Living Deadlights

George

I’m fucking sick of having bullet holes in my goddamn clothes. I looked down at Thug #3 as he screamed, rolling back and forth on the floor of the kitchen of Jo’s Diner. Some people just can’t handle a little fire. I poked my finger through one of the bullet holes on my t-shirt and groaned. This was going to be a bitch to try to patch up later. “Put me out!! Put me out!! Please!!!” Thug #3 cried, patting wildly at himself, rolling around, bleeding out all over the place. It’s bad enough these assholes came at me but did they have to do it at Jo’s? This place has...well had the best damn burgers this side of town. “Why!?! Why fire?!?!” He was really punking out. 

“I shot your first kneecap because you were charging toward me with that knife.” I kicked said knife toward the door and took a step forward. “I shot your second kneecap because you tried to throw the knife at me.” I leaned down a little, scratching my head with the barrel of the Glock I’d taken from one of his little buddies. “I lit you on fire because it was fucking hilarious.” I watched the horror in his eyes as he burned in front of me, and leveled the gun on him, contemplating just putting him out of his misery.

I could hear sirens out in the distance and sighed. Well, that speeds things up. I pulled the trigger, only wincing a little as the bullet went between his eyes. Sirens were getting closer, so I dropped the Glock on the counter and headed out the back door. I pulled my hood back up and slipped through the back alley, around a few more buildings, until I was about a block away.

The good thing about big cities? You can blend in super fucking easy. Bonus, with the rise in gang activity and homelessness, people don’t seem to look at you too closely if you’re in hole-infested clothes, the absence of blood doesn’t give away the fact that they’re bullet holes or areas where you were stabbed. I’m still fucking pissed off though. That’s the third time this week. Who I pissed off this time, I honestly don’t know, but I’m getting really tired of their bullshit.

I saw him then, standing at the end of the next alleyway, leaning up like he was auditioning for a fucking James Dean character, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He eyed me as he walked up, raising one of those perfect fucking eyebrows. His blond hair was swept to the side, and Jesus Christ if the man didn’t fill out his suit. “Detective.” I offered up a mock salute, then plucked the cigarette from his mouth. I needed it more than he did.

“I thought that was you.” He chuckled darkly. “Fuck Ramos... how many?”

“Four?” I shrugged, taking a drag off his cigarette, and blowing the smoke back in his face as I did. “Fuck if I know.” He didn’t wave the smoke away, but I could tell it pissed him off. Ledger’s poker face is really lacking. I smirked at him, passing the cigarette back to him.

“Did you kill them all?” He asked, taking a drag of his own, looking me over by the streetlight.

“Now what kind of a suspect would I be if I just gave you all the answers?” I crossed my arms over my chest, tilting my head to the side. “You going to arrest me, Detective?” He flicked his cigarette in the gutter, taking a step closer to me.

“Last time we played with handcuffs, you left me locked to the radiator and robbed my apartment.” He grabbed my neck and squeezed, turning to push me further into the alley. My back hit the hard brick as he squeezed just a little more, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Fucking cunt.” I wheezed out a laugh, but my nipples went hard. I can’t help it, he knows I like a good choking. I’d put good money on him doing that because he knew he’d get a reaction from me. He’s a sick fuck, takes one to know one.

“Harder.” I wiggled my nose at him and he laughed, releasing his hold. I rubbed my neck as he stepped back from me. “That’s the opposite of what I asked for.” I rolled my eyes.

“Well George, you can’t always get what you want.” He rested his hands on his hips. “Did you get any info from them this time? Or did you just kill them all and not give a shit.” Ok, that hurts a little. It’s not like I asked for them to show up and attack. I mean damn.

“You know, I was a little busy.” I crossed my ankles and leaned back against the wall. “You know, with the whole them trying to kill me.”

“Oh piss off with that.” Ledger made a face as he scoffed. “You know perfectly damn well they weren’t going to be able to kill you.”

“I don’t know how this shit works!” I threw my hands up in the air. “I don’t know if it’s like a nine lives thing or a so many strikes you’re out.” I rolled my eyes. “Also, it still fucking hurts when I get shot.”

“Did you get information from them or not?” He asked, clearly not having any of my brattitude.

“You know this is why I don’t stay around for breakfast.” I made a face, he snapped his fingers at me, and I narrowed my eyes at him like a Pavlovian response. “No. Asshole.” I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans, my pinky found a hole there and stuck out. I wiggled it at him. “I didn’t get any information from them. Even if I did, what makes you think I’m going to tell you?”

“Because you’re going to want backup.” He said as if it was as simple as that.

“Yeah.” I scoffed again, pushing off from the wall. “Like that’s gonna happen.” He took a step toward me. “Didn’t get anything. Again, these guys, aren’t really chatty Ledger.” I scrunched my nose up, kind of bored with this shit. Some days, I’m all about it with him, but I just got shot a good ten times, my favorite AC/DC shirt just got ruined, and to top it all off–I didn’t even get my goddamn burger. They killed Tiny trying to hit me with their stupid Stormtrooper aim. “So, unless you’re actually going to try to arrest me, I’m gonna bounce. See if the 7-11 has any hot dogs left or not.”

