Twisting Stagnation

Nine: From a Dark Bar Walks a Temptress Seeking Death

If people are good only because they fear punishment, and hope for reward, then we are a sorry lot indeed. 

--Albert Einstein

A puff of smoke curled out of the doorway, spreading its toxic aroma around the young woman in the entrance before snaking out to the roadway beyond.

Executor squeaked a cough, letting go of one of her bags to place the lacy edge of her coat's sleeve over her mouth and absorb the muffled sound. Her eyes watered and she blinked back fresh tears as she looked around the thick air of the bar.

Some gazed up at her, squinting to see through the light's glare to attempt to peer through the darkness of her hood. An elven chin and long locks of flowing raven hair were all they could see, all below a pair of bright, green, eyes. Their attention didn't stay affixed for long before returning to drinks and small talk. I can do it. I have to do it. I've done worse, I'll do worse, and I can do it. For him.

She took a long deep breath, choking up the cloying scents of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat before picking up her briefcase and taking a faithful step into the store. Two bags dangled at her sides as she slid into the room, giving the quickly filling tables a wide berth as she headed to the far end of the sparingly lit room.

There, disguised by shadows and and a haze of smoke, was the bar proper; a long table of well-worn wood made shiny by incessant wiping and the rubbing of countless elbows. The bartender looked up, glazed over eyes gauging her for how much she was worth before he snorted and moved back to attend to his regulars: a rowdy bunch of old men who had long ago lost the opportunity to find work.

Half a dozen steps from the bar's edge, Executor stopped, the hem of her long coat fluttering and hugging her legs. Where is he? she wondered, wide, innocent eyes roving over those bent over the table. At the far end, eight men were huddling around a radio that was blaring a live commentary of a race.

The announcer's excited voice shot-gunned line after line of quick gibberish-like chatter, calling off the imaginatively named horses as they competed for first in a faraway arena, one out of the reach of these men's pockets. The crowd on location's cheers and screams were picked up by the microphone, only adding to the sudden tense air of the bar's corner.

"And Applejack takes the lead once more, right on the edge now. The rider's taunting his adversaries. Oh! Now Dash his speeding along, hooves thundering! The finish line's approaching! Dash is in the lead, only by a nose! They're rounding the last bend, leaning against each other. Only metres to go! Oh. Oh my! What a victory! Dash charges ahead and rips through. I repeat, Dash wins the race in a stunning show. My lord this is proving to be one of the best series this year! Another incredible victory by Dash."

Men grumbled while their comrades beamed cruelly at them, but one and all turned their attention to a short, ratty-faced man with a permanent smirk. Out of his dingy coat, he pulled thick wads of bills that he expertly handed to greedy hands, giving very precise amounts to the lucky victors in a fashion that was almost nonchalant.

This is the man, she thought, patiently waiting just outside the circle for the excitement to die down. The radio announced another race, one that was going to start after a 'short intermission'. The men sat back down, some calling out for drinks that would be paid with their new-found change, others sullenly pulling at old and well-worn pipes while glaring at the voice-box. The rat faced man went back to his own seat, a thick pile of bills tucked into his pocket for safekeeping.

With a firm nod to herself, Executor glided up to the man, navigated straight towards him with her bags skimming centimetres from the ground. As she came to a halt beside him he looked up and arched a quizzical eyebrow.