Two People Walk Into a Hotel Bar

A black man sat in the corner of the bar, scanning his newspaper. It was late; a lot of the evening crowd was already leaving. All except him; despite the grating lounge music, he had stayed in that chair for hours.

He looked like something out of an old Blaxploitation film: he wore a fedora over his long dreads, tucked neatly into a ponytail, and his outfit was 90% pinstripe. He looked like he could pull a machine gun out from under his coat any moment, but that would be stereotypical.

Looking oddly out of place with the rest of his outfit was a rosary, with beads shaped like skulls. It looked old, older than anything else in the bar.

"Sir! There is no smoking in the bar!" a frustrated voice cried, as a man stepped into the bar. His large, buckle ladened boots made ominous noises as he walked. Tucked into his boots were tight fitting, black leather pants that creased when he sat down on a barstool. His strong hands appeared frail and thin, only due to the white skeletal tattoos that outlined bones.

With his right hand, he put out his fragrant smelling cigarette on the counter. With his left, he carefully checked his hair, which had been very precisely arranged. It was a deep crimson, though his natural black hair poked through in spots. Though the eye was drawn to his small pompadour, his hair was actually much longer than that. In the back, it trailed over his mid-cut leather jacket, obscuring the logo. It barely touched his back, right where the rib cage ended and the spine continued extending.

"I need a beer, Daddy-o" he said, grinning at the bartender. His lips were tattooed with pearly white teeth, making his smile all the more unnerving. "And make it cold. Don't be a bringdown, aight?"

Despite his appearance, the man wore more than enough crosses to bring down a graveyard full of the undead. Which might have been the very reason he wore them.

The black man folded his newspaper, uncrossed his legs, and tipped his hat upward so he could get a proper look at the newcomer. His eyes had dark shadows underneath them, like sockets in a skull.

"Monsieur," he said in a deep, resonating voice. "If I were you, I'd get a drink somewhere else. This bar is getting quiet--no party to be found here. Try one of the joints downtown."

His many rings made clinking noises as he tapped his fingers on the table.

"Does it look like I'm lookin' for a fuckin' party?" he asked, raising a thick, black eyebrow. His voice was grating and uncomfortable, a deep rumble like smoldering flames, without any of the heat.

When the bartender handed him the beer, he used his teeth to open the cap and spat it onto the floor.

"That's called stereotypin', ya know," he pointed at the man with a bony finger, leveling his gaze. "I could do the same to you, too. From where I see ya, you look like a wealthy gangster, enjoying a bourbon in a hotel right before you complete a hit. Or maybe you already have?

"But that's not the truth is it?" he smiled, and the tattooed teeth on his face stretched upwards with his lips. "At least, it's not all the truth, is it?"

"Actually," said the man, rising from his seat, "What you said is not the truth at all. At least, not all of it."

He walked over to the bar at a leisurely pace and pulled a gun out from his jacket, aiming it at the bartender.

"You thought you'd be safe here, didn't you, Jean-Paul? Taking your stolen filth so far away, where you could sell it and make it big..."

He grabbed the man black the shirt, pressing the gun against his temple.

"Where's the blow, Jean-Paul? Surely you didn't think that much would just disappear without me noticing.

"I bet you were expecting Ernest, or Jean-Marie. But no, you get sweet old Charlot." He chuckled softly.

"You had better stay," he said to the man sitting at the bar. "I'll figure out what to do with you when this pig is done squealing."

He shrugged to himself, taking a swig of his beer. Frankly, the tattooed man couldn't care less. He saw blood and death and guns every day of his life, and being splattered by blood and other bodily materials wasn't unusual.

In fact, the entire reason he had come to Vegas had to do with death.

Though he had no idea what was going on, it didn't bother him in the least. It was none of his business, and he wouldn't bother making it his business, either.

He took out a skull shaped lighter, using it to light one of his perfumed cigarettes.

Charlot turned back to the bartender, smiling.

"You know I'm a man of little patience, Jean-Paul--tell me where you hid it."

"I s-s-sold it!" the man stammered, leaning heavily against the counter for support. "I sold all of it, and--"

"Fils de salop!" he interrupted. "If you had found a buyer, you would be sitting pretty right now, not serving drinks at a bar. Where did you hide it?"

"I-it was stolen!" exclaimed the man, breaking into tears. "Someone offered me a good price, and then just took it all--is that what you wanted to hear?!"

"No," said Charlot, shrugging and shooting the man in the head. blood splattered onto his face and clothes and all over the neatly arranged bottles of alcohol on the shelves. He dropped the man's corpse and pulled out a smartphone.

"It seems we need a cleanup on this aisle," he mused, searching through his contacts. "You should stay though, Monsieur Rouge. I'm not through with you yet--you saw a lot. From your calm, I assume you know how it is."

"It's Everly," he offered, taking a long drag off of his cigarette. "Not that I think that you'll need to know my name for long."

He leaned back, against the bar counter. "I sure hope ya don't plan on killing me, though. I get so sick of people trying to kill me. It never fuckin' works, but you know how it is, fucking humans."

Somewhat irritated by the thought, he blew smoke from his nose.

"They just don't fuckin' learn when to give up."

He snorted.

"And you're not human? What are you then--let me guess, an omen of death? You sure look like one." He laughed loudly.

"Normally people who look and speak as crazy as you have no spine, so I'll admit I'm intrigued. Go on, tell me what you are."

"Hunny, you have to take me on a date before you get to see underneath my skin," he replied, but the smile had returned to his toothy face.

That said, he put out his cigarette and stood up.

