A building that looked as if it had been torn to shreds—fallen bricks, crude symbols adoring the crackled windows, and a door visibly detached from its hinges. A thick smell permeated the area, the smell of smoke; of sweat. It could be described similarly to that of sulfur, or acid vomit.
Loud, blaring, music resonates from within the building. Blaring lights, pounding footsteps, even the occasional whistles threatened the building's already frail structure.
There were two men that stood by the "door" dressed in tight black suits, littered with small patches of blood. And like an unmoving stone wall they barraged the door. In one of their lips was a cigarette, and by his feet a small pile of ashes yet to be blown away from the wind; as they had been there a while.
The other was tall and thin with a face that resembled that of a skull, with sharp teeth and a mop of black hair atop his head. He wore glasses—one lens cracked and one whole—but he didn't appear to notice or care.
Both eyes were glued to the pavement in front of them, staring at something; at a man with clothes as dull as the pavement he stood with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his pants, but he did not look bothered by the overwhelming warmth of the sweltering summer as heat enveloped his person. Piercing red eyes gazed down upon the two men; as if scrutinizing their worth.
He was a stranger to these two men, a stranger with eyes unwavering, with a stride like a viper. As he approached the man with a ghastly appearance, his lips tugged into the smallest of smiles—one side of his lips curling into a smirk.
"Hello, Sir." The voice was deep; smooth like silk, like velvet. It sounded almost hypnotic. A soothing sensation filled the air as it washed over the men and left then breathless. "Is Mr. Cisneros inside?"
"Will you let me in?" He continued, voice now dripping with venom. "I really, really, need to speak to him. Urgently."
The men glanced at each other—the distant memory of their boss's raspy voice dripping in fear. Beads of sweat adorning his unusually bearded face as he spoke of a man with tousled ashy hair and eyes as red as the devil. 'Do not ever—Ever let a man with scarlet eyes in. Never.'
"Sorry, Man." One said. His fingers fumbled for his cigarettes. He didn't light it. Instead, he stuck his thumb inside his mouth and sucked on it, grimacing as if in pain, the tip of his tongue protruding. He stared at his boots. "Mr. Cisneros isn't here right now, though."
A silence fell over the scene, a silence that seemed to weigh down heavily on the atmosphere, a silence that almost knocked the breath out of the two men. The few sounds that slipped through were of the electric music resonating from the inside of the club and the sound of the gentle breeze.
The man with crimson eyes rolled them to the sky; sighing as he ran one spindly hand through styled hair, tussling it just as the mens boss raved about.
"Look." His words were slow and measured, spoken in a calm tone that held no discernible emotion. "How much does he pay you?"
"Wha-"
"Probably like, 8 bucks per hour?" A different voice cut in, unlike the smooth velvet of the blonde man, this man's voice was as if holier-than-thou and brimming with just as much venom. He smiled widely as he spoke; like a child easily entertained. "So that would have to be around..." Another pause and he licked his lips with a glistening tongue. "20 bucks per day, Right?"
"Hey, asshole. That ain't none of your business." One man slurred and turned to face the new speaker. "And that's not even right math."
The blonde man took a deep inhale, pressing one hand flush against the skull-faced bouncers chest and shoving him, causing the man to curse and stumble over his own feet.
