The Motel Drag: Part 4

Scarlet Homicide Sauntered On The Walls

by Kerem Simsek

As Valentines walked away from the poor goner, a cab pulled up outside the market, and a man in a fury with strawberry blonde hair which was tousled landed on the crunchy ground.

He had sagging cheeks and he glanced grimly at the market in front of him, and the lot of protesters standing sheepishly behind Valentines.

“Ah, hello Tommy” Valentines greeted, his voice stiff.

“What happened here?”

“A gang attacked.”

“I didn't need to hear.” He said, winking. “I could hear the damm whistling of the bullet all the way from the department." Then, as though a telegram switching on, with a grave expression, he asked, “Any casualties?”

“Almost all gangsters killed, I expect two escaped, and the leader is unconscious.”

“Well, Valentines, you're gonna have to talk this up with the department, we don’t let tiffs like this go non-licked.”

The elderly man jutted up an eyebrow. He wasn't amused.

“Well then,” a cringe stretched around Tommy’s lips.

“You oughta come.”

Valentines nodded, and got onto the cab.

“I’ll be at the motel, Eugene, you can go to my room, enjoy yourself to the champagnes.”

After the driver whipped the horses and neighing in protest, they trotted away, Eugene pursed his lips, and cast a long glance at Watson, before turning his head around with a deep murky feeling of remorse, and trudged up to the motel.

Eugene had waited for Valentines in his very own room, and surveyed the wary elder over his magazine as he entered the room.

Valentines with a quick “hello” sat down on his comfy chair, and got out an Adams Revolver which he had stolen from one of the hoodlums.

His watery eyes were somewhat deep in the sticky fudge of thoughts, as he examined the revolver.

He took out the ammunition, and looked at them too, and settled both the firearm and its bullets on the sofa, and babbled to himself uneasily.

“Well, it seems the gang leader is a crooked man.”

When Eugene glanced blankly at him he said, “See the sparkle and shine of the silver of this gun. It’s either polished, or new. But probably new, I have only mere suspicions you would polish something as fancily devilish as this.”

“Why so?”

“Grey matter, once again. I looked at him. And saw how quick the boss was to thinking I might be connected with Watson.” When he mentioned the name, his voice broke, but he continued on in a tumbling squeezed tone. “He thought I could be one of the protesters. Also, the state of his clothes. It was gray, slightly wrinkled, worn out, but apparently it seemed to whisk along with his sideburns, which is a stylish look licked on their heads by yobs, and bad chaps.”

“And the gun?” Eugene pressed.

“Well, I saw how smug and maniacally calm he was, holding the Adams Revolver, so he thought he was safe, and had big hands of power in the situation. He was also arrogant, and looked cocky once we saw his look after he shot Watson.” This time Valentines voice twisted around wistfully. “He had a look of cold satisfaction, which tells us he probably was waiting for some time to put the lick on Watson. Probably since he strolled with his group of hoodlums. Which means he often staggers on a stirring thought and sticks to it, meaning he might be distracted, or sometimes hard to get to his attention, as he could be focused on inner thoughts.”

Eugene stuck out his bottom lip. “I’m impressed.”

Valentines stroke his chin for some while, when the door gave a knock.

“Yes?”

A maid popped her head in, her eyes were bored with worry.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you sirs! But, I think something horrible has happened!"

The two exchanged glances, so Eugene getting up after Valentines did, they went out of the room, following the maid hurry down the halls and stopped at a specific door.

“What's happened?”

Valentine's eyebrows perked up in fizzling excitement. “Or maybe you would want to ask, what happened inside?”

The maid bit her bottom lip.

“A butler has taken reservations here, and for two days hasn't been answering, he said for me not to disturb, but he’s not taking any of the food, or drinks!”

Eugene rapped his knuckles on the door. “Hello? Sir, anyone there?”

Nothing.

“Well, I think I know what to do.”

He backed away, and then charged at the door, nothing, a second time, also nothing, and once more, and the door swung open grudgingly.

They peered around and then saw someone in the room.

Iced off to the cold reality of death.

It was a man eagle spread on the ground, blood trickled down his suit, and dabbed the floor, and a thin curtain of scarlet splotched one side of the walls.

The man's mouth was askew, and a vacant expression on his face, as his glazed eyes looked dully at the ceiling.

Eugene gaped at the sight, and Valentines with a sigh, swept into the room, and kneeled over the man, his face seeming to be scrunched into a lour.

“This is horrible” Eugene said with a grimace.

The maid gave a gasp, and covered her mouth with her fingers.

Valentines took out an old fashioned magnifying glass and examined the victim.

He took out a measure, and measured his wound, the body, and said, “The wound is 12 inches long, and belongs to a big fat knife. And theres a speck of blood close to his neck color. It’s…if I’m not wrong.” He licked it with an extended tongue. “It’s sauce.”

“Sauce?” Eugene asked in surprise.

“Quite frankly. And about…uh….4 feet and 2 inches away, is a splatter of more tomato sauce.


“Why isn't there regular blood?”

Valentines flashed a wry smile. “That’s just the mystery with murderers, they make things mysterious, and murder into your shock.” He looked like he wanted to give a barmy snicker, but then, pursing his lips, he trudged forward, gesturing to the splatter of tomato sauce on the ground.

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly as though he was scowling at the imaginary foe of death itself, and scolding it for not giving a big enough challenge to surprise him good enough, for a good hand rubbing like a child who had discreetly found a slice of pie that was gonna be served for his grandfather, but he ate anyway.

“There's a flaw here.” He murmured. “It almost looks as though another person was lying dead here and was dragged out. See 5. 2 inches away? I think that’s the tomato sauce that belongs to the bogus victim.”

“Bogus?”

“Yes, I think that when our butler came in, there was a victim draped in tomato sauce, and he neared by, and the victim got up and put up a fight, and killed the butler.”

Valentines eyebrows crumpled. “But it doesn't add up. I drew a circle around the perhaps hoodwinking victim, and if he somehow thrashingly got up and pushed the other, he would surely have stumbled, but the distance is very short between both victims.”

They stayed quiet for a while.

“Do you think those gangsters would have anything to do with this?”

“I thought about it, but a gang who walked around with flashy sideburns. I mean, they must've taken that risk other than showing off people how snobbish cats they are.” Valentines mused himself by fussing with the hem of his smoking jacket.

Eugene's lips twitched, but winced at the thought of laughing while a dead man lay close to them.

It felt…wrong.

“Well, our butler maybe was thrown to the side of the wall, and the murderer stabbed him, then he slid down the wall, to the ground. And since the gash is only a couple inches long, blood did not appear behind his back and grim the walls. Then he was dragged to the ground, and so here he is.”

“Does he have anything in his garments?” Eugene inquired.

“Just a small letter talking hatingly to his victim. Though the letters are faint and it’s pretty much a spit of words, and it’s not signed, not much of a surprise.” He handed the letter, pulling it out of his collar, and Eugene opened the already opened letter, and read it silently–

Dear ye’ Rouge. Don’t know if this letter will reach you swine’, if it does, I hope you read it while you be poisoned and are on the dawn of death. I hope I quaffing down some wine while I do that. You drag me’ siren like a mule, and I’ll put the lick on you for it! Stab me in bold drollness, hmm? Well, I’ll get you, pound you for what you did, making a sore sight for my eyes. So I shall bring you to the withers of justice.

“Did you search other places?”

“Yes, but I didn't find anything critical.” Valentines straightened his suit, and gestured for Eugene to follow him.

