Chapter Text
A muffled, mechanical heartbeat of the nightclub beats in tandem with the restless beat of my own. Even through the closed door of the bathroom, I can feel the music and the vibe of this place: here, people come to forget and be forgotten, if only for a few hours at a time. I might've joined them were I not here for entirely different reasons.
A pair of bloodshot eyes stares back at me. My own, I'm sad to say. I'm sad to say many things about myself, but I'm smart enough to focus on eyes alone. They are easy to fix. Makes me feel good on days when I wake up and stare at a clear reflection. My reflection right now is anything but: it's hard to say whether the cracked, filthy mirror is to blame, or the cracked, filthy soul that stares into it. The surroundings don't help either. The contact that sent me here made sure to let me know what kind of place it would be. Part of me is surprised at it: part of me loves it, part of me hates it. I guess I haven't been among people in a while.
I am alone by design: this is not the bathroom people come into to rest from the hustle of the dance floor, nor to find intimacy with someone. This is the waiting room. I'm the one being waited on, however. The only thing I'm waiting on is the courage that will never come, but there is only so much courage one can have while expecting to be at the end of gunpoint.
AFRAID?, asks the graffiti on the mirror.
"Fuck no you're not." I command my reflection and for once, a spark flashes through my eyes. I know what to expect. I know what I was getting myself into. All that's left is to play.
I down the tepid bottom of my beer, march towards the door, and push. The door swings open, and the music and light invade me in an aggressive cacophony. For a moment, I wish to throw myself over the railing, and into the dancing crowd below, hoping the safety net of their many hands would catch me and carry me back into the safety of the pointlessness that is the life I'm living. For a moment alone, however. I was raised no coward.
In a fit of bravado or stupidity - it's so hard to tell the difference sometimes - I kick open the door, and slam my hands against the table in front of me. The setup is clear. I've been told about everything: the defibrillator, the meds, the game. It's still enough to make me pause.
"Please sign the waver." The otherworldly voice reaches me - slick and sharp and sinister, like an old, greasy blade against a rusty chain, prickling my ears.
I notice the waver before I notice him.
I was not told about him.
I recall the feeling of breaking out in cold sweat, of having the hair on the back of my neck stand, of the impulse to run. Yet, strangely, none of those quite grip me. The kind of tension that washes over me has no word nor name that any of those descriptors quite encompass. I can't tell if it's the beer, or the feeling of this place, or the context of what I'm about to attempt, but the man - the Dealer, as the demon has been calling himself - is off in ways I can't explain, uncanny in the vibe and vision alike, and the confidence of his grin easily defeats the confidence of the alcohol running through my blood. Fear it an inadequate word to use for what I'm feeling. Awe, among other things.
He grins widely, unscrupulously at me, like an animal preparing to devour me whole. Might as well be. For all my bravado, I realize I'm hyperventilating.
"The waver." The Dealer reminds me, his blade of a voice cutting through me, landing me back in reality.
I grab the nearby can of beer, open it and chug it down so as to force myself to stop torturing my lungs and my brain. Not the best method, granted, but in my already shattered state it'll do.
If I thought the Dealer's voice was something otherworldly, the way he laughs at my nervousness is something that should be confined and studied and cut open - layers of his laughter tell me that I am without a doubt making a mistake. The courage I've been gathering for months is falling apart like a tower of cards, and all the bastard had to do was show up and laugh in my face. I suppose it's only fair he has that luxury - he's the one with all the money, after all. God only would know why he does this if he expects no money from it.
"I've got all night." The Dealer says, all slick and sly smiles, and lights a cigarette.
Not a coward, I remind myself, even though my hands shake as I take the waver.
I type out my name - well, I try to. The Dealer's eyes narrow as he reads.
"Well then, Charlie without an 'E,'" he enunciates, as if eating my name with every syllable, "are you ready?"
"I know the rules." I boldly tell him. He laughs deliberately, as if he knows the sound of it can all but physically crawling up my spine.
"Not what I asked."
The game starts.
I drink way too much beer - I have no doubt I'll end up blasting myself into oblivion at least once, but I've been told the doctor on site is not to be underestimated. Still, if alcohol can lessen the pain, I'll drink to my heart's content.
The first time it happens, I don't feel nor see anything save for a flash of light. The pain comes afterwards, when the miracle doctor is done fixing up my face. Nothing but remnants of blood, some temporary scarring and bruises. I don't ask - it's not my place. I'm just glad my bloodshot eyes are still in place and my teeth accounted for.
The Dealer is the next one to get a faceful of lead. He is not too happy about that - I suppose no one would be - but I'm ecstatic. It gives me the push I need to continue.
The ashtray's getting full, and the room is filled with the stale scent of beer and sweat. My wrists ache from the many times I was chained to the table, and my hands ache from the knife I used on the shotgun. My stomach is turning, warm beer amounts to a warm slush in my belly and cigarette smoke eats at my eyes, but I don't hold back from the rhythm I established, from the flow I'm in. My shots are confident even when they are wrong. My eyes stare at him hard even when I'm losing. For all the fear in the room, I stand as tall as I can and I fight.