"If I was an omen of death, you'd already be dead," he said, though it was mostly to himself, as he wiped some of the blood splatter from his bare chest.

"Interesting," he said, looking the man up and down. "So, what are you supposed to be? I don't mean the not human part--are you a hitman? Another gang member? Post office worker?"

He laughed and grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the counter, pouring some into a shot glass and draining it.

"A mercenary, perhaps?"

"Is that really what I look like to you?" he asked point blank, raising an eyebrow. "A man as smart as you should know exactly what I am.

"And here I thought it was rather obvious," he replied, reaching over the counter and using vodka to rinse off some of the blood.

He sat back down, carefully rinsing his leather jacket.

"If you guess right, I'll tell you the entire story," he replied, grinning once more.

He looked at the man more closely, frowning.

"...You are either religious or ironic," he said, shrugging. "And you have a fondness for regrettable tattoos. What more do you want me to say? I'm in a gang, not an order of mystics." He drank another shot of bourbon.

"You can tell me, or you can not, but I must inform you--if you are not useful to me, I will kill you. I don't enjoy messes."

"Well, you were close enough," he shrugged, playing with his lighter. "I'm a hunter. A tracker. I'm tracking a group of people right now, as it is. Well, they were a group. Not anymore. Disbanded 'em. Made 'em harder to find, but I'm gonna find 'em. Just matter of time before they all burn."

He shrugged.

"That's it. All there is to it."

He grinned.

"Good, honesty--I like it. I appreciate it. You saw how I dealt with it earlier." He nodded at the corpse behind the counter.

"Tell me, are you going anywhere in particular? This was just a stop on my way to take care of a bigger errand--you're welcome to come along. I like a man with a mission, particularly one who is cool under pressure."

He extended his hand, flashing his white teeth.

"The name is Charlot. That's all you really need to know right now--that, and I fly first class, and another ticket will be no problem."

Everly didn't shake his hand, only nodded at him.

"Flying is faster than what I've been doing, anyway," he replied, frowning at the mere thought of hitching more rides. "I have my own problem to take care of in town, but it won't take more than a day."

He snorted at that. "It should hardly take more than a few hours."

He nodded, retracting his hand.

"Meet me here when you're done? I'll keep my room until I leave, i think--a mess like this is easy to clean. The room is 459, and I'll be waiting inside--can you handle that? No need to eat beforehand, either, we can order room service."

He smiled and pulled out his phone again, dialing.

"Don't take too long, please, Monsieur Everly. You've seen how patient I am."

Despite his efforts to remain superhuman in appearance and personality, the thought of real food delighted him. He wasn't sure when he had last eaten something that wasn't corn nuts and canned V8 juice.

Everly swallowed down his gluttonous thoughts and nodded.

"I'll be back, then," he replied, waving as he walked out of the hotel bar.

-x-

Though he was covered in blood, he made his way up to the other man's hotel room. He looked very much like an omen of death now.

He knocked on the door and then crossed his arms over his broad chest, waiting for it to open. He needed a shower, but food came first. He had been looking forward to it the entire time he had been hunting the demons.

Charlot opened the door, wearing a tiger-striped bathrobe that probably wasn't from the hotel--even if it was in Vegas. His smile faded when he saw Everly.

"You're going to get blood on everything," he said flatly, rolling his eyes. "Would if have killed you to clean up before coming up here? You're lucky I already showered, or I'd tell you to go somewhere else. Clean towels are still in there."

He held to door open, gesturing to the bathroom.

"Go on, and hurry. We can order dinner when you're done."

Everly almost protested, but he wasn't particularly up for getting into an argument with the only man who would offer him a first class plane ride to where he needed to go.

He walked to the bathroom, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Everly set down the only thing he carried with him; a plain black duffle bag.

He showered quickly, though he pretended he wasn't eager for the food. His appetite would get the worst of him when the food was actually ordered though he was sure of it. Daydreaming about it only made things worse, and when he was finally done showering, he had changed into his pajamas, which were long fuzzy pants with an ugly as all hell cat pattern on them.

He stepped into the room, setting his bag down on the table.

"You had better be wearing something under that," he said, pointing accusingly at Charlot's ridiculous bathrobe.

He laughed loudly.

"Why? This is my room. What, do you want to see or something?" Still chuckling, he flipped through his room service menu, dialing the number on his phone.

"Hello. I would like to order room service." He gestured to Everly to come closer, holding the phone to his chest.

"What do you want?"

He groaned slightly at that response. Something about this man reminded him of himself, when he was younger. That wasn't particularly a good thing.

Everly took the room service menu from him, before he found what he wanted.

"Burger," he replied, trying not to appear eager. The smile betrayed him, however.

Giving him an amused look, he lifted the phone back to his ear.

"Yes, we'll have one cheese burger--actually, make it three--and chocolate creme brulee for dessert. Please deliver that all to room 459. Oh, and bring up something to drink--I suppose Coke would be fine. Yes, thank you."

He hung up the phone, smiling.

"Satisfied? I like you pajamas, by the way, Monsieur.

"I don't," he said bluntly, though he didn't elaborate. Instead, he sat down on one of the hotel chairs, leaning his head back. His hair, which was normally perfectly styled, was damp and around his shoulders. He swept it behind his shoulders, running his hands through it.

Being entirely terrible at small talk, as he always had been, he focused on braiding his hair, instead.

"Why are you wearing them, then?" he laughed. "I have things you can borrow...would you like help with you hair? I'm rather good at braiding." He toyed with his own dreads, grinning.

"Come now, Everly, don't tell me I scare you."