“Come on Eugene, let's go.” They left the room and were heading for their own rooms when another maid hurried towards them.

“Mr. Valentines?”

“Yes?”

“Some juveniles want to talk to you.”

“Ahh, they must have some news. Thank you, my lady.” Valentines strode down the halls, the direction changing and they went through the entrance door of the motel, and outside where some young minors stood there, shifting their weight from foot to foot, some of them bouncing on the balls of their feet.

“Well you lot? What’s the report?”

“We was inspecting some ledge close to the skirt of town, and found an old lady dead.”

“Again!” Eugene ejacaluated, turning pale, as though he was gonna faint.

“Yes, she was darn killed, looked pale, might have been strangled or poisoned.” Said another chap in a thick Scottish accent.

“Well, then.” Valentines said, seeming to fumble inside his garments for some coins, he flipped them out to them, who took it with ragged jubilation, like a boar sloshing around in mud.

“Where is the poor lady?”

The boys giving playful sneers swaggered away, going on a prattle about what they were gonna buy for food, and talking the choice of cigars and alcohol, motioning for the two men to follow them.

Valentines getting a cab, rattled down the road, as the teens kipped forward.

Soon the teens and the cab entered grassy fields, which were drooping down sadly or had withered.

Finally with only a couple houses a distance away, they came to a ledge.

“Here she is!” Cried out one of the boys in the front.

There was an old woman on the ground, she wasn't breathing, she looked pale, and a cringe seemed to have tugged at her mouth.

Valentines jumped off the cab, thanking the driver, and went to inspect the woman.

“Judging from her face, which is pasty, she must've suffered a horrible death. Hmmm.” He opened her mouth, and sniffed it. “It smells like a mingle of honey, and mint. Her hat is about 2 inches away from her head, and since the indications of hollowed sludge here, she must have slid down the ledge and fall to the ground, her hat falling a 2 inches away.” He examined her more, measured her from different angles, frowning as interest sparked up inside him.

He sliced the woman's arm delicately, and took a sample of blood, and then stared at her teeth. “It seems as though she’s recently cleaned her teeth, but—” He frowned. “If she was poisoned, I would've got a smell.” He stroke his chin, rubbing his temples.

“What is it Valentines?” Eugene asked quietly.

“Merely remaking a theory.” He murmured, and strolled around.

Eugene had a distant feeling he was either pacing about, thinking of how the murder happened, or looking for the shudder in the air.

He didn't find any, he supposed, because he didn't shudder, and then searched her pockets and found nothing but a small chained pocket watch, a handkerchief.

“Hey, Mr. Valentines, there's a cane here.” Chirped one of the boys, pointing to a small cudgel.

“The woman is careful.” Valentines remarked, walking over to see it.

“How do you know?” Eugene asked.

“Well, you see the cane here, it might indicate that she does cane fencing which shows that she’s precautious, wanting to have some defense if attacked, but unfortunately, she got conked to death, poor old lady,” he shook his head, sighing.

“What if she did cane fencing before and hadn't learned recently?”

“A good reasoning, but you must see the tussle weaving on the muddy grounds. She was first cornered, and swung for the the enemy here.” He pointed to a faint footprint on the muddy ground.

“The footprint moves back, and she grabs a rock and throws it at the other one on the other side, and man dodged it, but she clocks him somehow because he staggers backwards, and the footprint is deep, so he must have put much weight on it as he was struck.”

“Then the other man lunged, taking her by the neck and she must have thrashed and struggled, see the scuffle here at the area?” he motioned to the place close to where the woman lay.

“She might've clonked him but then he strangled her, or beats her up, and he slides down the ledge to the ground.”

“Excellent sir! Excellent!” Peeped a kid, showing big lit grins on their mouths.

“Quite the shamus you are.” Noted one other one, nodding his head.

Valentines smiled. “You rascals! I can see that you are trying to butter me up, even detective work is not needed to find that out!”

The juveniles were very pleased when Valentines took them to the town's popular dinky pub, and got a round of eggnog for the chaps.

While they quaffed it down, licking their lips, and pulling out tipsy jokes, as the barman polished the glasses, with a gruff depression, giving epic eye rolls sometimes.

Valentines and Eugene were in one corner, and Valentines thrilled him with the frustrating story of the mystery when Eugene asked about when Valentines mentioned a pattern.

“A string of murders had happened, and there was pattern the detectives would follow, a murder would happen in a country, and then in another place and the detective would go there. I had retired, but I took interest in the case, and went down my own path. I investigated, and I came to the motel we both stay at and where a murder happened, remember? Then someone died, that man. The one I showed you.”

Valentines got up, and slinked towards a German assistant behind the counter.

He got out a letter asked something at him, and handed him a letter. He held the letter in his hands and after a while he handed it back, murmuring something, before Valentines nodded, and walked by to the corner of the room where Eugene watched him intently.

“Come on you lot!” Cried out Valentines at the teens, who cocked around their heads.

“We’ve got to go, we're in the wrong place.” Eugene slid out of his chair and bustled after him, and the teens, grumbling, forced themself to move their feet out of the warm pub and into the moist outside.

Valentines flipped a coin at a cab, and got onto it, some of the teens getting inside, some just walking close to skirts of the cab, laughing and drinking their eggnogs.

After some while of chatting quietly, and making comments on the murder,

Eugene’s his face locked into a graveness, his jaw dropping.

“Oh no, Look at that!” His voice trembled barley trembled above a whisper, his face turning ghostly pale.

He gestured outside, and Valentines looked out, and saw a long trail of blood like a cloak of crimson wrapping around a body of corn, assuring the food that it would be whipped out by the beaks of the crows which would fly above in the air.

“Come now Eugene, we might be onto something!” Valentines murmured with bated breath.

“Follow that blood trail.” He said to the cabby.

The cabby nodded and whipped his reins on the horses, and they trotted to a faster pace.

There had been a cabin in sight when Eugene spotted the blood, and, shortly getting off the cab, thanking the driver, they bustled by the trail of blood, and every step his feet took, Eugene felt his heart pump harder then ever, feeling tense, his breath ragged, shivers going down his spine as he saw the blood.

They finally came to the cabin, and things seemed to slur slow, wether it was Eugene's eyes, and he seemed to remember Valentines lecture about illusions.

Things seemed gray, and dull, the air damp as their nostrils sucked it in hardly.

A whisper of death crawled around the place like a woebegone house spider scuttling down the dirty ground sadly.

Eugene bit his lips, chewing on it so hard and drawing blood.

The dark path of blood suddenly stopped around and went off to another direction but Valentines clambered up the porch stairs, examining the place slowly, using his magnifying glasses and looking for clues.

He glanced at Eugene, as his hand hastened around the doorknob, as though to ask if he was ready, and Eugene, swallowing, giving a forced nod, Valentines turned around the doorknob, an eerie emancipation seemed to tingle on their nerves, as the demand of the situation became so much more fascinating.

He opened the door a few inches, and a shadow curled out like a desperate bogey man wanting to terrify children.

The hairs on the back of Eugene's neck stood on edge, and already his senses screamed for him to run away, but hesitant he stood his ground, his feet practically wanting to sprint down the fields, get the cab and go downtown to some pub and drink down the feelings as though it never happened.

Valentines opened the door more, shadows hitting their eyes, and Valentines going inside, Eugene bravely following him into the gelid room.

Valentines got out a small lamp and lit the inside, and a fire whispered and even it groveled back at the darkness enveloped around it.

