The humid night spit drizzling rain and blurred the neon lights in red, blue and coughing yellow. The sidewalk was cluttered with smokers, gamblers, tourists, vagrants, musicians, fighters and poets. Some of them cursed and gave up on the night while others warred on in their own way, diving into bars and clubs and alleys for strange appointments. The hot air cooled as the night wore on and the crowds thinned and the sky softened from a hazy black to chalky gray.
A musician stumbled from the Rocket Club, not in violent inebriation, but mere exhaustion. The heavy window-less door slammed shut behind him. It opened immediately, bathing the sidewalk in slow, easy jazz. A brutish man with a mound of flesh for a face emerged, and kicked the musician in the stomach as he lay prone.
“F-f-uck!” he managed before vomiting most of the evenings liquids onto his coat and hands. The brute lit a hand-rolled cigarette and took a long, calm drag.
“We discussed two sets, Marlowe,” barked the thug. He raised a pair of fat fingers, weighted with cheap jewelry, and stuck them in Marlowe’s face. Marlowe wiped bile from his lip and regained his feet, leaving the coat on the sidewalk.
“Let me get my guitar, Rufus,” said Marlowe.
Rufus shook his head and flicked the cigarette at the musicians face. Marlowe raised an arm reflexively, and Rufus jabbed him in the ribs. Waves of tremolo pain shot through Marlowe’s side.
“Not a chance Marlowe. What was that? Twenty minutes? The Gibson is mine.” Rufus stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “Take a hike loser,” he said and walked back into the club.
Marlowe shook his head. “I can’t play it anymore Rufus. Give me the guitar and I’ll pawn it-”
Rufus slammed the heavy door of the Rocket Club shut, leaving Marlowe in the rain talking to the ghost of the evening. The musician turned and trudged down the sidewalk towards the river.
Despite the lurid light creeping over the city skyline, the river remained black as coal. Marlowe wandered along the riverbank until he reached an old trestle bridge. Vehicles roared overhead, just out of sight. Marlowe struggled to whistle a tuneless melody and passed into the shadow of the bleak highway.
Pools of standing water had gathered beneath the bridge, and Marlowe’s shoes squelched beneath him. He steadied himself on the iron railing between sidewalk and riverbank, letting his lithe fingers glide along the cold, smooth surface. He thought of his guitar and paused beneath the old bridge.
A pale streak of light crept into the dark recesses of the bridge, but in the furthest corners it remained infinitely black. Marlowe peered into the darkness.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said in a soft voice. The sound of traffic overhead echoed strangely between the brick pylons and warped Marlowe’s perception of depth. He closed his eyes and said louder: “I’m ready you motha fu–!”
A hiss erupted from the darkness, silencing all other sounds. What followed was a slippery, organic noise;. a staccato movement of claws in the dark, rapidly approaching. Marlowe cowered in fear at the railing. Yellow orbs of different sizes appeared in the darkness above, and long, thick limbs stretched from the ceiling to the floor. The many knotted joints creaked as the monster unfurled a dozen grotesque appendages. The bristly legs grazed Marlowe’s arms, neck and face, sending shivers through his body.
Marlowe began trembling uncontrollably. “P-please,” he whimpered. “I have no more to give!” The eyes floated above, unblinking. There were too many to count. Marlowe began pleading. “I gave you E-major last week,” he said, wringing his hands together. “I might have a melody to hold you over-” Marlowe pursed his lips together and tried whistling, but his breath came out wet and ragged. He only coughed. “A moment!” he shouted at the thing.
The musician could feel the bristly legs tighten around his waist. “One moment!,” he stammered, tears streaming down his face. He could smell the monster now, a thick musty smell, arrogant and ancient. Marlowe could not place the scent, but found himself only staring at the unblinking eyes leering at him. They seemed to grow larger and suddenly Marlowe realized he was being lifted into the darkness, his feet leaving the earth he would never touch again. In a moment of clarity he realized the familiarity of that musky scent: It was disappointment. Contempt. Fear. It was the smell of bile on his favorite coat, still lying on the sidewalk outside of the Rocket club. It was Rufus’ cigarette grazing his face. It was his guitar being pawned. The smell was Marlowe’s own rapidly dwindling inspiration. The monster gulped up the musician with a slurp.
