The 01:03

The old tram squealed to a halt, and a half-interest dimmed across gray cheekbones. A monotone announcement pulled the figure onto the hardwood-interior metal bucket. Its seats were a whack-a-mole of old springs poking through the gray fabric, colored with random streaks and patterns that a drunk designer had once conjured up at a meeting. This design had secured the artist’s position until next year, when he would again have to nuzzle up with one of the big shots. Chances are, the artist had performed this ritual many times since his 80s-style setup. The figure thought the ‘roach most likely still drip-fed the board with his dim-witted ideas and hogged his slick paycheck to this day.

He tried his best to avoid the salmon eyes peering over the dozen wet coat brims, but caught the bored glance of the man he would settle behind—on the very edge of his seat to avoid being impaled by a rusty spring. The zipper of his battered leather bag lagged open as he produced a pocket-sized notebook and a silver-colored plastic pen. He slid his left hand into the leather pocket, and crossed off the first name on his list. The polymer felt cool in his palm as he clamped the handle. His earplugs blocked out most of the blast, but the last-minute adjustment he made before stepping onto the tram loosened one of the plugs; the orange foam piece had slid halfway out of his waxy ear and proved little resistance against the fireball he sent straight through the seat in front of him.

A bundle of cold muzzles jerked in his direction as the speakers crackled out the unimaginative name of the next stop, a sound muddied by his ringing ears. The smell of burnt leather stung his nose as he pulled his polymer piece from the bag. Having proved its use, he flung the bag back over his shoulder and braced himself.

In the same moment he felt the body in front of him slump onto the floor, the barrels pointing in his direction opened fire. A stupidly brave lurch of his head saved him from catching a bullet right between his eyes, though the hailing lead found its way into his left shoulder. The round sizzled in the burrow it dug for itself, tearing him onto the grimy floor where he had a chance to catch his breath through a primal groan. His breath turned as ragged as the Swiss cheese jacket he wore, coming and going in hollow wheezes. Bullets pinged off the yellow poles and peppered the interiors of the gritty cart. Several nose-flat rounds landed harmlessly on his back and singed the neck of his woolen coat. His hearing was all but gone by the time he caught sight of jittering movements and violent shouts that carried a universal meaning he was quite familiar with. The hail filled the air with foam fragments from once-squishy seats. He met the empty stare of the body he had just created and felt the strong smell of iron blend with the burnt leather of his now “rustique” bag.

Business as usual.

He knew that if he stayed down much longer, his shoulder would be the least of his concerns. The satisfying click of the automatic fire lever was inaudible, but the tactile feel brought a devilish smile to his face as he squeezed the trigger and unleashed a hail of bullets down the mid lane, tearing through the ranks of dark-clad men. When his pistol finally stopped kicking, he threw himself up from the floor and sniffed the smoke plume with a disgusting pride. By the grace of whatever god was brave enough to offer mercy to his cursed soul, he planted a boot heel on the door, shattering the glass and bending open the tired frame. Shards rained down on him and clung to his carved cheeks, tearing them open in retaliation. He launched himself off the steps and into the night, propelled by the warmth of the weary bullet-riddled air.

 

Some part of him wished he hadn’t ducked.

The warm glow that stung his eyes told him he had fallen asleep. His burning shoulder and the tense cramp in his buzzing legs gave away that he had spent the night hunched in a tub.

Blood glazed the bristling plastic, and puddled around the drain. Whatever wrapping he had hazily covered the wound with, lay drenched in the tub. He felt the congealed blood crack as he shifted his weight to wake up his prickling legs. The wound tore a hollow shout out of him, before he filled the small room with maniacal laughter. He picked up the blunt bullet, buried in his shoulder hours ago, and let it clink against the plastic tub.

So I did get it out last night.

With stained fingers he wiped his brow, greasing it with crimson. His sandpaper tongue was coated in bile. The stench of hard liquor blended with the blood that dripped down his unsteady frame. A violent shiver made him aware of the nibbing cold that refused to let go. Every movement sent a distortion across his vision, casting everything in a dismal gray. This gray fog blurred his sight and dampened his hearing, and wove a metallic haze throughout the small room. A dry chuckle huffed past his lips. His trembling grasp clenched the edges of the tub and by some force of nature, the man got onto his feet without slipping in last night’s failure and bashing his head in. He dragged his gray self across the white-tiled floor and took a good look at the figure who stared lazily back. There were still large chunks of glass embedded in his cheeks. The glass that had fallen out during the chase had cut open his skin, and left dark cloths of flesh dangling with black congealed blood at their roots. His scratchy skin was as white as the tub he had clawed back out of, and just as bloody. The person staring back at him felt alien, like it was another person there, behind the glass. He felt like he could grab the guy staring at him by the hair, and pull him aside to look at the real him, but then again, he felt just as bad of a shape as the guy in the mirror. He held his jaw, turning his head to inspect the mess. The congealed blood on his neck cracked as he moved. Anger flared up within him, sharp and raw, only to give way to a manic laugh, while plucking out the last shards and clinking them into the sink. He spun into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and stout glass between his index and middle finger, and staggered back into the bathroom. He grabbed a mostly clean cloth and pressed it on top of the bottle and turned it upside down. Turning the bottle back, he poured himself a double fingerbreadth before placing it down. He took a sharp breath and began dabbing the cloth onto the open wounds, which still sent blood down his face, over the edge of his sharp jaw, and onto the slippery tiled floor.