Eugene stayed close by the door, uneasiness tugging at him, as Valentines walked around the room, examining things with his magnifying glass, and sniffing it.

There were splotches of blood splattered on the bottom of the stairs, and dots of them close to the stairs.

Valentines trudged up the stairs and Eugene wanted to kick him for doing that, and hissed, “What are you doin?”

“Examining, my dear Eugene.”

Eugene swaying on the balls of his feet, biting his bottom lip, stumbling on what decision to make, and said, “If you want to find me, I’ll be outside.”

Valentines snickered. “In thought outlaws broke the law, and did bad things, is this too much for you?” He simpered in a mock baby tone.

Eugene muttering under his breath hurried behind him as he walked further into the house.

He waited for a while as the elderly detective examined the places, and he grew more tense with every agonizing second, as though Valentines was on purposely wanting him to drip painfully with fear.

He let blood trickle down his lip even more, and was biting his nails so much that he didn't bother smearing the blood away.

He opened a drawer, and inside was the photo of a couple, a strong man with a kind looking woman.

His fingers perched onto a painting, and trailed a finger down one of the stair boards, and stroked his chin. “Look, the wood floor is dotted with blood, furniture is tumbled about, almost as though some struggle took place.”

They climbed upstairs, where there were two chairs placed near a writing desk, and a bed facing it opposite.

“Look Eugene.” Valentines said, and placed his fingers around a half drunk glass of champagne. “This could tell us something.”

“That the drinker left in haste, and began the struggle with the goons?”

“Maybe, a good theory. This is nice exquisite evidence.”

“Also, the writing desk is open, and isn't closed.”

“Another thing that implied that the man left in a hurry, or forgot.”

Suddenly voices came, and two boys clambered up.

“What are you doing here?” Eugene asked.

“We was wanting to take a look at what you lot found. The others were scared, and did not come.”

“I see.”

They came to the table, and one of them said, “Found anything interesting?”

“Yes, a half drunk glass of champagne, as you see here, and the writing desk is open. Me and Eugene agree on the fact that the person left in haste.”

Valentines shuffled through some strewn papers on the desk and found a book.

“Ahhhh, Achilles, the best warrior in the Greek army. Let's see here.” He opened the book at a random place, and flipped through some more, and closed it, placing it back on the desk.

“Do you have any theory about that?”

“I’m thinking, old boy. Hmmmm.” He turned around and walked over to an old rusty stove, and swung its panel open.

He got the tong and picked up pieces of dry soot-covered paper, along with dust and ash.

“Interesting.” He murmured, and shuffled through the sooted ash, and chunks of paper, and soon closed it, and started searching the place like a border collie, and his fingers nestled under the bed, and he pulled at it.

Under the bed was a pile of letters.

“Ah, we’re getting somewhere.” He picked up the letters, and opened one of them, and started reading, his lips moving soundlessly.

“Well Valentines, what does it say?”

He held up a finger. “I shall tell soon.” Once he had read all the letters, he put them into his inside big coat pocket and walked over to a painting, his hands brushing it occasionally, and he opened the drawer of the writing desk where there was an opened letter.

He read the inside, and put that too in his coat pocket.

He picked up a letter opener and examined it.

“Hmmm, judging by the red stain here, he tore the knife through the red print, and left it there, and didn't clean it. Yes, Eugene, this suggest that the person was in a great hurry.”

“You don’t say.” One of the young teens said.

Suddenly a curl lit the corners of Valentines lips, and it straightened into a dewy warm smile.

“Ahhh, the jigsaw puzzle has started to fit, hasn't it.” He slowly stretched his arm over and picked up a pair of round rimmed glasses, and stared at it for some time.

“Yes, come Eugene. There is nothing more for us here. Follow me.” He hurriedly walked out of the door with the teens and Eugene on his tail.

They walked out of the door, came to the cab where the other teens were leaning against.

“Cabbie, to the town! I need to send a telegram.”

The Motel Drag: Part 3

The Pillaging Protesters

by Kerem Simsek

“Remind me how you managed to convince me to let you come with me on this shamus business?” Valentines grumbled.

“Merely that I offered you two glasses of good gin” Eugene chirped.

“Shocker, I already had so many glasses of champagne, how did I fall into you?” Secretly, deeply under his voice, he was stifling sarcasm.

“Also that I offered to give you a lifetime supply of cigars.”

Valentines clenched his teeth, baring them like a black bear's, but then slackened, giving a sigh as he imagined the cigars he would put a drag on for weeks, and his eyes drooped with happiness.

They were in a cab being driven by begrudging horses who were sweating their snot off, snorting and neighing quietly, when finally the cabby stopped the cab, next to a big market and Valentines and Eugene got off, letting fumes of smoke trail away in their presence, much to the horses slight irritation, as they eyed the smoke with beady looks.

The two men were in disguise, wearing ragged suits, and baggy pants, which were patched and shabby, and they staggered over with wheezing breaths, and slumped onto a bench, and Valentines took off his beret, flapping it on the dirty concrete ground, and took out his tin whistle, and started playing it noisily.

Eugene on the other hand, was looking around, sometimes giving rough pleading glances at people.

They had done this act, because they needed to be in disguise, as Valentines insisted, claiming that if a big shot who worked in a factory strolled around with a retired inspector, it would look suspicious, and some stiffs would report, and the murderers would be ready for them.

Eugene cocked his head around, a slight frown dancing in his face as he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “We shouldn’t have ridden that cab.”

Valentines took his mouth off the front of his tin whistle, and said through his teeth, “Ahhh, you’ve found that little mistake. Stupidly, I never saw it.”

“It’s not little, they’ll think how are we poor if we can afford a cabby.”

“Perhaps we were too tired, and flung a penny or two?” Valentines suggested.

“Well.” Eugene's forehead wrinkled.

“Nonetheless, what’s been done is done.”

“When are we to go to the market?”

“Watson shall give a signal.”

He put his lips back on the whistle and played once again, people who passed by flung some coins in the cap, and went on their typical business which happens in the string of life.

Then one woman passed by, and gave them a glass of gin, giving a cat-like smile.

Eugene thanked her, and gave a low purr, shooting a sappy smile.

The woman blushed and walked away in a hurry, a hot air of shyness trickled behind her.

“She is one silver tabby.” Eugene said, cloying love lingering in his voice, and he picked the bowl of his pipe out of his mouth, his jaw sagged like an elderly farmer who saw a pig taking a wistful bath, and slicking its little twirly tail with grease.

“I wouldn’t fall for the siren so fast” Valentines said in a quiet, scratchy voice.

Eugene rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious, you should know her more before you start going into that pathetic moaning face of yours yawping in the inside wanting a wife.”

Valentines quirked up an eyebrow when he saw Eugene's bewildered frown.

“Oh, yes, I explained it to you last night. After my witty remark of being married to cigars, your eyes shifted across the place, and the word married made you think about getting married with a lady. I quickly wrote on a notebook the expression on your face, and you seemed to give a poker card stare.” He nodded his head with a pompous little swag.

“Well then, tell me what that woman was thinking, the one that passed by?” asked Eugene, a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Well…” That droopy eyed expression which could bathe on a bulldogs chunky face, came to his eyes.

“Well” he repeated, and leaned back casually as he said, “She must be thinking of going to the telegram booth, and inform Watson that she’s given the message to the quite handsome men.”

