[Just for the hell of it: A scene completely out of context. But I like it, and want to share it.]
Getting out from the morgue was easier than it sounds. A few flights of stairs, a shy turn away from some passing workers (the lab coat surely helped with the authenticity). Then, out on the streets. Old town, with the night-life happening all around him.
Hip Hop. Rave. Dance. Rock. One bar after the next. Lights, sound, people over people. In all its glory, the streets pulsing with life.
The city that never sleeps. Jerked up on cocaine and gluttony. Hyperactive, exploding, like an aneurism just before the sudden death.
Twenty-four-seven fast-food restaurants, always-open strip clubs, and the never stopping spin-cycling and tumble-drying laundromats for those in need of a quick wash-and-rinse. They throw their clothes into the washer or dryer and go for a quick beer or three to the bar next door.
The guy running this particular cleaning shop is anything but mentally present. Maybe a tweaker. Maybe just old and fucked up-tired. He stares at a magazine in front of him.
Adam doesn’t care.
Another guy sleeps on the floor at the end of the row of vibrating machines. Leaning against the dryer, wearing a pair of jeans with more holes than threads left. Drool runs from the corner of his mouth, and into the open palm of his odd-angled twisted hand. One of his flip-flops fell off his foot. The other one clings to the a yellow-green toe nail grown into oblivion and back. He sleeps like a baby. Rocking and shaking back and forth with the dryer.
Tumbled to sleep.
Two teens making out. Hair long, died, clipped, and either over-styled, or not washed in months. Tongue around tongue, like a snake around another snake. Pressed against another dryer set to extra-tumble. To vibrate their hips as their horny, dripping pink parts rub each other sore through thin sweatpants.
Young love — beautiful and heart-warming.
Nobody gives Adam a look. Nobody sees the man dressed in only a lab coat stalking around the shop. Like a creep ready to expose his deformed dick to the next group of helpless old ladies. The owner flips a page of his magazine. All the pages might as well be blank, or full of detailed pictures of animal droppings, because his eyes aren’t moving, reading, or absorbing anything. Hell, they’re barely open.
In its absurd state, this place is almost like a quiet sanctuary in midst the busy city life. An island of tranquility, where all worries are forgotten. Though, absurd nonetheless. Not the place Adam wants to hang out at.
Usually, this isn’t necessary. Adam knows a guy. Max — his dealer. His handler, pusher, fixer. Another loyal puppet for the keeper. The guy that gets Adam what he needs, so Adam can go and get things done. For instance: clothing. Cash. Weapons.
But today there’s no time for that. He’s behind schedule — again.
After scanning through the bountiful tumblers, Adam collects a handful of semi-dry clothes that might fit alright. Or at least look to be the lesser of the bad fits he can gather.
In and out.
Adam leaves the shop in his newly acquired, well-worn flip-flops, with a sound slowly-but-surely driving him insane.