Vintage Memories

Chapter Twenty-Nine (Part One) "Let's Do Some Living After We Die"

"Following the Extermination, the rise of violence throughout the city has reached an all new high as citizens clamor for new wealth and territory."

Great... and here I am stuck waitin' tables.

Anthony's heterochromatic eyes fixed on the idiot-box set in its wooden case atop the bar refrigerator. Two pairs of elbows propped his weight over the red laminate bar. Buttery, musty, and smoky scents, with a strong base note of sour alcohol, wafted in the air of the roadside diner. He had grown accustomed; the smell always lingered no matter how many times they cleaned the place.

As he watched the gray-scale newsreels of mayhem and destruction, a longing sigh broke out from the depths of his chest.

Of all the shifts he was scheduled to work, it had to be the post-Extermination shift.

He had nothing against the Patron Saint dive. In fact, he loved his job, his coworkers and boss— he got to wear whatever he wanted and doll his face up. But during the turf wars, business was slow— the 'I'm so bored, I'd rip my fur out one strand at a time if it gave me something to do' kind of slow. The diner was a few patrons away from being a total ghost town.

But, alas, he was sorely needed.

Only the most volatile of the lot roamed the streets during the turf wars. Who could predict the intentions of each visitor who passed through the doors— perhaps under the pretense of wanting a cold one, only to pull out a hidden piece and unload on the sleepy diner? And for why-- well, why not? Reason seemed to fly the coop whenever turf wars abounded. 

So, the post-Extermination shift comprised two duties: the mundane responsibility of waiting tables, taking orders, bringing food and all that bullshit, and packing his own heat-- just in case he needed to defend the eatery from a rogue incendiary.

Anything was apt to happen during a post-Extermination turf war, and yet, nothing ever happened. It was by far the most dry-as-dust shift he had to muddle through.

Anthony traced a pink claw along the lip of one of the bar ashtrays, half full of used-up butts sticking out of their own ashes like gravestones. He figured he ought to empty it. But he didn't.

Wherever his roommate, Cherri, was— for she had gotten out of her job —she must be enjoying all the havoc, perhaps wreaking a bit of her own.

Although he knew he shouldn't, he wanted to be out there. He told himself it would be for Cherri's wellbeing, to simply play lineman while she went on the offensive, but an inner voice scoffed at the pallid lie. Who was he kidding? Turf wars were rife with fire and vitality. A good fight was just what he needed to vent some frustration, and he would take on each showdown as a gambler would-- rolling the bones, riding the high of adrenaline that came with testing fate.

The only thing being tested was his patience.

He curled his lip and groaned. A stark, black vacuity stood out in his white wall of fangs, and he sealed his lips, embarrassed by the tooth he lost during his fall.

"Rounding out the year 1951, I wish, from the rotted pit of my heart, that everyone is enjoying the aftermath of carnage and cruelty." The news anchor's debonair grin looked empty, and the disingenuous expression irked him.

"Fuck you," he muttered at the screen. "A posh prick like you wouldn't last ten seconds out in the streets." 

The peal of glass sliding across the bar pulled his narrowed stare from the television. A Singapore Sling stopped in front of him, layered red and clear liquid bleeding slowly into each other. This was one perk for working at the Patron Saint: free food and drink. He took the straw and stirred the red cocktail, listening to the chime of the ice against the glass. Taking a sip, the inrush of sweetness offset his bitter sentiments.