You’re cool. It’s cool. Be cool.
Nicotine stains on her fingers and teeth. A putrid, dark yellow; the color of urine the morning after a dehydrating night of ecstasy and alcohol. Eyes, bloodshot behind a dark pair of sunglasses. Marijuana would be anybody’s guess except hers. She didn’t feel high. She hadn’t smoked any. The sunglasses covered the bags under her eyes as well; dark and heavy, peppered with red marks from a bursted capillary. Last night was one dark mist over her memory, but the headache and the hangover made the case of missing time a rather uninspiring mystery. She sniffed and tasted copper. A cold? A prelude to a bloody nose? Excessive uses of cocaine broke down mucus membranes, but unlikely. She was too poor to afford any, and she had woken up in her own bed this morning. Hands, shaking, unsteady. Withdrawals? No; she felt bad, not great, but not sick. Too much caffeine, then? Sure. Reasonable.
Be cool. You’re cool. It’s cool.
Valorie prided herself as somebody who managed to avoid addictions. That happened to other people, she’d say, as she lit one cigarette with the burning end of another one. A cigarette. That sounded good right now. The sign on the glass door had said that out of respect to the other patrons and staff that there was absolutely no smoking on the patio. What a crock of shit. If people were worried about their health they didn’t go outside in Santa Somabra; they didn’t even go within fifty miles of Santa Somabra. The air pollution was already enough to doom anyone’s lungs, and that was assuming they somehow miraculously avoided all of the nasty things that went bump in the night. Five years ago, Valorie was the girl who faked an obnoxious cough whenever somebody a cigarette. Five days ago, Valorie had threatened to make some rave chick eat her glow stick when she had bitched at her about smoking in a bathroom. With the dangerous cocktail coursing through her veins that night, she would have done it too. Valorie smirked at the memory, unsure of if she was laughing with or at herself.
She popped a smoke into her mouth and kissed the flame of her lighter against the tip, breathing in heavily. The sickening sweet flavor of smoke and mint flowed over her dying taste buds, down through her neck, and into her blackening lungs. She sighed with relaxation, the smoking billowing out of her mouth like a dragon. Her hand folded around the crumpled up piece of plastic in her pocket. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened long ago.
It’s cool. Be cool. You’re cool.
She started to believe her mantra now. Her eyes wandered around the cafe patio. Flowery vines climbed the waist-high fence that separated the patio from the street, and some hip, likely stoned artist had drawn a mural on the tan adobe brick walls between the large, cathedral like windows that revealed the inside of the cafe that was now currently swamped by yuppies talking about their latest startup for their new killer app. Cute waiters and waitresses busily ran between tiny, vintage-style tables while the dreams of becoming musicians, artists, and actors slowly died in their heads. She could see the cooks in the back working hard, sweat beading on their forehead as they cracked eggs and flipped bacon over a steaming grill. She wondered if any of them would like to deal with a Rat; they looked like they needed an escape. Quinn, her new best friend and fellow Rat, had given her a bit of wisdom: give a free hit to a cook, and you’ll find yourself helped to one of the best meals of your whole life. Well worth the smaller profit.
Of course, she had no appetite today. The brunch in front of her, some amalgamation of gluten-free, meat-free, and flavor-free bullshit that cost more than she spent in groceries was hardly touched. The coffee was good, however, and it would help suppress the hunger pangs that she should have been having if they decided to ever come back. She twisted slightly in her metal chair, another puff of smoke escaping from her mouth as she tried as hard as she could to casually look over her shoulder at the man who had brought her to the cafe. He was tall, Asian man with a neatly styled haircut, a well-pressed suit, and a mustache and goatee combo that Valorie thought made him look like a stereotypical villain. In comparison to him and the other customers, she felt inappropriately underdressed in her thin hoodie underneath a heavy flannel jacket, jean shorts, leggings, and boots.
He was pacing back and forth and talking softly into his phone; Valorie quickly turned around when he caught her gaze and stiffened up. She had always reacted that way around cops, even undercover ones, and it had always made her seem suspicious. She did not fully understand it, seeing as how when she was up to no good she could lie without breaking a sweat, even if that lie was to try and convince somebody that she was a three hundred pound, six foot seven man from South Africa. Besides, she had been meeting this man weekly for more than two months now. It was the usual check up to make sure she hadn’t blown her cover or gone too deep into it, to get her weekly allowance via a big ol’ wad of cash, and to talk about things that neither of them wanted the rest of the force or his higher ups to know. She had no real reason to be nervous, but she was.
Am I? Why? I feel better now, actually. Yup, I’m cool.
“Sorry about that,” he said, returning to his seat and pocketing his phone. “Business.”
“Still rude,” said Valorie with a smile, blowly smoke at his face. He wrinkled his nose. “Talking to other girls while on a date; and here I thought you were a gentleman, Dick.”