“Valentines, you hoodlum!” His comrade cried out as Valentines gave a grin, popping off the cork of gin, and slurping it down, and he gave a small bench rattling burp.

“Oh, and now you're probably thinking of calling someone to bring a coffin, and your lungs are screaming in protest as my deadly burp enters your nostrils.” Valentines guessed, his grin growing devilishly bigger as Eugene got out a handkerchief and smudged it onto his nose hastily.

“No, what I’m thinking is that I get a revolver and shoot you point blank now before you do any more physical damage to my nose, and make me quiver in my shoes.”

“You wouldn't want to do that” said Valentines, rather ill-disposed to the idea, a cringe making his mouth twist back, like a sheep who didn't know if he could trust a man who was holding a wad of oats.

“Oh but why not?” Eugene shot back, a sinister smile on his lips which danced around in a moral fashion.

“Because.” Valentines said, getting up, and surveying the murky sun with a sided hand. “If you were to shoot me, your revolver needs oil to make the shot much more slicing, and you don’t have much lead. Also, your grandfather gave the revolver to you when he heard that your cigar factory was attacked once, tried to be sabotaged, and some other times when the campaign was trying to be stolen. Your mother whipped up a total cuss, and you laughed at her cursing. If I’m right, you said she shouldn't flip her wig that fast, and your grandfather, who has a good temper, said she could go in some rough berserk trance.” Valentines flashed his oily smile at Eugene, who’s jaw dropped and made a dent in the gravel ground.

“How–how did you know that?” He asked, practically breathless.

The man humbly tapped the side of his head, giving a dewy smile, “Grey Matter my dear friend, Grey Matter, you’d be surprised what it can do.” He said, in a way as though he was thanking the loaf in his mind, and not him himself, being a humble detective.

He walked away, and Eugene followed him, bustling beside him staring at the man in awe.

“How did you do that?”

The man just smiled, and tapped the side of his head again, saying, “The mind is a powerful force and we haven’t unlayered a single one.”

“But how, you are correct on everything you guessed!”

“I shall thrill you with my child's play later, but now, we need to be on the real matter.”

“That was no child's play.” Eugene said through his teeth briskly.

“Believe me it was, that was nothing.” Valentines insisted, and he pried the paper stuck to the gin glass, and read the back side of it, and glanced up at the sun, once again giving a side hand above his head.

“I’ve received message from Watson saying that protesters have arrived at the market.”

“He telegrammed you?”

“No, he wrote it on the back of this sticky gin paper.” The detective said, gesturing to the gin glass, and pried one part of it.

They strolled up to the market's entrance, people with whiskery mustaches introducing lime lemons, which were rich with a deep lushness, with bright red tomatoes.

There were modern paupers on the streets, begging for some food.

“Come on pal! I used to be in the war!” One man in filthy rags shouted.

Valentines, with pity in his eyes, went over and laid a couple coins.

“Oh thank you!” The man brushed a hand through his disheveled hair. “May God bless your heart!”

As Valentines walked away, Eugene looked at him in a new light. “You are a queer man, Mr. Valentines.”

“Indeed.”

“Why did you give your money to a beggar? You could have used it for other things.” He said the last word in a stiff tone.

Valentines noticed he was probably gesturing invisibly to the smoking pipe sagging down Eugene's chin.

“Now now, my dear Eugene, it isn't nice to be selfish when it comes to beggars. You might be spending your money, but I think we should give a much more better value than the dower ones we show, showing no pity, not a crumb of remorse.”

Eugene huffed and puffed on his pipe, and took it out of his mouth, frowning.

“I have often thought that everyone has to go down their own path of difficulties, and shall spade to the one they desire if they work hard. It took me some time woking to be in a cigar factory.”

“Yes, but we just have to give them a gentle push to help them do their first tiny steps to their path they desire.” Valentines said.

Eugene shot a look that said, How is a few coins gonna help?

“I know a professor who had nothing but a dinky little farm and a swine, and a couple silver coins in his boots, and with the money he afforded, doing some hard work, he payed for books on pigs, and became a swine psychologist, one of the best rugged in Detroit.”

“And speaking of swines.” said a familiar drawling voice.

Valentines and Eugene whipped around to find a higgledy-piggledy Watson, with tousled hair, and wide eyes.

“The gang, they're coming to the market.” He spit out with bated breath.

He eyed Valentines, and said with a quirked eyebrow, “Did you bring a revolver?”

“I didn't think we would need to do anything that drastic.” Valentines admitted.

Watson shook a balled fist, his teeth clenched, and swore badly. “Curses!” He rasped. Valentines eyed Watson. “Does the gang have any pretty little surprises for the protesters?”

Watson wheezed and puffed. “I heard them say, ‘Lets go, and trudge a fling at the market.’" And another one said, ‘What about them measly protesters. I hope the markets cleaned the vermin.’"

“They had laughed along with the leader.” The messy man smoothed the strands of his tousled hair, shadows inking under his eyes.

But the next moment they were knocked down by a feather.

A sound shattered the windy silence, and people froze, wondering what happened.

Suddenly, like a tiger creeping slowly towards a scrumptious deer, a drip of scarlet lurked on Watson's forehead, trickling down, like an unnecessary amount of ink splattered on thin pages and the ink still spreads, like blood on bones.

The mere of blood on Watson's forehead spread bigger and bigger, and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

Then he crumpled to the ground, and behind him, was a man holding a pistol.

He had jet black side whiskers, with a big curving nose, with black inky eyes where as Eugene stared, he saw nothing but black hate, and the irresistible urge to murder to the flocks of death.

He had a small pouring down mustache, which had silver strands in them, and wore a worn out gray suit and same color matching pants.

One of his eyebrows were thicker than the other, and had a slash that dipped up.

He had a horrid grin, and wide dimples that corked out like the corks of a wine glass, and his thatch of hair smelled like beer, and his hands were gnarly as he had an excited clutch on his heat.

“Well well, if it isn't Watson’s boys. You with him?” The man sneered, hunkering at Valentines, who shot a look that was like thunder, but then with a scrunched face calmed himself, and said with a tight poker card expression he said, “Not at all, just talking with that fellow.” He voice was dripped with nausea, as he mumbled in a voice filled with fatigue.

“So, you like alcohol, or do you resist it.” The man growled, his hot breath like a hoodlum gone crook in Eugene nostrils.

“As a matter of fact.” Valentines took out of the gin and handed it with a tiny smarmy smile, which under the look, was a heaving monster that scratched every part of his emotions, wanting him to scream and spit in the gangster leader's face and tear it apart.

The gangster leader cocked his head around, like a curious puppy and was gonna take it when Valentines in on fluid motion shattered the glass on his head.

The gangster leader's eyes rolled around his head, and his knees buckled, and his hands slackened, and his revolver slipped out of his hand, but Valentines caught it, and sent two bullets spiraling for the gangster who let out groans which hissed out like an old train.

Valentines ducked behind one of the food stands, as a barge of silver and gray went for him.

Eugene ducked behind another stand, and Valentines moved away down the alley of stands, and got up firing at one gangster who moved up close to him.

Valentines grabbed a glass of whiskey and threw it at him and the man crumpled, just like dear Watson had and he blinked away tears, and fired grimly at another gangster, and quickly crept down on all fours like a tense tiger, and grabbed the man's pistol, and refueled it with his own bullets.

Then he bustled around with an excitement of ear piercing fury buzzing around him as he went close to Eugene, and threw the other pistol to him.

Eugene caught it, and Valentines threw a bullet box to him too.

