“WHAT?” he said.
“The world has gone to hell,” a different man said from an adjoining room.
The man who said this was wearing a red sombrero, walking into the room where the old man was standing.
“No – the world is really gone,” the man with the sombrero said.
There was a feline perched on the balcony that day.
The two men continued to talk.
“Never in my life have I seen such horror?”
“You made it out of the factory alright?” the man with the sombrero said.
“Look at the feline,” the man with the red sombrero said. “It knows the world has ended.”
A woman of about fifty walked in, carrying a lamp.
“Never in my life have I seen such horror,” she said in a soft voice.
“What’s your cat’s name?”
“This is Peppermint,” the old man with the gray beard said. “He kills all the mice.”
The woman ignored this. The three proceeded to the boat, an old two-seater speed boat with a single engine made by Wellcraft, a company that specializes in boat engines outside of Bradenton, Florida.
A young fellow appeared; he was about twenty-four. Romano Cubans leapt into the boat, spoke some words to the woman, and jetted off.
“That was Cubans,” she said to the man with the red sombrero. “He used to be the best player on the team, he played for the Walruses in 84. The year their basketball team won state champions.”
The two old men looked at her.
“It was said he lost his talent. After one day driving in his car, listening to his music, a hand reached out from the stereo and grabbed his spirit, leaving his body an empty shell. His spirit was replaced by a malevolent spirit that caused him to play poorly, and the team had a low standing the next year.”
A man was walking across the dock with a black toolbox in his hand, pushing a baby carriage. They saw the white fluffy cat, Peppermint, seated in it. The only person who paid him any mind was the man wearing the red sombrero.
“That fellow you saw speed off,” the woman said, “that’s not Cubans; that’s something else in the body of Cubans.”
The old man looked at her.
“When the mind is lost, your world is gone.”
“What is your name anyways old man?”
“Hector Winston, like the cigarettes.”
Hector Winston was his dog’s name too – he had named it after himself. He had found it during the time he was exploring the catacombs of Paris, about seven years ago. The dog prepared itself, then took a shit on the dock.
“Oh yeah, the catacombs of Paris, went down about 456 ft,” the man said with a sigh, wiping his forehead with the white T-shirt he had on.
At about twelve fifteen in the afternoon, a yell from the end of the dock was heard by the group in a conversation about Romano. A man came running out of the Square Head Lounge. He was shouting at a girl who was leaving.
“Demon Waitress! you will never work in this town again.”
The short girl started walking towards the old people. There was a brief silence as the group, all strangers to one another, looked at the girl in her short tank top sweater. The bottom had been cut so high that her braless breasts were visible.
“What is the rush, girl?” the man with the red sombrero said. “Why in such a hurry?”
“Forget that place,” she said in a whimpering voice, “They don’t believe me, fine!”
“Calm down, sister,” the woman said. “Tell us what’s going on.”
“I’m a psychic, and I told him that this guy named Ramon C is dead. I saw him get out of a speed boat a little while ago, go into a bathroom at some boathouse, and get murdered in the bathroom.”
The man with the red sombrero said in a faint voice, “Speak of the devil.”
A funeral was set up about a week later. The short girl was right. It was Romano Cubans. He had been stabbed to death in a bathroom at a place called the Gator Creek Boathouse. The short girl had all the details correct, except his name. This information was received when the woman from the dock and the short girl decided to have lunch in the town where the funeral was to be held.