It's not a long game that we play, but thirty minutes feel much longer when you're dancing between life and death and inebriated. I wonder if he's tired when he light up one of his cigarettes and leans back. Agreeing to his wordless time out, I use the opportunity to do the same.
"You've lasted longer than the rest, Charlie without an 'E.'"
"It didn't fit." I blankly tell him. I'm surprised to see his hand move across the table to light my cigarette. An unexpected show of courtesy, not that I don't welcome it. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He says, and something in his voice makes me think he doesn't say it as a platitude, but rather like something I shouldn't get used to. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've played this before."
"How do you know I didn't?"
"Hah! I'm a good judge of character," he shrugs, "besides, people who are well-off don't usually come to me."
"Huh." I briefly contemplate on that. "What about people who are happy?"
"Oooh, an interesting question!" Impossibly, he grins wider. "Sounds like you know a couple of happy fellows who would still find reasons to visit me."
I grin too. "You're talking about 'idiots', aren't you?"
"Do send them over. I'll give them," he scoffs, "the time of their life."
Against the instruction of my survival instincts, I laugh. Though every fiber of my being tells me I should be wary, though I know it, there is an undeniable charm to him. Time will tell how wrong I am eventually. All show their true selves sooner or later.
"Since we're being so chummy all of a sudden, what's your story?"
"Hmm." He clearly aim to avoids answering. "Let's just say I, uh... like a good 'rush.'"
"How's that any different from all the 'happy fellows' who come for this crap?"
"Simple." His teeth gleam. "Unlike them, I always come back."
I swallow.
"Ever gets boring?"
"Only if you are willing to look at it that way: do people who give themselves over to excitement again and again come back because they are braindead idiots? Or because they know what they want? Is the same sting of danger each every time, or is it a unique experience you can roll around in your mouth however you wish, savor and suck on until you swallow it whole?" He chuckles at my terrified, astonished face. "No. It doesn't." He finally answers my question. "That satiate your curiosity?"
"Hardly." I look him in the eyes. "If anything, I'm more curious than before."
"Keh. Careful. Curiosity kills." He takes a swig of beer. "So what do you know of a good rush, Charlie?"
"I'm experiencing one just looking at you."
"Hah!" He cackles. "Cute! I could get used to you, if the fate of your soul didn't hang in balance."
Through the smoke, I take care to look him straight in the eye as I ask: "That an offer?"
He bellows out a laughter. "What's that? Think you could be useful to me?"
"Can you think of a way I could be?"
The Dealer returns my gaze with what my tipsy self wants to interpret as mild interest. It's difficult to say with all those teeth in the way. "I can think of many uses for someone like you."
I momentarily freeze. "'Someone like me' meaning?"
"Bold, brash and bullshit-free, among other things - in spite of the fact you shiver like TV static. So," he lets out a smoke as he ponders for a second, "you need a job?"
"I need the money one way or the other. But I could use a good gig."
"Fantastic. Then," he slams the shotgun in front of me, his oily voice lowered into a dangerous, challenging whisper, "come and get it. Pull the trigger. It's all the same to me. It won't be the last we see of each other."
"Yeah? How do you figure?"
He scoffs. "I'll tell ya how I figure: because no one can resist. Not the money - fuck money. You find the right idiots, you can turn anything into a profit. But everything that comes with pulling the trigger - even when they win, it goes to their head. So many people trying to play God in his absence. So many willing to put their life on the line just to feel it one more time. And usually, it's their last." The Dealer leans in and pushes the shotgun to me, into my trembling hands, confident even though we both know the last bullet is no blank. "Pull the trigger, Charlie without an E. I'll see you again when that itch begins scratching at the back of your mind. Just when you think you're safe, you'll come back for more. You'll want to intimately know the power of taking a life with no judgement, no consequences and no reason. A power only ever wielded by the Big Guy itself." Smoke billows and leaks through his jagged teeth. "However, if you should somehow resist that temptation, then and only then... Well, I got the job just for you. So," the man's eyes swallow me, his smile is infinite, and he challenges me, "pull the fucking trigger."
I raise the heavy shotgun in my hands, and aim.
"Good game." I tell him, sincerely. He let out another 'keh' of a chuckle.
"Let's see if it'll be your last."
The shot deafens me.
The Dealer's grin disappears into shadows, and all is silent.
A briefcase descends on the table. The lovely, delicious amount of money. Enough to sort everything out and then some. Enough for a second chance.
I don't waste my time. I grab the briefcase and am about to leave-
Don't forget the souvenir, Charlie without an E.
When I turn around nobody is there. The shotgun - strong and bold and worn out, like me - is on the table.
I pick it up and leave, doing my best not to turn around even as I feel a pair of eyes on my back.
It's only when I'm back on the highway that I can finally breathe, mind rushing with everything that took place, sobering up as the wind from the open window hits my face. The money is safe on the back seat, along with the shotgun I very quickly grow attached to. Of course I do: it gives me power.
Power. What a stupid fucking word and idea. I know many did come back for it. I don't blame them - it's sort of a part of the human condition. If it weren't, the humanity wouldn't be so royally fucked. The world wouldn't be tearing at the seams. Yet even as I think that, I feel the itch in the back of my head. I took a life for the first time today. Control. Agency. Powers I never thought I might wield.
But none of these things are the part of the plan.
The Dealer is.