They started hitting the gangster, who moved around like a horde of hideous gangly spiders, and when one of them got shot, the others would swear under their breaths, and keep firing, taking cover when bullets came dangerous close to fibbing their limbs.

“We’ll drub you, we will!” One of the gangsters, said, as a barrage of bullets whistled past him, and then Valentines got out of his hiding place and sent a volley shooting at them.

The hoodlum gave blood curdling screams as the bullets licked him, and he doubled over.

Valentines pointed his gun to the other man, who shot a bullet that missed his shoulder by inches.

He was about to fire when the gangster fell to the ground, dead.

He cocked his head around, and found a group of men holding revolvers in their hands, and one slightly old one holding a revolver with smoke wafting out, panting with an indignant yet satisfied look.

“Ahhh, hello protesters.”

“How did you know it was us? I know, a dumb question, but Watson said something about a detective, please intrigue us.”

Valentines smile vanished, and he hurdled himself down the ground, and saw the sight of Watson which made his insides curl and turn sour.

He practically fell on the ground beside Watson, whose eyes were transfixed into the distance.

Valentines took off his hat in respect, and as the protesters gawked at the sight, trembling slightly, Valentines got up.

As Eugene examined the frail chap, Valentines had a hoary look of mourning, and his eyes sparkled with a teary anger.

The Motel Drag: Part 2

An Enemy, Purring Sappily From the Heart

by Kerem Simsek

Valentines had left Eugene dangling, his features twisted as he ruminated on what Valentines would do, who had sat down on his comfy chair and smoked on his cigar, reading the daily newspaper, and had cocked up his head to the ceiling, stroking his neck, his eyes sparkling with interest, his eyelids drooping down in a poky manner.

He pinched his bottom lip, and stared into the distance, a loopy look fogging his face.

“Well Valentines, when are we gonna depart for the favor you gave to Watson.”

“We?” Valentines inquired in a droll tone, staring at Eugene.

“Why yes.” Eugene puffed, raising his eyebrows skeptically. “You are gonna let me skip on this boisterous job.” His voice broke to a pained edge, his emotions poured out icily, like a tall glass of black wine stumbling down.

“My friend, how fiendishly naive you are. You think so quickly you shall embark on this risky canal of crocodiles and giant snapping snakes. Metaphorically speaking.”

Eugene turned around, laying two yellow paper-like fingers on his cigar and taking it out inches away from his chapped lips, and said, barely moving his mouth, his yellow skin twisting into his plain features in a chesty crisp British accent, “Now what are the risks my friend?”

Valentines muttered something about ignorance.

“Look Eugene, solving a murder mystery, tracking down gangs, are stuff that puts your life in risk, any moment, for the pleading wrath of revenge, you can be drugged, killed, poisoned and you can be a goner in history, and blood will splatter on the pages.”

“You’ve risked it” Eugene noted, raising an eyebrow like a gargoyle looking in dull disbelief at some cocky traveler, who says he could go through the entrance in a breeze.

Valentines rubbed his temples, looking frustrated, and he dipped the side of his finger up his nose like he was adjusting some imaginary specks, and had the irresistible urge to massage his eyes.

“Eugene, there is only one life for you to live. If it’s gone, it’s gone. You have a chance to live for yourself and you risk it by parlaying in a gumshoe game?” It seemed like a rattling statement, but the inquiry swirling around the end of the words made Eugene feel true to himself in such a deep way, and he felt a slight pang of guilt.

Eugene knew he had to use humourous tactics, so he flashed a smirk, saying, “Whoa, whoa, shamus, you gonna go and solve a mystery, what about you? They’ll flick the living daylights out of you. What with you and your thin delicate bones, no offense.” He said, when Valintines quirked up an eyebrow.

“But, an old man like you, trust me, you’ll need a nark just like me to be at your aid when you’re breaking down in front of that wack lot.”

Valentines gave a hearty laugh, and his eyes twinkled mischievously.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“Surprise me.” Eugene said, his smirk growing more smug.

Valentines put a drag on his long wooden pipe, and began–

“The country Cefate’, about a minimum quarter of it was at war, due to a rich supply of oil, and a grand thatch of forests. We had some good deal of silver, given by the government to keep safely, and not only that, which was discovered later, but the Sherdany had sent some supply ships, and they were mistaken into thinking we had shot them down with tanks.

“Though what lit tremendous outrage was that on the ship was the famous captain, Bait Srunes, a poet who makes the trips dancing with music, he’s been on many luxury ship lines, and when he was killed in the bomb attack, they declared war. Though Sherdany was just giving an excuse. They were one of the quiet countries who never were that war prone, and it gave them a reputation as kooky cops, or inky Q-Pease countries, so they wanted to wipe clean of the muttering grime on them, and rattle the others, wanting them to stare in awe.

“But the minister and president were drunk when they declared war, and when they got into it, they didn’t want to back out as cowards. Besides, the rich family of that captain poet was furious and gave a good deal of money to hitch off on a war.”

“And?” Eugene asked eagerly, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Well, I was a young teen, and I enrolled in the military, which was small. The most rugged military knot of men were the Pasty’s, which had been named for making people go pale, as they boasted gloatingly.

“It had rained slightly that day, the ground was wet and muddy, our grimed white thin suits which our skin was slightly visible against, as it dripped with water, and we had sopping wet strands of hair which hung down in gloomy curls, I coughed and felt staggered in the inside for trying to light the end of my cigar when water fell from the trees and put it off. I was gonna light another when a loud sound boomed far by.

“Me and my friends were shaken, and readied our rifles.

“We watched with excited eyes, out lips trembling, and then the guttering chatter of a chopper started firing behind us.

“‘What the—?’ My friend exclaimed, as bullets fired for us and missed by mere inches, hitting the muddy patches of high dirt.

“I whipped my head around, my eyebrows wrinkling, and I squinted, trying to see where the attacker shot from. I cocked my rifle and fired a couple times before more bullets rained upon us.

“I dodged out of the way, two of my friends got shot, and slid down on the ledge of mud, their eyes rolling around in their heads. Blood trickling down their suits, or leaking down in a slick revolting manner.

“My friend fired a couple of times, and got up a bit, moving forward, firing without stopping, the smutty ground looking disheveled with the bullets littering the ground.

“A bullet whistled for him, and hit him in the shoulder. I could see in slow motion the blood spitting out like the drooping mouth of a nasty farmer, who stooped down warily.

“I bit my teeth into my lips, my eyes flaming with anger, and cocking the rifle, I moved forward, and aimed a couple of times. The chopper was quiet for a while, then a shrouding horde of ammunition rained upon the forest like a clan of wolves.

“One bullet slipped off the mud, missing my stomach by inches.

“I gave a dreary sigh, and fired a couple of times when more bullets fired, chattering near my feet and legs.

“I stumbled forward, my legs bended, and then more bullets came zipping through the air. I made a jump for the muddy ground, my chest hitting the sloshy sickening squish of mud, and cringing, I found the man in the distance firing a chopper and I shot a couple times, hitting his machine gun, and then reloading, I hit the men and he giving a groan, fell down.

“I hurried over to him, my rifle cocked. The man’s skin was pasty, and his eyes were shut, shadows inked under them.

“A comrade of mine came, looking startled, and he helped me pick the shot enemy and laid him next to a sloping up chunk of dirt which protected us from the rain, and we hung a lantern on the dirty wall, and I pursed my lips, as my friends wrapped bandages around the man.