After the cloth was drenched, he steadied himself with another drink and shuffled into the living room. Returning with a lighter and a licorice tin, he opened it and pulled out a thick black thread and a needle. He held the needle above the lighter, and struck the wheel, which clicked eagerly and swallowed the metal tip in its orange flame. The metal turned red hot and sent a sulfuric smoke into his nose before he killed the flame and watched the red metal cool, and turn a sooty black. He downed his glass, and threaded the needle. Then he fished out another cloth from the cabinet under the sink and rolled it up and bit down. After a moment of hesitation, a silent prayer, he began sowing himself back up.

The needle lagged in his shaky hands, and the stitches were uneven, but tight enough. The wound’s raw edges burned as the needle pinned through the flesh, followed by the thread which itched behind the sore skin. As he worked the needle, looping the thread, a faint scent of warm cinnamon buns came to him—sharp at first, almost unwelcome. He hesitated, resisting the comfort it offered, but the scent persisted, slowly blending into something more wholesome, more familiar, joined by the sweet taste of lemonade and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Despite himself, he caught the corners of his mouth curling into a smile, until the needle stung, and he swore so loud the windows shook.

Some time later, after sewing shut his shoulder, and partially missing face; a moan escaped him as the needle poked through the skin for the final time. The thread was pulled tight, knitted, and cut. He released a weary chuckle, wiping his sweating brow with a blood-stained hand. Stepping back, he took in the sorry state of his reflection. The battered figure staring back at him reminded him of a hardcore mobster from an 80’s movie.

The glass came with him, and a throb in his temple reminded him to shoot a hand backwards and grab the bottle—which he very nearly knocked into the sink. His feet carried him towards the living room, but a dizzy spell weakened his knees and sent his bad shoulder crashing into the door frame. His muted vision rattled and no sound left his open mouth, he clenched his fist ghastly white and shook as he entertained the thought of sending it flying through the frame, breaking every bone in his hand and crushing the wood into splinters, and doing the same to any neighbor who would come to dare complain. After a half-minute stand-off, he continued into the room, and settled the glass on the table, and splashed it full with the honeyed liquid.

A crunched packet of painkillers laid within arms-reach of where he had stationed himself, and was no task to claw at. The pills stuck to his parched throat as he jerked his head back and, half a moment later, remembered how to swallow. Holding in a pressing cough, he washed them down with a burning gulp from his glass. The crystal landed heavily on the wooden table. Just one drink earlier, he would have closed his eyes at the violent sound, but now the world had grown into a purple haze, and all was quite fine.

It took some time to realize that the phone was ringing, but it was. The metallic, low-hummed tone, brought a calloused hand to the handset, and with a satisfying click, he placed it against his ear. Before he had a chance to speak; The voice spoke through the crackle like it was enjoying the taste of the bad quality of the signal.

“I have a new assignment. Under the door, an envelope. Along with your payment.” The voice held a smug, refined quality.

With a lazy glance towards the door, he heard the squeak of soles. A shadow slithered under the door blade, and an envelope peeked through. The voice continued, crackling, “We both know what happens if you open the door to take a closer look at our associate, it is… a precaution.”

For a brief moment, he entertained the thought that the voice almost wanted him to open the door. But after the effort of stitching himself back together, he decided he wasn’t in the mood to gamble with his life.

The soles squeaked their leave, and he murmured a: “yes”, before dragging himself over to the door. Groaning, he knelt to retrieve the thick envelope with eager fingers.

He went back over to the phone and pinched it between his shoulder and ear as he tore it open.

“I take it you have acquired your payment, there is also a photograph of your next assignment, a familiar face.” The voice dripped with amusement.

He produced a frown as he shoved his hand into the envelope. The wad of cash was thick, and brought a foxy smile to his face, despite the burning sensation that layered his cheeks.

The bundle landed heavily on a nearby table with a satisfying clap. His hand reached back into the envelope to retrieve what it had brushed against before, and out came the photograph.

His brow ironed out before creasing again. His eyes widened, and his white cracked lips parted to whisper the name that might restore a speck of respect for his craft.

“Gray.”

He huffed as he exhaled, swallowed the sharp fumes, and let his pale lips curl into a grim smile.

“Have fun, Pestilence.” The line crackled one last time.

The photograph slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to the floor and landing face-up. Pestilence staggered back, clutching his drink, as a pair of brown, glassy eyes stared indifferently up at him.