hallandoatbran

I decided to try and start writing again. I have no idea where it's going, or if I even like it. But it's the first time I've written for myself since I left Erin. So I guess that's a good thing. Constructive criticism is welcomed. And if you hate it, PLEASE say so.
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"It's the door on the right."

Will nodded as he rose from the leather couch, the skin on the backs of his thighs relasing in sweaty protest. The baby blue jogging shorts rode high and he tried nonchalantly to pick the wedgie as he started down the hall. He was certain the seceratary had seen, not that it mattered. He was in no state to be impressing anyone, to be even thinking about a relationship. Not yet.

"On the way out of here, though", he thought, "perhaps."

He glanced at his reflection in a framed poster for some Euro-trash band he'd never heard of. For a moment, his head lined up with the head of the shirtless, makeup-covered, fingernail-painted, leather-pant-wearin, microphone-fellating singer, whose name he assumed was Gunter, being that it was spelled in gold and diamonds dangling from his Finnish-flag-cravat-wearing neck. He paused.

"I kinda like it," he mumbled to himself, indicating the superimposed black spiked hair he was mirrorically sporting. Will sneered at Gunter and for a moment his Mercy Medical Center identification card replaced the mnenomic bling. He chuckled at the thought of old "Gunty" pushing a gurney down the hallway while screeching his new hit song to the gunshot wound victim he was transporting.

"Cold as ice, warm as death-
Life is spice, seasons bereth-"

"Gurgle, gurgle..."

"No, man, it gets good, listen..
You're my saffron baby,
You're my yellow gold,
You're my saffron baby,
Love me hot and kill me co-oold!!"

Gunty powerslides across the sterilized tile, his leather scrub pants screeching out a guitar solo.

"Someone shoot me again! This guy sucks," the man on the gurney gasps before losing consciousness and tumbling to the floor.

"Mr. Loki?"

WIll spun around, torn from his daydream. A short, stocky man was staring out the doorway behind him.

"Mr. Loki?" he asked again.

Will nodded.

"Won't you come in? I've been expecting you. Anything I can get you to drink? Water, soda, scotch?"

"Scotch. Thanks."

Will followed the man into an opulant garden of an office. There was a massive mahogany desk that looked as if had been hewn from some cancerous, yet highly fashionable, tumor on the tree that rose through the persian rugs and silk upholstered high back chairs and spread its canopy just above the paddle-bladed ceiling fan. Several brightly colored birds ruffled momentarily before dozing off again. Even avain seemed to sense that Will was no threat.

"Have a seat, Mr. Loki," the man said, pushing a heavy crystal tumbler into Will's empty hand. He raised the glass in a quick "salute" to his host and drank deeply, the icy amber warming him from the inside-out. He set the glass down on the desk, along with a red igloo cooler.

"Is that it?"

Will nodded. The man giggled.

"Can I see it?" He reached out a pudgy hand. Will nodded again, and opened the cooler away from himself.

"I'm going to need cash, Mr.... " He looked around quickly and found the deskplate. "Mr. Lupo, CEO."

Lupo nodded without even raising his eyes. They were wide, and his face split in a creepy, unnatural grin.

"Of course," he said absentmindedly. "There you are." He shrugged toward a fat manilla envelope. "Thank you so much. You have no idea what this is worth to me.."

Will thumbed through the bills. "I'd guess fifty thousand."

"And it's real?"

"Yeah, picked it out of the trash myself. You're just lucky I packed my lunch yesterday." It wasn't really luck at all, though. Will never bought lunch at the cafeteria. Ever since Marriott took over, he'd not been able to afford their "high-falutin" prices. No steak, just bologna sandwiches. But not anymore. He was no longer going to be the balogna. He was grade A top choice sirloin. A sirloin with fifty grand.

"Thank you, Mr. Loki. It was a pleasure." Lupo continued to gaze into the cooler, saliva glistening on his lips.

Will just stood there. Waiting. Lupo looked up, irritated. "You can go. Thank you," he reiterated sharply.

"My cooler."

Lupo balked. "Didn't I just give you fifty thousand dollars?"

"Coolers don't grow on trees."

"Fine." Lupo reached inside and pulled out the red-tape sealed biohazard bag. All Will saw as he picked up his igloo was Lupo's eyes twinkling estatically, and the reflection in them of ebony painted fingernails.