“Then I stared at the long towering trees, both thin and thick, I stared at the mud which smudged people's pants with muck.

“Then, pursing my lips, thinking to myself, I got out my notebook, reading a poem I made during the days of fighting and struggling to survive. After I finished, I said to the pale enemy who lay there limply on the sludgy ground, ‘You have a wife, it seems.’

“‘How do you know?’ The man said in a husky tone.

“‘Oh, I just examined the expression on your face. I know that look, seen many men flash with that grim expression. Knowing they will have to leave their homes, wives, to grovel at the feet of lingering war and death. Where bullets lick people's wounds with jubilation.’

“‘It seems that’s something I have in common with the enemy.’ The man said dryly, giving a wry smile.

“After a moment I asked,‘What is she like?’

“‘Oh.’ The man's smile spit away like a goat whipping its horns around. The man’s lips curled bittersweetly, and he gazed up at the sludge of muddy dirt above him, lost in deep sticky thoughts like being held from all limbs, suspended in the dark murky waters of Davy Jones locker.

“‘Well.’ The man rasped in a soupy tone. ‘She was as sweet as long crooked bread. A good tempered woman. When I flashed my opinion, her face would scrunch, and her eyebrows would furrow, and she would give a bristly prattle about it that would stretch for some time, and she would end with a couple mumbling string of words. Yet I would still love her. She had pearly blonde hair, and some strands would always hang down over her forehead, and I would swipe it behind her ear gently.’ 

“He gave a stretched sigh which twittered with chirping birds and cloying drugs of love. ‘What’s her name?’ I asked him.

“‘Shannon Clefts.’ He said, his lips barely moving, his cheeks pasty, and his eyes staring into the distance, as though he was in a trance.

“After a while he cocked his head to me and said in a pleading tone, ‘There’s a photograph of her in my pocket, will you take it out?’

“Bags seemed to have slinked under his eyes, and they turned misty with tears, but the waterworks seemed to be working even more when I pulled out the photograph out of his pocket, and gave it to him.

“The man stared at the photograph for a long time, giving a glassy stare, and sniffing, he rasped in a mushy tone, ‘Like the sirens of ancient times.’ And his hand slid down on his chest, the picture having a cold air about it.

“The man sucked in a breath, and something grazed under his eyes, and they pitched out, like a snakes, and his face turned pale, as he sputtered, grasping on my hand desperately, like a suicidal sailor, who decided halfway he would rather not go down the path of drawing salty death, and held a clutch on a saving line which was tossed out to him.

“‘You seemed to be able to know I had a wife, though I don’t think it’s because of remembering them through men's grim expressions. You ain’t no ordinary goner, you—’ His voice staggered. ‘You are someone much more unique.’ And then the man stared icily, his chest drooping down, and was set like the jaw of an angry old timer who had a revolver being pointed at him point blank in the forehead.

“A shiver of sorrow shuddered down my spine, and I took off my helmet in respect for the man who had been dispatched to the chalice of the metaphorical wine which flushed deeply in a rich scarlet color.

“Then saluting, much to my friends surprise, turning around, my lips pursed, I slung my rifle over my shoulder, and walked down the moldy ground which was a tumble of leafs and mud, and it crunched under my boots as I walked with a forlorn temper about me.”

Finally Valentines finished his story, giving a sad smile, and raised a toast to the killed man, and quaffing it down in one swig, he got up, stroking above his lips, and grabbed the newspaper, his eyes grazing the columns.

When he realized Eugene was still looking at him, he waved a hand, and smiled a dewy smile, and said, “Now now, that is enough for today, though I have many more stories that shall grab your interest, and give you quite a thrill.” he winked, and left the air misty with ominousness that made Eugene’s insides flush with curiosity.

The Motel Drag: Part 1

A Glass Of Bitter Gin

by Kerem Simsek

It was a mizzly day in September, a light fog accompanied the streets, making the naked eye hard to see what was around, people would click their gums, having the irresistible urge to go to some dinky pub and wet their whistle like a guzzled pig, as the town, was close to the brim of the drizzly seas, which were salty not only that way, but metaphorically, as the air was moist with apprehension.

The salty air invited bitterly from the cold waters made people want to quaff down some cocktail, liquor, and smack their lips.

A man named Eugene Lewandowski, walked down the hard gravelly roads, wafts of smoke poofing away from the bowl of his tobacco pipe.

The man, oddly, worked at a tobacco cigar factory, being one of the nobs of the place, and walked with an important pompous air.

The man wore an old gray teal suit, with the same color matching pants, with slate colored shoes.

He had thin bony fingers, with uneven sharp fingernails, and slightly rotten yellow teeth, with thin dank lips and a tongue that tasted the small beads of water in the brumes sweeping about the wispy streets.

He came to the entrance of a motel, which was shrimpier marginally than a mansion.

As he swept through the doors, the feeling of fuming on his ice pipe, left him, feeling strange, for whatever reason, and so he took out a cigar from his box, putting his pipe into his pack, and burned the wheat for some time, uneasily, his stomach feeling queasy for some reason.

He smudged on a couple of tobacco rolls and littering them on the ground, and putting on a stale chewy one in the corner of his mouth, he walked away with the feeling of coolness.

Then he walked a couple yards away when he heard a click clack sound coming, and turned around, a dreary feeling seemed to accompany his back damply, and suddenly he felt a morose sameness rattle down his spine.

He saw a woman bending over the cigars, holding them with her thin straw-like hands.

Then the woman inclined her head around and her gray sulking eyes met his wide questioning ones, uttered and stretched with shock, and his feelings wanted to grasp on some thin piece of wood, as he threw his hands fruitlessly, watching the woman look at him with those murky cold eyes staring chillingly.

She got up slightly, and he took a nabbing hasty glance at her. She wore a thin dress, which had a murky velvet color, with dark flowers and inky lines shading around the flowers and the raven colored birds.

She wore tight ripped black shoes that hung strictly on the front of her foot, and had a small little black heel under her shoe that let out an impatient click as she moved her weight from side to side, though not in a nervous motion.

Her eyes were bleak and gray, spitting a piercing look.

She had prim blonde hair that was short and hung plumply on the back of her neck.

She had a pasty face with what only seemed to be only a sheet of skin pressing against her skull.

Her lips moved wordlessly in such a deathly motion, like a glazing peace lily that was dipped into the raw poisonous honey dripping slowly from the corner of a black bear’s mouth.

Eugene could tell that the woman was asking if he dropped the cigars.

He gave a staggering look, a glum hopeless expression trudging up in his face.

Suddenly feeling lashed, he quipped up, “Tarnation! Slank back woman from the place ye’ trudged from, and ou’ sight! The nerve of you woman these days.” He mumbled, murmuring a string of words and he turned around on his heel and walked away with a simple snobby flick of his head, tipping up his hat in a shallow manner, his eyes wanting to graze and pierce into the distance, and rip the walls.

He grumbled and kicked himself for getting creeped out by some slinking spit, and muttering another string of words, he got his motel room key, paying for it, and he went to his room, thinking about other things, and his nose missed the cloying smell of tobacco, which burned from cigars, and cigarettes, and from vintage over the hill root-beer pipes, light mawkish tears stung his eyes, his lips trembled, as he remembered his good ol’ rugged workers at the cigar factory, which he closely considered as a rough comrade that pulled out tiddly jokes and made his cheeks as red as tomatoes.

He jabbed the crude key into the door lock and flipped it around but the doorknob didn't budge.

