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.