. "Thought young Nathaniel had hit you too hard; might've had to find another hole in the ground for you."

I felt the gun pressing up against my back, the cold metal barrel digging into my spine. God, I wish she dropped it. "Well, Mr. Mickelson--"

Mickelson raised his hand. "Please, son. My 'friends' here call me Mickey." He nudged his head towards his bodyguards, that shit-eating grin getting ever so slightly wider.

I cleared my throat. "Well, then, Mickey. I'd have assumed you'd have already done the deed and gotten rid of... a loose end." A lump in my throat formed, and I was struggling to hold my breath back. One little slip-up, and I might end up six feet under.

His grin faltered a little. Apparently, murder ain't a casual thing with these guys.

"Why, what purpose could it serve, son? You're still alive, aren't ya? Not like I tried to have you whacked."

"And what's with that, anyway?" The gun barrel pressed again, but I ignored it. "You have Chuckles and Marilyn over here ready to beat the living piss out of me six ways to Sunday, but then you act like you doin' me a favor by knocking me out and locking me in here!" I could fell the anger coming off the big lug now. "What's your game, chief?"

A moment of silence, as each and everyone of us kept eyeballing each other.

Then, Mickey laughs. "Why, I got myself an investment in you, now!"

My body went cold. "Investment? The hell you talking about?"

Mickelson placed his hands on my shoulders. I tensed up, but relaxed slightly as soon as I felt Leigh move the gun barrel away from my spine. "Son, I've been meaning to find a courageous, bold, young lad like yourself; you see, I got myself a special sort of... project that I was hoping you'd be able to participate in."

Project? Is that what this entire thing is? A bar under the earth, a gaggle of freaks for bodyguards, disappearances... some kind of sick experiment?

"And, uh, what happens if I refuse?"

Mickelson took his hands off of me, wiped across his coat, and removed his glasses for cleaning. "Heh, well, then you find that I don't to the word 'no' very kindly..."

Suddenly, I was struck in the back by a hard kick; Leigh, apparently, not shying away from a bit of violence for the man. Kneeling down, she grabbed my head by the hair and forced my face up to Mickelson. He stared down at me, that toothy grin dominating his shadowed face.

"You see, I made others... vanish. I could just as easily do it for you too, boy, if'n you ask kindly enough." He knelt slightly, and grabbed my chin. Struggling, I could only watch as he held up a photo of me and my grandmother, slightly tattered. They did search me. "Shit, I like you so much, I'd do for free, as well." He threw the photo behind him and brought his face close, losing his smile in the process. "You'd do well to take my offer, son. It's the only option I'm giving you right now."

They both let go of me, and I fell on my side, back aching like crazy. He adjusted his tie. "I'll give you a day. Remember that we're both six feet under, son. I'm the only one that's keeping you breathing." He gestured with his hand, and everyone moved to leave.

A minute later, and I'm sprawled out on the floor, tired and beat, alone.

This man was a psycho. A fucking lunatic. And he knew where I lived.

I don't know when I fell asleep on that hardwood floor, only that at that moment, all I could taste was my own blood.