“You have a terrible judge of character, then,” he said. “And I told you to call me Rich.”
“Sorry. I thought you were a gentleman, lowercased dick,” she said, correcting herself and speaking quickly, her voice like that of a cartoon mouse. “So who’s the bitch trying to steal my man from me?”
“Will you please stop calling me your man?” he said.
Valorie giggled. He had been the one to insist they used a cover when out in public. In his mind, his idea was innocent enough: a student and her teacher. She was of appropriate college age, he said, and it made sense. She had been the one to call it out on how creepy it seemed, yet Valorie had also gone out of her way to embellish it. He was a callous and cold art teacher; she was a young, doe-eyed philosophy major who just been dumped by her high school sweetheart. He had helped settle her emotions while she helped him realize he could still have them. It was a sweet, forbidden romance that their society frowned upon. Rich frowned upon it, too, until Valorie started brainstorming new ideas: “Did you see Hard Candy? Have you ever read Lolita?” She commented to him once that his bashfulness about their fake relationship when they were in public was what truly made it seem real.
“Of course, professor. Anything for you,” she said, the effect of her batting her eyelashes cancelled by her sunglasses. He still glanced around uncomfortably anyway. “So, what saucy little co-ed is trying to earn some extra credit? Do I know her? Is it a her?” She dropped her mouth open, catching her cigarette between her fingers. “Is it a boy? Oh, it is, isn’t it? My, my, what a surprise.”
“Okay, I’m sorry for doing my job,” said Rich. “Will you stop?”
“You’re no fun,” said Valorie, folding her arms across her chest and slumping in her seat. Her voice dropped. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me about my week?”
“Go ahead,” said Rich casually, popping a syrupy bite of a waffle into his mouth.
“It was more of the same,” she said.
Monday, woke up, petted Sammy, smoked weed with Quinn, did a few simple drug deals, got drunk. Tuesday, woke up, petted Sammy, smoked weed with Quinn, did a few simple drug deals, got drunk. Wednesday, woke up, petted Sammy, pretended to be sick, read half of a book on mediums, tripped on mushrooms. Thursday, woke up, petted Sammy, got lunch with Quinn, joined some Rats in picking up a shipment of guns, smoked weed with Quinn, finished the final half of her book, got drunk. Friday, woke up, petted Sammy, got a call about a party, tried to bring a corpse back to life for more than a handful of minutes, did some molly with Quinn, went to a rave. Saturday, woke up drunk, couldn’t pet Sammy, stumbled home after an arduous walk of shame, petted Sammy, helped the Rats sell some of the guns, threw up between deals, went home early, cried with Sammy, started a book on the history of voodoo. Sunday, woke up, petted Sammy, refused to answer phone, refused to answer door, refused to eat, day of rest. Good day, had some Fairy Dust.
She excluded the details about her necromancy self-studies, her sexscapade, and her ravenous appetite for drugs as she told Rich further details about what the Rats were doing using a ridiculous and unnecessary codewords that he had insisted on and that she had, once again, embellished. He nodded along to her words, pushing for details here and asking for her to repeat names there. She obliged, puffing on her cigarette as she quietly fed the man information. He slid her a small envelope: her payment for the week. She forced a smile as she pocketed it. Valorie didn’t feel good about what she did, but she needed the cash. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the cops she wouldn’t have met such wonderful people like her friends in the Rats. Rich had finished with his waffle; Valorie had drained another cup of coffee, but that was about it.
“Excuse me, miss,” said a quiet, pretty waitress with a pixie haircut and a blouse that was intentionally missing a button, putting her hand on Valorie’s shoulder. The smoking girl rose any eyebrow, her neutral scowl pressing her lips thin across her face. “Some of our customers told us about someone smoking on the patio.”
“Oh,” said Valorie, grabbing the cigarette out of her mouth and animatedly looking around the empty patio. “They must’ve left. I’ll let you know if that person comes back.” She put the cigarette back between her mouth as Rich let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Come the fuck on, dude,” she said, the waitress still standing there within earshot. “What a bitch.”
“Seriously, Valorie?” asked Rich as the waitress stormed back inside. “It’s just a cigarette.”
“Just a cigarette? She was trying to power trip me, Rich. Nobody’s out here. Nobody cares. She’s just trying to make up for the fact that she’s the bottom bitch on the totem pole by pushing someone else around. It’s bullying basics. One-oh-one,” said Valorie. “She’s trying to assert her dominance because I threaten her by betraying her preconceived notions about how customers should adhere to some stupid sign they put up. Just a cigarette. Fuck me.”
“They put the sign up because it’s not legal to smoke in restaurants,” said Rich.
“I know that, do you think I’m that dumb? In restaurants. In. I am outside,” said Valorie.