He tried again, a crinkle crept into his forehead, as he gave a couple more fruitless attempts to open the door, he knocked a couple of times, before the door was opened by an elderly man.

Eugene was taken aback, and giving a hasty glance into the room, his feet hesitantly moved away.

“Oh, sorry, this ain’t my room.” He said, his cheeks flushing slightly.

“No, no, it’s okay, please come in.”

Eugene stammered a hopeless staggering sentence that was sewed together loosely, and then at last, like a cringy broken wheel for a cab wagon, he stuttered to a stop.

The man gave a small oily smile, though it wasn't a smarmy kind, it was a kind lit grin that waltzed around in a bubbly fashion.

“I’ve got some flutes of champagne.” He remarked chewingly, his dew ash like eyes twinkling merrily, as the gnawing sound came from him chewing his long thick cigar, which let out puffs of warm smoke, which gave a minty tobacco smell that Eugene welcomed with polite gaily manners, like a chef in a restaurant, tasting his peppered soup, and letting a dreamy expression take form in his face.

Eugene giving a small little skippy nod, and plodded in with a small little giddy hop, like a wary horse which had been galloping for an hour, and finally came to a town, where his rider tied him next to the water bucket, and he could drink it faster than a parched man in the desert.

The room, Eugene examined, was a comfortable place, even for a motel.

Inches away from the corner was a small cozy fireplace that crackled with long flickering strands of fire, and the walls were a dark magenta color that muttered deeply with a purple potato that was overcooked.

The ground had a nice black bear rug, and the ground was soft, and slightly dusty, and portraits hung on the walls.

There were two couches, and the elderly man gesturing for him to sit on the other, Eugene sat on it comfortably.

The elderly man poured himself a small chalice of gin, then sipped it with a stretched crinkle on his forehead, his veins pursuing swelling, like the peaks of tall mountains, was as thin and sharp as a buttery shank.

Eugene had time to examine his host carefully for the first time, looking at him from head to toe.

The man had a dark red smoking jacket, which on the shoulders were slightly dusty, and its shawl had a deep raven color, and had a neat box of cigars sticking out of his bottom pocket. He wore stiff pants which hung down in a slackened manner on his legs, and wore murky green slippers, and had thin lengthy fingers which were gnarly, yet had a warm color flooded in them.

The man motioned to himself and said, “I’m Valentines, I used to be a former inspector. I shan’t be surprised if I take a long stay here.” He played with a couple of poker cards, giving them only a shard of idle attention, and put them back on the sofa, and took a sip of champagne, and smacked his gums joyfully.

“I’m Eugene, and I’m a former runaway who should be the last person to be anywhere near a darn inspector.” Said Eugene playfully, a tipsy grin dancing around the corners of his lips.

Valentines quirked up an eyebrow sardonically, in a cheeky manner, and gave a small pickled grin, as he simpered in a tanked tone, “Surprisingly, you don’t have the jibbered up instincts to dash for the door, and get the hell out of here like wild elk.”

“Then I’m mouthing with guilted foam, to have that kind of sawed of nerve, for crying out loud.”

“Probably the brandy.”

“Won’ i’ the champagne, or, peg.”

“Ah, sell myself unwittingly to em’ drinks, makes my legs feel stiff.”

“What I would’ve smoked for, like hell, to get me a stiff peg.”

“Don’t get hammered that fast boy!” Valentines cried out in a voice that was threaded with harshness.

Eugene dragged a clumsy hand through his fine hair, and his eyes glittered with a pie-eyed expression.

Blinking a couple of times, trying to wipe away that drunkenness, he retorted in a squeaky voice, “Aren't you right.”

Eugene then, giving a blank stare, apparently worn out and fed up with the drunk rubbish, stroked his chin, and then sighing, he got out of the skirts of his dark black collar jacket pulled out a long pizzo pipe, and smoked uneasily, a troubled frown twisting into his features.

He gave a realizing sigh as his shoes laid lightly on the black bear rug, and he aimed politely, “Nice rug.”

“Oh!” Valentines quipped up, his elderly Persian face which had a couple of slashing wrinkles in them, lit up, delighted at the start of a subject change, like a warm rum glass in a rowdy pub.

“I have a Japanese friend who led himself into some big forest which is hell-raised with dammin’ animals, he seemed to kill this growling hooch, as he says, saying it tasted like British mead.”

“He gave it to you?”

“He had the kind generosity to doing it, and he said he could've given a present with higher tastes, I could remember that pout formed in his lips and that scrunched frown in his face, he must've seen horrid creatures.” Valentines closed his eyes for a moment, giving a shuddering look, as though dripped with cold icy water, and then maintaining a cool impression, he continued about in a casual voice.

“I’ve had my thoughts about making it into a vigorous furry coat, but I don’t know if I’ve ever fancied such a shabby taste.”

“Shabby!” Eugene exclaimed.

“Yes, quite so.”

“Why, my dear Valentines, a coat made out of the fur of a black bear, why, it is such an 1880’s quilt trend! Folks would be rather impressed, more or so, droll with swift jealousy!”

Valentines raised an eyebrow scathingly, a tart glint shining in his eyes.

“Nay, my dear friend, I do not think it would suit my appetite to wear such splashy clothing.” He said in an ill disguised voice and poking out a cigar, he smoked with a cold look studding into Eugene.

Eugene puffed on his pizzo pipe apprehensively, and mentally he burned the weeds with his eyes giving a queasy flicker.


That night Valentines had insisted that he stay and spend the night up in his room.

When Eugene said that he had a place to be, his actual room, he said so dramatically, saying that he wouldn’t let the money he gave for his room go to waste.

“Cheap money.” The elderly man corrected, and his eyes had slightly turned wistful, as he said, that it was better that he didn't tell Eugene why he shouldn't go to his room, because he would be under the par very alarmed, and said that when he found out about it he was outta sorts lately, and even now the feeling whistled inside him.

Eugene felt damp with ominousness, and forlorn.

So with a couple of pleading looks, coming from Valentines, a glinting tinkle in his eyes he gave a small sigh and gave in, getting on one of the other beds, sleeping comfortably.


Eugene woke up to an early morning, woken up by the loud sound of some instrument.

He saw the lamps hung to the walls were lit, and gave slight cooing chuckling whispers that barely went through the glass.

He turned around his head wearily, his eyebrows scrunched down in irritated annoyance, his forehead crinkled, and his eyes blurry.

Valentines was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking tense, playing the tin whistle, his eyes slightly misty.

He treaded his head around and he gave his crooked oily smile which already started to feel like his trademark look, and Eugene was already getting tired of it, and he flashed his eyes curiously with a tint of irritation.

“Top O’ the morning to you.” He said, a kindling smile treading around his lips.

“Valentines, what the blisterin' ell’ are ye’ doin’, wrecking my beauty sleep?”

“Beauty sleep?” A voice shot back, and Eugene whipped around, to find a man in the doorway, whose eyes were narrowed slightly, yet oblivious to Eugene, the corners of his lips curled a bit.

He had fair brown hair, which at the roots of it were wavy, and slick with oil, and at the tips curled up with a dirty blondish color to it. He wore a thick dark red sweater patched out at the top, and wore black pants, with nice dutch shoes which were tied on the front with grimed fabric.

He had the quirky features of an underestimated three toed sloth, yet his face was young and looked alive, and had a chin that dipped down, and puckered out deep red lips which looked like real blood, like the makeup of a vampire who had gotten the unnatural supplies from sucking it out of someone’s skin, like wine, which made from grapes, and a long time is waited before it turns into the liqueur.

