9
another drink slides down. Ms. Ghoul grabs her third bottle
“You drink too much, Ghoul.”
“Hm.”
Korn sips on his drink, “Bad for your health.”
“Hm.”
Korn finishes his last drink for the day.
“It ain’t gonna help you forget.”
“Get out.”
Mr. Korn grunts, then he sighs, and then he leaves.
“You have a good day, Cindy.”
“You too, Capo.”
Ms. Ghoul finishes her third bottle, then gets ready to close for the day.
“The Burns”
“I beg your pardon?”
Just as he leaves for work, Mr. Korn is cornered by a journalist, a thin woman in leather.
“Ms. Ghoul’s burns. You of all people hafta know how she got them.”
Mr. Korn, old and tired, locks his door before heading out.
“None of your damn business.”
“Come on,” the journalist squirms, “help me out here.”
Mr. Korn leaves for work.
The journalist, surprised how fast the old man is, keeps pace and pesters.
“Look, I get it, but-“ she stops a minute, almost clipped by a biker,”-you’re the only person that knows a damn thing about Ghoul. Hell, even about The Tower. People are clawing for anything, and I-“
“Leave me alone.”
Realizing what he said, Korn whips around. “Leave her alone. Got enough to worry about without you shits botherin her.”
This only fuels the Journalist. “Like what?”
Mr. Korn sighs under his breath, “Insufferable,” before pulling out his lucky revolver. It was a .44 magnum, stained black like the one in Detective Dirty Harry, one of Korn’s favorite movies.
By the time this description was over, the Journalist was several yards away in a mad dash.
“Hmph.”
You could swear he sounded disappointed.
Now at the office, Mr. Korn enters the building ready to start the day as a journalist calls her wife for a change of pants.
And a ride to The Tower.