“That shit’ll kill ya.” He smirked. “You could just come back to my place.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. “But you pissed my pussy off when you didn’t squeeze harder.” The corner of his mouth crept higher. “And I’ve not eaten all day, so you can go home fuck yourself.” He laughed at that, it was a rich fucking rumble that yeah, made my pussy clinch. Being horny and hungry at the same time sucks ass. I started my way back to the street, and he followed.

“How about I buy you dinner, make it up to you.” He motioned for his car up the street. Damn. That was a good offer. “What do you want?”

“I wanted one of Tiny’s burgers.” I pouted. “Maybe some fucking fries, but dumb, dumber, and dumbest kind of ruined that for the rest of life, so.” I shrugged.

“I don’t know how you ate that shit there anyway.” He lit up another cigarette. “You have no culinary standards.”

“I fuck you, I have no standards period.” I shot back, earning another chuckle.

“I’m Grade-A Ass.” He flashed a smile at me and I wanted to gag.

“Grade-A Asshole maybe.” The breeze hit, and I was glad we were almost to his car because I was freezing. He opened the door for me like I was a fucking lady or some shit, and when he turned it on, he put the heat on high. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to give his cocky highness anything that could be considered appreciation. He’s a dick that way. You give him a compliment, and he finds a way to use it to get to you.

“Still homeless I take it?” He asked, pulling off down the street.

“Funny that.” I slouched in his leather seat. “Apparently when you die, your credit dies too. Even slumlords want documentation, and your death certificate apparently doesn’t count.” He didn’t laugh at least, but he shook his head.

“I could try to set you up somewhere if you’d want.” I raised an eyebrow at that. It’s an offer he’s made before, but I know it comes with strings. Sexy, sexy fucking strings. Some of those strings get tied around me while he fucks me from behind. He likes it rough, and he likes me because he can’t exactly kill me by accident or anything.

I’ve been dead for about three years now. I was thirty-five when I died. I didn’t live in this hellhole either. Nope. I lived in a nice little coastal town. It wasn’t like I had the greatest life really, but still.

My life was just what it was, a life. I worked a shitty job at a shitty office with a shitty boss. But, it was work, and I volunteered when I could at local homeless shelters and youth programs. I had a different outlook on life back then, I wanted to help people. I wanted to put good back into the world. That’s what got me killed. I was nice. I was helpful. I had a nice shitty apartment, and I loved it. There was an older woman, Mrs. Augustin, she was the best. She’d immigrated when she was young, but her accent was still strongly something Caribbean. And her cooking?! Oh my god. The woman could cook circles around people, even in her 90’s. I helped her carry her groceries up a few times, and she’d always give me food, and load me up with things because she said I needed to eat. It was awesome, I won’t lie. Considering I’d just lost my grandmother a year or two before, it was wonderful to have her around in the building.

Well, mostly.

Her son. Her son was... different. He scared the shit out of me. Baptiste Augustin was a tall, menacing man, and just carried himself in a way that told people to back the fuck off. I knew he was dangerous. Hell, I had no doubt that even little Mrs. Augustin had once been a very dangerous woman, but something about her son just set alarm bells off like crazy. He had blue eyes that were so pale that they looked white, which contrasted harshly against his dark espresso complexion. He wore flashy suits and looked like he was coming or going to church. He wore a bowler hat, suits, and little fucking bow ties. That alone was scary, but then you get his fucking eyes and his voice... yeah. Nightmare fuel.

Turns out - I had been right to be afraid of the whole Augustin family. Baptiste was a straight-up crime lord, and apparently, the local Oungan for a sect of Vodouists that I had no idea existed. I guess the quart of chicken blood in Mrs. Augustin’s fridge was supposed to be a sign or something, but I never thought anything of it. Who am I to judge?

Who am I?

Someone who got caught in the crossfire. Delva Augustin died in her sleep, and I went to her funeral. Yeah, I know, Baptiste scared the shit out of me, but I liked Delva. She was always nice to me. Hell, she fed me for a month when I lost my job. So I went. Turns out, Baptiste had some enemies out there who thought shooting up the mourners was a good idea. I will say, not the best feeling ever, dying. I know, weird, right?

There I was, all decked out in black, being as kind as I could to people who were talking about me in other languages behind my back, paying my respects to a lovely woman... and the next minute - I’d been shot three times and was bleeding out on the sidewalk in front of St. Eustachius’ Church on the south end of Cape Caspian.

I didn’t wake up in the morgue, in case you were wondering. I woke up in a fucking crypt, with Baptiste standing over me with a bloody knife.

Ledger flipped on the radio and flooded the car with Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’. I gave him a side eye, and he just smirked like the smug bastard he was. “Really?” I scoffed.

“What?” He shrugged lazily. “I like my classics.”

“You like being a dickhead.”

“You like my dick, and I like it when you give me head.”

“Is it really so much to ask that you get gravely injured in the line of duty?” I threw back at him.

“Death didn’t stop you.” He lobbed back.

“I hate you.” I frowned. “Where are we going anyway? It better not be fucking McDonald’s.” He laughed around his dangling cigarette, shaking his head.

“My place.” I opened my mouth to start speaking, but he cut me off. “I’m going to cook for you George, make you a real fucking meal. Then you’re going to get a shower, change into something clean, and spend the night.”

“Oh? Am I now?” I shouldn’t have gotten in the car with him. Wasn’t that what they used to say? Don’t get in the car with strange men.

Eh, what’s the worst that can happen? I’m already dead.