“That’s not how it works,” said Rich. “Look, you can get a fine.”
“Oh golly gosh, not a piece of paper. I’m too pretty to be handed a piece of paper,” said Valorie, rocking back and forth in her chair. “What if I lose it? Do I go to jail? What are you in for: I murdered my husband for cheating on me. You?” She leaned to one side, tilted her head back, and laughed, “Hah, you think that’s tough? I smoked a cigarette.” She jumped to her feet and slammed her hands against the table. “Oh yeah, well I made a dress out of his skin and went door to door around my apartment block knifing any slut I saw.” She crossed her hand and turned up her nose. “Is that all? Did I mention I was outside?” She recoiled in horror. “You monster!”
“Her,” said the waitress, pointing.
“Ma’am, we have other customers who want to use the patio and this is a respectable workplace. I’m going to have to ask you politely to leave,” said the manager.
“I’m sorry,” said Rich, “She’s having a bad day. I’m sorry. I’ll tip extra. I’m sorry.”
“Ask me to leave politely? Screw that. Screw you. I’d say screw that bitch,” she pointed at the waitress, “but I’m sure you already do ‘cause I can’t figure out how she has a job here. Screw this vegan shit.” She flipped her plate onto the ground. “Screw this piss drink.” The coffee cup shattered against the mural. “Screw those--”
“Terribly sorry,” said Rich, throwing down two wrinkled Benjamins and grabbing Valorie’s arm, dragging her out through the tiny gate. “What the hell was that?” he hissed as they rounded a corner.
“Nothing, man, nothing, bad day,” she said, looking at a watch on her wrist that wasn’t there. “Look at the time. I gotta go. Police business, hah. Okay?” She stood up on her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek and smacked him on the butt. It worked. In his confusion/shock Rich let her go and she took off down the street in a pace that was not quite a jog and not quite a walk.
You are so not cool. Holy shit, it’s so not cool. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, why can’t everything just be cool?
It had been a new drug Quinn had given her. Something designed in a lab with a name that sounded like one for a robot in a sci-fi movie, one with a bunch of letters, numbers, and hyphens. She thought she had been told it was a minor psychedelic; but what had happened at the cafe was anything but minor. It had started out as nice, pleasant trip. The shade of her sunglasses had slowly let the colors seep through. Nothing too extreme, nothing to distract, but it made things prettier. When the flowers started dancing it was a little neat, but when the rest of the world joined in she had started to feel a little sea sick, but she could manage. She could keep it up. It was when the waitress began to melt that she knew she had to get the hell out of there before she went to space in front of a cop. She had thrown the whole fit just to get out of there.
Man, she felt stupid. There was Rat hole maybe a block away. If she hurried, she could make it there in time to seek refuge on a couch or a bean bag chair or a bathroom floor, anything was better than being out in the open as the world collapsed around her. She felt as if she was running on a treadmill; exhausted, sweating, but going nowhere. The small trees lining the sidewalk reached out to her, cope a feel or ask her for some change as she pressed forward. She thought of how this would be the time in a movie where a bunch of black and white photos of atrocities were shown on screen while Pink Floyd jammed in the background, and loudly cursed herself as she began to picture black and white atrocities of the gore and sleaze she had seen in her life. Great idea, at least the passing cars and ambient city noises didn’t sound like....nope, there it is. She almost recognized the chord progression to Astronomy Domine, but the squealing pigs for vocals and slowed down bass made it all seem wrong even for a cover.
She threw the door open and bounced off of a very handsome, very large, and a very wide man-light-thing. It disturbed her that she found him handsome, because the bouncer who usually sat at the door at this hour was a large ogre named Sullivan who was, even by ogre stands, real damn ugly. She stood up, brushed herself off, and tried to appear casual. She smiled, said something that to her sounded like a backwards song at half-speed revealing satanic messages, and un-smiled by folding her lips back into her mouth and grimacing. The light-thing, to its credit, understood her fantasy language quite well. It took the three twenties she had gripped between her hands, scooped her into its impossible hands, gently set her on a couch in one of the private rooms, and locked the door and slid the key underneath for her. She would proceed to have the most heated and thought provoking argument of her life with a mannequin:
“No, you listen here, I will one day be able to make us all one, I just have to find the proper means to loosen the shackles on a human soul without either destroying them completely or binding them to something else. Oh, eff you, I’m not doing it to create an army of the undead. Okay, yes, I said I would have one, but that’s just because I’m being realistic here. God, you must be more high than I am right now if you think you can fix the world without a little bit of force.”
The argument would proceed for what Valorie felt like was the rest of her life--or about one hundred and forty minutes, give or take time for tangents.
Neziul,
Antlers,
CassidyTheButch,
ML,
Simply Not Real,
Cosmic,
NoriWasHere,
Blizz,
Passable Writer,
Evil Ghost Note
