Bloody Eyes - 01 (sample)

1.

Saint Monica highway.

Kilometer 42 (approximately 26 miles).

On a cold autumn night, a luxury coupe vehicle – red, two-door, late-model – runs to 160 km/h (44.44 mph), maneuvering and overtaking all other cars and trucks that are on the road – not that they are many, on the contrary.

In this night of crescent moon, they said on TV it might rain heavily in this region – but the sky, completely starry and cloudless, insists otherwise.

No one can see who is driving the red sports car because all its windows, including the windshield, are covered by a dark sun control film.

The fearless automobile accelerates increasingly, savoring the speed that its powerful engine provides. The wind whistles when passing through the airfoil, fixed at the end of its stylized body. The silver alloy wheels shine before the lamps of the light poles that illuminate the road for its entire length. The car headlights look like the eyes of a wild animal, just before the last bite of its prey. The bodywork is in perfect condition, shiny, without a scratch, which makes it seem that this car just came out of a dealership.

The beautiful red sports car keep moving forward until, on the horizon, appears a curious establishment: a small road bar, whose unkempt roof, and large checkered windows, lent it a rustic appearance.

The speed is reduced gradually.

The car is parked in front of the establishment.

On the dark brown wooden double doors – the kind you see at the entrances of Saloons in old Westerns – there is a red neon panel, on which is written:

Lloyd's Bar

The facade of the bar, covered by a flat painting in the moss-green color (which was already peeling, by the way), is not at all flashy. But the antiquated varnished wooden windows had some charm.

The vehicle engine is turned off.

The driver's door opens.

A tall young man get off, staring at the old bar entry with his hazel eyes – eyes that create a nice contrast to his white skin, lightly tanned.

The car door is closed. His left arm rises, and his fingers run through his short dark brown hair, naturally spiked. His expression is serene and enigmatic.

He straightens the collar of his red and white plaid shirt, buttoned all the way to the top. He pulls out, from one of the front pockets of his worn blue jeans pants, a black cell phone with chrome accents, and he observes the unit's display: as the background there is an image of Yin-Yang – wrapped in a solar disc, as it was a kind of eclipse – and in the upper right corner of the screen, a digital clock, scoring 00:37 (12:37 a.m.).

He walks toward the entrance. His steps are elegant, quiet, and lined up – a walking style that blends perfectly with white sneakers he is wearing.

He approaches to the door wings, and he opens it. Although not very big and not too thick, the notorious silver chain around his neck shines, reflecting the lights of the environment.

He enters the bar: a relatively large space, filled with four large pool tables, a pinball machine (whose theme should be The Hotties Bikini-Clad Girls Against Evil Aliens or whatever), and some arcade machines – only the classic fighting games.

The worn floor, the wallpaper wood tone, and the simple, yet flashy, chandeliers created a pleasing effect of a rustic environment. In the background is the bar counter where a beautiful and skillful redheaded barmaid prepares drinks for her customers. Distributed in strategic positions, three huge men in suits make security in this place. Two waitresses, dressed in a kind of black and white uniform, serve the order on the tables – in addition to drinks, this bar has a kitchen that also offer a small selection of portions and meals (usually nothing came out very traditional: rice, beans, steaks and fries).

In the corners of the walls, at the top, there are four small speakers. And right now, they play the chorus of a riff-driven rock song. This music pleases the newcomer, making him smile briefly.

Within the Lloyd's had more than twenty people, a number until significant if we consider that today is Wednesday, and that this immense bar is in the middle of nowhere. In general, half of those who are there are bikers – with their black leather jackets, directly emerging from a remake of the distant years – and the rest is formed by weary travelers, truck drivers, and half a dozen beautiful and unaccompanied women and the rest is made up of weary travelers, truck drivers, and half a dozen beautiful and unaccompanied women who, obviously, were being entertained by men who are there.

The newcomer goes to the great lacquered counter where drinks are served – in greater numbers, no doubt, were the large doses of spirits – and prepared the cocktails – from those weaker, like a fruit cocktail, even some things that nobody has ever heard of, such as Sitting Bull in Winter Rain (among those who drank it, some claim to have seen gnomes, others flying saucers, and there are those who swear by God that won the national lottery!).

He sits on one of the empty stools at the counter.

He seems to ignore completely all the others who are at the bar – and others show no interest in him as well.

The red-haired woman with blue eyes smiles at the stranger and asks, with moderate sympathy:

"Good evening. What will you drink?"

He smiles back and replies:

"A glass of cold milk, please."

A truck driver, who was taking a triple shot of whiskey on the right starts laughing, and chokes with his own drink. The girl in the bar, which also liked the funny request, complements, with a slight tone of sarcasm:

"With chocolate, or pure?"

"Pure... Today I do not feel so rebellious about to mix the milk with cocoa and sugar... Maybe another day..."

"Ok..."

The barmaid walks to a small beige refrigerator, opens it, and takes from within it a carton of milk.

She takes on the shelf a large 500ml glass mug, that would normally be used to serve draft beer, and fills it with the pale drink pouring from the colored box.

She delivery to the customer, and he thanks her.

The truck driver looks at the scene in disbelief. He did not know if he was more surprised by the request of the unknown guy, or with the fact that this girl has served milk at a roadside bar – whereas they do not serve espresso or other type of coffee there...

The young man realizes the interest of fat and bald truck driver, whose bushy eyebrows writhed in an astounding unknown, and justified himself:

"I'm with heartburn, so I cannot drink alcohol..."

"I see..." replies the fat man, surprised by his justification.

Some people noted the fact with a light – and very soon – interest.

The song that was playing finishes, and other start instead. The truck driver finished his drink, paid his bill and left.

The mug of milk is still half full.

The few women who were in the bar also are gone – each of them was accompanied by a lucky man.

The song that plays now looks like a mix of rock'n'roll and country music.

The bar entrance door wings are opened. A blond and slender man, wearing a suit, enters the place. Except for his gray tie, his whole dress is black.

The man is wearing a plaid shirt realizes the entry. Without attracting attention, he picks up his cell again, and looks the hours: 01:02 a.m.