A musician stumbled from the Rocket Club, not in violent inebriation, but mere exhaustion. The heavy window-less door slammed shut behind him. It opened immediately, bathing the sidewalk in slow, easy jazz. A brutish man with a mound of flesh for a face emerged, and kicked the musician in the stomach as he lay prone.
“F-f-uck!” he managed before vomiting most of the evenings liquids onto his coat and hands. The brute lit a hand-rolled cigarette and took a long, calm drag.
“We discussed two sets, Marlowe,” barked the thug. He raised a pair of fat fingers, weighted with cheap jewelry, and stuck them in Marlowe’s face. Marlowe wiped bile from his lip and regained his feet, leaving the coat on the sidewalk.
“Let me get my guitar, Rufus,” said Marlowe.
Rufus shook his head and flicked the cigarette at the musicians face. Marlowe raised an arm reflexively, and Rufus jabbed him in the ribs. Waves of tremolo pain shot through Marlowe’s side.
“Not a chance Marlowe. What was that? Twenty minutes? The Gibson is mine.” Rufus stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “Take a hike loser,” he said and walked back into the club.
Marlowe shook his head. “I can’t play it anymore Rufus. Give me the guitar and I’ll pawn it-”
Rufus slammed the heavy door of the Rocket Club shut, leaving Marlowe in the rain talking to the ghost of the evening. The musician turned and trudged down the sidewalk towards the river.
Despite the lurid light creeping over the city skyline, the river remained black as coal. Marlowe wandered along the riverbank until he reached an old trestle bridge. Vehicles roared overhead, just out of sight. Marlowe struggled to whistle a tuneless melody and passed into the shadow of the bleak highway.
Pools of standing water had gathered beneath the bridge, and Marlowe’s shoes squelched beneath him. He steadied himself on the iron railing between sidewalk and riverbank, letting his lithe fingers glide along the cold, smooth surface. He thought of his guitar and paused beneath the old bridge.
A pale streak of light crept into the dark recesses of the bridge, but in the furthest corners it remained infinitely black. Marlowe peered into the darkness.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said in a soft voice. The sound of traffic overhead echoed strangely between the brick pylons and warped Marlowe’s perception of depth. He closed his eyes and said louder: “I’m ready you motha fu–!”
A hiss erupted from the darkness, silencing all other sounds. What followed was a slippery, organic noise;. a staccato movement of claws in the dark, rapidly approaching. Marlowe cowered in fear at the railing. Yellow orbs of different sizes appeared in the darkness above, and long, thick limbs stretched from the ceiling to the floor. The many knotted joints creaked as the monster unfurled a dozen grotesque appendages. The bristly legs grazed Marlowe’s arms, neck and face, sending shivers through his body.
Marlowe began trembling uncontrollably. “P-please,” he whimpered. “I have no more to give!” The eyes floated above, unblinking. There were too many to count. Marlowe began pleading. “I gave you E-major last week,” he said, wringing his hands together. “I might have a melody to hold you over-” Marlowe pursed his lips together and tried whistling, but his breath came out wet and ragged. He only coughed. “A moment!” he shouted at the thing.
The musician could feel the bristly legs tighten around his waist. “One moment!,” he stammered, tears streaming down his face. He could smell the monster now, a thick musty smell, arrogant and ancient. Marlowe could not place the scent, but found himself only staring at the unblinking eyes leering at him. They seemed to grow larger and suddenly Marlowe realized he was being lifted into the darkness, his feet leaving the earth he would never touch again. In a moment of clarity he realized the familiarity of that musky scent: It was disappointment. Contempt. Fear. It was the smell of bile on his favorite coat, still lying on the sidewalk outside of the Rocket club. It was Rufus’ cigarette grazing his face. It was his guitar being pawned. The smell was Marlowe’s own rapidly dwindling inspiration. The monster gulped up the musician with a slurp.
1x Like
