Frankie & Formaldehyde

Chapter Eight: Meeting For Lunch

As has been said, George is a particular man, one who appreciates neatness and tidiness, virtues which followed him well into his undeath. His shower had been an adventure, the cold water shocking him awake and bringing his inert veins into a blue relief on the surface of his grey skin. The thought of warm water cascading over him actually made him nauseous, which was strange since he'd always enjoyed a good old-fashioned scorching scrub. It had been one of those tiny pleasures in life, emerging from a shower that left him as stung and red as a cooked lobster, a feeling of sanitized cleanliness hovering about him along with flower scented soap.

It was a small point to brood upon, and he shook the ill feeling off, remembering there were far more important things at hand. Such as, which tie went best with this new, waxy grey hue of his skin? Not the purple, that felt too festive and the red gave off a certain sense of lack of refinement, not to mention highlighting the sallow undertones of his cheeks. He eventually settled on the grey, black and silver tie Frankie's sister had bought him for Christmas seven years ago. He blew a layer of dust off of the box it came in and took it out, still pristine and perfect, and tied it expertly around his collar.

He felt the image of a man suited up and ready for business, one who wasn't about to take any crap from some conniving suit across from him. He had to forget about the socks and shoes, since the dog's attack had left his feet too damaged for any kind of footwear, but as long as someone didn't inspect him for too long he figured the clean, well ironed trousers and white, starched shirt gave him enough of an air of suburban respectability.

The vague understanding that Frankie was supposed to be a part of this nagged at George, but he refused to dwell too long on it. The damn bank closed in the afternoon, no doubt so its manager could while the rest of his working hours on liquid lunches at the only bar still in operation. There was the understanding that Frankie had gone to work, though for what purpose he couldn't properly understand. They'd worked hard for others all their lives.

Surely by now they were ready to retire and enjoy each other's company for a change?

He paused midway into tying his tie.

That awful ache was back again. He pinched the perfectly formed knot into place at his neck, grimacing into the mirror as he thought about how best to approach their monetary problem. He smoothed the tie over his chest then slid his stiff, jerky arms into a clean, dark blue suit jacket. The memory of what Jack had told him was still fresh enough, and he had clearly implicated the bank as being the source of all their woes. It was the bank's fault Frankie had to keep working, and it was their fault their beautiful neighbourhood was set to be destroyed. He'd show them the damned official paperwork that proved without a doubt that they owned this house and the land it sat on. He'd wave it under the incompetent bank manager's face and tell him if they tried to take his property they'd have to deal with George and the barrel of a rifle, and George had no intention of being on the receiving end.

He searched for the keys to the house, but they weren't in the usual spot near the side door, and there wasn't a spare on the nail hanging above the stove. He'd have to leave the door unlocked. The omission of shoes and socks didn't bother him, not even as he walked barefoot over the black asphalt on his driveway, the soles of his bare feet sizzling on the hot surface. Dolores was right, it was a beautiful summer day. Flies buzzed around him in a busy, decaying halo. With a deep intake of breath that sucked a few of them into his lungs, he journeyed on foot into the heart of downtown, to the bank, where George was damned well going to set things straight.

Monarch Banking was the only structure on the street that still retained all of its windows. The surrounding stores and the post office had an eerie ghost town quality to them, with windows smashed in and dusty, blood flecked products blowing aimlessly out into the street. The trash pooled in a windy eddy near the central clock tower, which was missing its long hand. The short hand pointed aimlessly between the fifth and sixth roman numerals, as though time itself had run out of breath and was too tired to go on.