His eyes were a deep gray, with some teal in them, and he had a charming smile with a lopsided nose.

He had a long thin weed needling out of the corner of his mouth like some damn rugged cowboy, who was very confident that he could kill his nemesis in less than the twinkle of a bright pale star which hung with a chilling glow, sending a shudder down people’s spines.

“Ahh, hello Watson.” Valentines greeted, lowering his tin whistle.

“Hello Valentines, and who is this exaggerating fellow?” He gestured to Eugene.

“Merely a passing by comrade, we met yesterday.” Valentines said casually.

Eugene glanced indignantly at the elder for a moment, and Valentines with his eyes whipping at him for a wink of time, and the man who had opened his mouth, clamped it shut, feeling at a bitter shallow loss of words.

“Eugene this is Watson, Watson, this is Eugene.” Valentines introduced them to each other.

“Nice to meet you Eugene.” Watson said, then his eyes stroked around and found the daily newspaper on the sofa and his eyes flamed, and a peculiar expression came to his face.

He gritted his teeth and his hands clenched hard.

Then a coolness passed in his face, as though there was a green lingering in his angry mind which made him calm, yet still was a little shirty.

He grabbed the newspapers, and frowned, and tuckered his gums.

“Them damn lot, making them protesters like madmen.” He shook his head, as though disappointed and threw it on the sofa.

“What’s wrong Watson?” Eugene asked.

Watson sighed. “Me and a small horde of people are protesting at markets for people selling wine, and already a couple of my comrades have been hanged.” A tear trickled down his eye to his cheek and fell through the air, dabbing onto the soft floor.

Eugene stared at the grieving man in disbelief.

He mouthed quietly, “Hanged?” And gave a rattled shudder, tracing two fingers which were lapped together and treaded down his neck in a morbid gesture.

Valentines looked down, bags cramping under his ash colored eyes, and confirmed it for him.

Eugene looked into the distance, for a couple of moments, then gave a blank stare at Watson, one of his eyebrows raised sadly.

Watson flicked away a tear angrily, his skin turning pale, and his lips trembling. “In fact, wine is the reason my boys were killed. When they protested they were thrown out of the market, and gangs who savor alcohol, and heard the news became angry, and since they were drunk, they hanged them!”

Watson’s face crumpled, and he dragged a hand through his hair, as though to sweep away his destroyed emotions which he felt were drilling into a raw nerve which now was being salted to add to his pain.

“I am deeply sorry for you, Watson.” Valentines said in a snuffed voice and it seemed as though there was a river of grieving mournfulness, and it almost seemed as though small little rambling blue devils were swimming in that pouring river, cackling and mumbling, cheering for the mopes that had come, like a small group of torpedo fish, delighted that they had numbed some prey.

Eugene in his desperation, brushed the area with his sharp watery eyes, and his insides gave a little flutter when they laid on a box of cigars.

He lunged a hand for it and pulled one out and handed it to Watson eagerly.

His stomach gave a little devastated flip when he found out the one he handed was a bit stale and stiff.

He couldn’t sweep together a sentence, and felt his voice staggering, like a yak stumbling down in surprise on the slopes of mountains.

“Oh no, I don’t smoke.” The man said.

“Oh.” The result slipping out of Eugene’s lips was simple and dripping with glumness, like bucketfuls of salty water splashing into the ship and lower deck, making the pirates on board cheesed off.

Yet in that one moment where the man refused the box of cigar, how in that mere moment disappointment dripped in icily, and a whole void of chaos reigned.

Every vibe, raw and regular nerve was as tingled harshly, and it felt like a lengthy bony finger stretched his emotions which were the strings of a violin, and then let go severely, and the rope rips off, giving a downcast salute, and retiring for the day, before he was to be repaired physically, and also emotionally, which would take some time, even for the best therapist in town.

He felt like he was some cab driver and he had lost control of the horses which jumped off a cliff and next thing falling through the air, and then falling down onto something hard, like a marble floor cleaned with the poison of a snake.

Like his teeth as he falls of that cliff and plunged to the ground, and a painful blackout, they are shattered and cracked off, so fast, and his eyes seemed to be sliced with a pointed jagged knife, and his hair is ripped off slowly, and as though his mental attackers did it specifically to fill him with such undeniable pain, and then crack his nose side to side, and drain the blood from his cheeks, and bruise and wound his entire limbs brutally, so that he couldn’t move them an inch, and so, this depressingly happened in metaphor to his emotions, which at last, then he woke up to be in a hospital, getting over the bitter attack of words, but yet the sting of the poisonous words which assaulted him still lay in his raw nerves vividly.

Eugene inclined his head, his chest drooped back, feeling crestfallen, like a warrior who had come back blinded by rusty hard muskets.

Suddenly, Valentine's face lit up, and he chimed up, “Well, Watson, how about we investigate and look for the gang that iced off your friends.” he said, slightly cringing when he said, “Iced off”.

Watson beamed happily at Valentines, and nodded his head vigorously, his skin turned a little red from mischievous delight, a wide pip-full smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You would do that?” But then his face turned into a cold frown as he motioned to the glass of gin on the sofa next to Valentine's bed.

“But I see you mates like alcohol, why are you helping me?” He said, curiosity leaping like a herd of goats who were uncertain which direction to go, and avoid being a predator's dinner.

“Yes, we might be oenophiles, but we ain’t attracted to the noose, especially when it strings around protesters.”

A smug smile hung gingerly on Watson’s lips, as he said in a cool poisonous voice, “That drunk gang shall pay.” He said in a shallow voice, his eyes glaring with the dark mischievousness of a naughty child who secretly stole a slice of pie.

“Now now, Watson.” Valentines said airily, his eyebrows bugging out. “As it hasn't happened, we don’t know if it will happen.” He said ominously, a queer simper crawling in his thin lips.

Watson, looking giddy, walked out of the room, tipping his bowl hat to them, and with a wistful glance at them, he slithered out of the room like a snake which had eaten its meal, and was licking its fangs, but to Eugene's pessimistic drama, to him it seemed like a cat slinking out of a room, and had eaten a fresh mouse which had just newly come from its poor mum.

Eugene knitted his brows, and he sighed as he thought of a cat, and that grinning cat turned ridiculously into men doing quaint acts which were flipping mad, and then the thoughts turned into a dear lady, and he sighed as he thought of sitting next to one of them skirts, on a bench next to a big lake, talking as he puffed on the cigars.

The fog of romance was broken by the muttering words of Valentines who had apparently been scribbling on his notebook, which he had pulled out of his smoke jacket.

Eugene muttered a string of words, grumbling that his mushy thoughts had been interrupted.

Valentines regarded him with a quirked eyebrow, smoke blowing into the air from his long cigar.

Eugene glared at him slightly, and before Valentines could frown or grow dim with confusion, he inclined his head, mumbling.

“Oh sorry.” Valentines apologized in a stiff voice, and took a swig of peg. “I was just writing in this notebook about the specific looks you get when something emotional strikes in.”

“And why would you do that?”

“To know when you give a startled expression, I’lll know which look it is.”

“What are you, a telepath?”

“None to the least.” The old man flashed a wry smile.

“Well I‘ve got some reservations about you, hell, I should write this on a notebook, the guy smiles way too much.” Eugene stated as he got a fresh pack of cigars and lighted the end of one, putting it in the corner of his mouth.