Blue, Black, Red: Thirteen Macabre Tales [Completed]

Walk-in Special

WARNING: INTENSE GORE

My car dies the second I pull into the parking lot, running out of gas roughly twenty miles after it promised to. I blame my long streak of luck for somehow getting me to my destination on an empty tank.

It isn't the kind of place most people would try to end up. It being an old restaurant that, somehow, manages to be completely invisible in a flat desert, tucked away into the air itself. The only way a driver can find it is by following the signs dotting the highway: Walk-in Special. 5 miles south, 2 miles south, straight ahead.

The heat radiates off the pavement. The blue sky so visceral it attacks the back of my eyes. The metal of the truck's door burning so hot in the sunlight it brands my palm.

It takes too many stumbling steps for me to make it from to the door. The years haven't been kind to me, a leg injury that never healed and a tendency to overheat hampering my progress. By the time I get to the restaurant, my hand weakly resting against the handle, I've been in the outside for too long. Sweat has poured all the way from my neck to the back of my thighs.

Cool air rushes over me the moment I step inside. For all its faults, it does have working A/C. And I did buy it at a steal, perfect for what I needed. What I need.

It's an old-fashioned diner, more out of apathy than any stylistic choice. The original chrome does its best to ignore that it's become cloudy and rusted. The checkered tiles look almost beige and black. Each booth has frayed threads poking out. Even the counter, the centerpiece of the place, hasn't escaped time. Rings from decades worth of drinks cover it from one side to another, making it hard to discern it original colour or pattern.

Behind the counter stands a woman with the same look to her. She's about fifty, but she seems much, much older. Her hands are gnarled beyond recognition and her back has crumpled onto itself, making her appear surreally short. Today she's decided to wear a tanktop, presumably to show off the circles of flesh missing every two inches up and down her arm.

"Got any of the special today?" I ask, grinning at her. There's no response, not even so much as a pause in wiping the bar's ancient glasses, but I'm not particularly worried. It isn't uncommon, not with her.

It takes another few moments - and more than one pointed throat clearing - before she deigns to notice me. And when she does it's as elegant as possible, one of her hands coming to rest on the counter - her shoulder height. The other hand stays in the air, reaching out towards something I have no chance of seeing. The only clue that she heard me is that her eyes are now nominally focused in my direction.

She shakes her head at me, and, none too gently, lets the glass she was drying fall onto the counter. There are still lip marks on the top from the last person to use it, but it doesn't take me more than half a second to make the choice that it wouldn't be the smartest idea to tell her. It isn't quite early enough in our conversation for that. She must see my disdain though, because her mouth pulls back into some approximation of a grimace.

Then she crouches down, her back creaking; the only sound in the silent cafe. A second later her head's peeking back over the counter, and she slams down a clear jug in front of me.

The deep red liquid laps lazily against the sides as it settles. Whatever label it might have had is long gone now, but I don't question it. I've been without this particular vice for much too long. The impatience makes my hands shake, and I curse myself for every precious drop that finds its way onto the wood instead of into the glass

It's thicker than I remember, the little white bubbles tickling my throat as they go down. There's an old saying about this drink I've heard many times. They say that it could drown you, if it hadn't already decided you aren't important enough.