Burdens

Time, entropy, death. Nothing is certain.

Note: This story is part of an anthology about the 9 Story Hotel. Murder, mayhem, monsters, and mistakes. A place where assassins, thieves, lunatics, and lost souls wander the halls. Some never leave.

Visit the 9. Where everyone gets what they need.

The door to 417 opens and a perfect pair of tits greets Malick from behind a see through tank top. Above, the lights of the 3rd floor flicker yellow and green. A disco ball off its axis.

The rest of the girl is short and fragile. A fine brew Colombian coffee figure held together by fishnet stockings and a red tube skirt that rides so high it leaves little to the imagination. Dollar store makeup and stenciled eyebrows cover high cheekbones and almond eyes that might steal a man’s soul if he doesn’t know to keep it tucked safely in his pants. She is a call girl. 

The girl starts to say something but Malick is already halfway inside and she darts out of his way. He is a bull, advancing on a target, no movement wasted. 

The room is a shade above dark and smells like bottom shelf whiskey, peaty with notes of sex and death that kick the back of the nostrils. 

“Look, just so you know he was here when I checked in and –”

“Where’s the problem?, Malick says 

She points to where the bed might be. In the darkness Malick barely sees the outline of something lying there. He needs more light. Flip the switch by the door and somewhere above a bulb hisses and pops, almost comes to life but fails. 

Mental note to change that fucking bulb.

At the window. His free hand flings the curtains open in one deliberate motion. Outside the skyline is lit up like shattered glass. He turns, regards the bed. On it lies a man who is naked and very dead. 

Time, entropy, and death. The only guarantees the universe has to offer. Whether you are a lightbulb or a man your day will come.

The dead man is in his late forties. A figure fat and bulbous, arms and legs like loose fleshy hunks and a hairy distended meat sac of a stomach. It almost covers his tiny shriveled mouse cock. Balding, white, but cleanly shaven Malick wonders if he was a businessman then gives the thought zero fucks more energy. 

Two things are of interest. Both are identical gold coins covering the empty sockets where the man's eyes should be. Blood congeals at their edges. No other marks or wounds on the body.

The girl is about to speak again but Malick shoots her a glance. Shuts that shit down.

Good. Avoid unnecessary conversation. This has nothing to do with her. 

Malick sets his toolbox on the floor, regards the corpse. 

The work is exquisite. It deserves a moment to appreciate. It’s the subtle things really. The way both coins lie in perfect symmetry, heads up. Each of the figures depicted faces down. Country of origin unknown but damn, that shine. Perfection.  Not a drop of blood anywhere beyond that thin rim around the edges of the coins. Clearly intentional. Look at how the dark red creates a nice accent against the polished gold. 

The man's thinning hair is neatly combed, no strand out of place. His hands, note the wedding ring, rest neatly at his sides. No dirt under the fingernails. He looks asleep. Serene. Peaceful. This isn’t a murder. It’s art. Art meant to express a message. 

Malick turns back to the girl. “Money?” he says. She averts his gaze, opts for the floor instead.

“I don't have any”, she says. “I think he was supposed to be my client”.

Not your fucking purview Malick.  Pinch gave you this job. You know he will take care of you.  Why start a conversation with this girl? She means nothing. Don’t get soft now.

He turns back to look at the body and suddenly feels a warm hand on his side.

“I don’t have any money”, she says again, “but I can still pay you”.

See? This is why we have rules old man.

He turns around to look at her and already her hand is slipping into the sides of his coveralls, down the front of his pants. With her other hand she takes his own, holds it to the side of her face. 

Nip that shit in the bud. There is work to be done. Work comes first. Everything else is just a distraction.

And now her hand finds its mark and rubs against his hardening cock. 

Feels good doesn't it? How long has it been Malick? Why stop her now? You already fucked up. Go on. Go on and fuck this girl. Split her hips. Do it standing right over the corpse.

Malick firmly but gently pushes her away.

“Don’t worry about it”, he says. 

If the girl is offended by this rejection she makes no show of it. Instead she hoists herself up onto a small table in the corner. Uses it as a makeshift chair. The edges of that skirt ride up on either side and Malick can see she isn't wearing any panties. The girl makes no effort to hide herself from him. She sits with her feet pulled up on either side, semi spread eagle, arms folded across her knees.  

Ok now she’s fucking with you. Do something.

From somewhere she produces a cigarette and lighter. Fires it up. Takes a drag. Her expression offers nothing. In the halflight of the room he can just make out the glisten of moisture between her legs.

“You got a name?” Malick asks her 

No you dumb fuck. Do SOMETHING. Focus on the work.

“Danica”, she says and takes another drag.

 He turns back to the bed and takes in the task before him.

Prep and disposal of the body are of little importance. What is of major fucking importance is what to do with the coins. They are clearly the central part of the message. But a message from whom? 

Mr. Balthazar will want to see them. 

“Where you from?” Malick asks over the shoulder.

That’s better.  Multitask. At least your dick isn’t lost inside her. Now make sure nothing under the fucking mattress is rigged to go off if that body is moved. 

Another drag from the girl. “All over really. San Juan before that”.

He gets down on the floor and onto his back. Shimmies under the bed. 

“You’re a long way from home”

Under the bed there is nothing. Nothing but mildew and dried cum stains. He shimmies back out.

“One place is as good as another”, she says

She’s got a point. How long have you called this shithole home? Huh Malick?

“I suppose it is.”

Now about those coins. Time to decide if they're rigged to blow. Time to decide if it's worth the risk. Time to fuck this girl. No not fuck her, fucking forget about her. 

Malick opens his tool box and takes out two mylar bags and his smallest pair of pliers. Slow and with care, he holds the pliers like a tweezer, uses them to lift the coins, one at a time. Places each coin into its own separate bag. Holds the bags up to the light to inspect each one briefly. Satisfied that he has neither touched nor tarnished the coins Malick places them in his toolbox. Grabs a roll of olive drab duct tape.  

Without ceremony he pulls out the corners of the blanket and throws one side over the dead meat. Rolls everything - corpse, blanket, sheets - into a tight cylinder. 

He pulls the makeshift shroud so the end with the feet hangs over the bed far enough to allow him to make several passes with the tape. Again for the other end then with almost no effort he slings the shrouded dead man over his left shoulder, grabs his tool box with his right hand and turns to leave. 

He stops. The scent is unmistakable. He turns back to look at the girl again.  She is seated like before but has one hand pressed against the wall for support. The other hand. The other hand is down between her legs working feverishly. Her head tilted back and her eyes closed. The burning cigarette still dangles from her lips. 

Malick stands there, a body in one arm and a toolbox in the other for what could be a few seconds or a few million years. Time, entropy, death. Nothing can be certain anymore because time is broken. 

He watches as the girl sways back and forth, trapped under the spell of her own flesh. He breathes in her scent, lets in linger in his nose. He waits until her legs close tightly around her arm and her whole body quivers and time reasserts itself. 

The girl opens her eyes and smiles and Malick says nothing. He simply turns and heads for the door.

“Wait”, she says.

Don't stop.

Malick stops.

“How do I leave this place?”

Not your purview.

“Not my purview”, and he steps into the strobed out disco fuckery of the 3rd floor halls.

Not gonna lie Malick that was as close to gone right off the cliff sloppy as you’ve ever been but you kept your shit together. Good job. She’s Pinch’s problem now.  Let him take it from here.

The lights are dancing and the way is closing behind him. Yellow green yellow green.

Time, entropy, death. Nothing is certain. 

Malick’s boot shoots out. Stops the door. He calls out to the girl behind it. 

“Follow me.