Savage sunlight filtered through the break in the blinds to serve as Allen’s alarm clock — the actual article having been discharged from duty at high velocity some weeks prior.
Allen grunted in dismay and turned to escape the light.
If you can’t tell whether the hangover came from a fight or a few-too-many, he thought remorsefully, you didn’t drink enough.
Summoning the strength to stagger to the bathroom, he began the long and painful ritual of impersonating functional adulthood.
Once standard procedure was addressed, Allen stood staring into the void. This particular void was his refrigerator, though it enjoyed the same occupancy rates as any other black hole.
sigh.
The fridge door slapped closed with a somehow despondent-sounding squelch as Dessel stepped out of the apartment, mind already moving on to the donut shop down the street.
Sugar never sat well with him in the mornings, but Mr. Cho made one hell of a ham and cheese croissant. You could probably run a diesel truck on the coffee alone, but that was just the kind of kick Allen needed on a morning like this.
A brisk walk later, and Allen was shuffling through the door of Mr. Cho’s donut shop — affectionately and regrettably known around the neighborhood as Cho-nuts. The jostling of the bell above the door drew the owner’s attention immediately — though the state of Allen’s face soon stole the show.
“Oh-ho Mr. Dessel — you go fight in the sewers last night?” the man teased. “You look like you were hit by a truck.”
“Your bedside manner leaves nothing to be desired Mr. Cho,” Allen replied with a roll of his eyes, “I’m fine — could I trouble you for the usual?” he finished, gesturing toward the pastry window by the register.
“Sure sure, let me heat it up for you,” Mr. Cho nodded as he busied himself with preparing the order.
“Raw’s fine today Mr. Cho,” Allen waved dismissively.
“Places to be this morning, unfortunately. I’ll take a cup of joe as well, if you don’t mind.”
Allen counted out exact change from his jacket pocket as Mr. Cho poured the charred slurry into a Styrofoam cup.
“Very well Mr. Dessel, see you next time,” Mr. Cho said as he accepted the payment. As Allen turned for the door, Mr. Cho followed up, “Should put some ice on that eye, by the way.”
Allen made an acknowledging gesture of the comment without looking back — already back on the street, headed toward his first real task of the day. Next order of business? Hunting.
But not just any hunting…
Job hunting.
—
“FRANK!” the boisterous man bellowed as Allen slipped into the Flask, the early morning cacophony of a dump truck emptying out Mrs. 3B’s final resting place nipping at his heels. Looking up to identify who’d called out, Allen heaved a heavy sigh and reluctantly started toward him.
“Clever, Jimmy. What’s up?” Allen said, settling onto the stool beside the man.
It was nine in the morning, but that certainly wasn’t stopping Jimmy. A half-drunk pint sat in front of him, with a dish of bar nuts on standby. The TV above was tuned to baseball, but Allen knew Jimmy’s real sport of choice was people-watching.
“Heh — you get it Allen? F—RANK,” Jimmy chuckled, clearly proud of himself. “Think I’ll call you that from now on. Franky.”
Heaving another long-suffering sigh, Allen nodded along to Jimmy’s prattling. The man spent the majority of his time at the Flask and usually had a decent read on the job board, the atmosphere, and the people filtering in and out.
Of course, he was also annoying as all hell — so ‘the Lord Giveth’ and all that.
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“Well, you’ve clearly heard about the promotion Jimmy. Anything lookin’ worthwhile on the board?” Allen gestured to the corkboard on the wall, hopeful to shift the conversation to something more productive.
Tossing a shelled peanut into the air and catching it in his mouth, Jimmy shook his head in mock disappointment — reluctant to put aside his top-tier one-liner.
“Eh, more of the same, really,” Jimmy said, eyeing the Job board.
“Most’s either above your pay-grade or not worth the paper it’s written on,” he finished with an elbow nudge to the ribs. The man was well-seasoned, with salt-and-pepper hair that leaned far more toward salt, and wrinkles that had begun developing wrinkles of their own.
All that aside, however, the man had been a contractor longer than Allen had been alive — and he was never one for the magical, preferring to solve problems with his hands.
So when Allen received the pointed appendage to the ribs, it landed rough on its own — even before factoring in the fresh wounds that lay beneath.
That deceptively chummy elbow shot the breath right out of him and earned Jimmy an unimpressed glance from the man beside him.
“Tell ya what,” Jimmy continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “There’re a couple of F-jobs floating around that probably shouldn’t be F-jobs,” he said, leadingly.
“And since you happen to be an F-rank,” he added with an amused grin— clearly still pleased with his earlier joke — “that probably shouldn’t be an F-rank…
Maybe you oughta clear ‘em off the board before some other idiot gets himself killed. Whaddya say?”
Interested despite himself, Allen leaned in too. “What might these jobs be, Jimmy?”
“So much haste, green-horn!” Jimmy disengaged with an incongruous laugh, “you sure you wanna dive right in?” he asked, with a dash of side-eye and a twinge of genuine concern that leaked through the casual veneer.
“Of course not,” Allen replied with a deadpan look and a raised brow, “The pay’s bound to be shit, I’m guessing the postings are missing critical details, and I’m still black’n’blue all over from the last gig,” he said with resignation.
“But I’m also stuck in the F’s for now — and I don’t expect anyone else to stoop so low as to clean up after the Ledger’s fuck-ups.”
Nodding along in agreement, Jimmy let out a sigh.
“Aye, s’pose you’re right about that, Dessel.” Turning to look him directly in the eye now, the man continued, “You sure you’re up for it?” he asked one last time — more genuinely now.
With a ‘fuck-it why not’ shrug and a roll of the eyes, Allen gestured for the resident barfly to continue.
“Alright, alright. I admit I don’t know much about it,” Jimmy acceded, nodding toward the listing in question, hanging innocuously in the corner of the jobs board.
“All I know is we’ve had about a dozen freelancers take a stab at it — and promptly skip town or disappear.”
Allen nodded as he stood and ambled up to the posting in question, gesturing at it while looking back to Jimmy for confirmation — who promptly nodded. Pulling it from the board Allen gave the post a quick once-over —
Squinting at the summary, Allen became steadily more annoyed. “What was the printer down or something?” he called in the general direction of the bar, “can hardly read a fuckin word,” he muttered…
The handwriting may have qualified as a war-crime in some societies, but Allen still got the gist: ‘Unverified disturbances, bad smells, dead pets, flickering lights, and some mental fuckery thrown in for good measure’ he thought.
There were several people — both civilian and contractor alike — who’d gone missing in connection with the case. That was probably the only real indication that something was actually wrong.
Civilians were far more likely to report mundane nonsense than anything paranormal, and “unverified” was all but code for just such a report.
“You said a dozen, Jimmy?” Allen called. “Report only shows two suits ditching the case.”
“Yeah, well, the report’s outdated — and most of ‘em only went to scout before signing anything,” Jimmy replied, bristling at having the integrity of his intel questioned.
“But you said not all of em ghosted yea? Some beat feet instead…” Allen prodded.
Catching Allen’s drift, Jimmy nodded.
“Aye. Only word back from those folks was grumbles that they ‘aint gettin’ paid enough for this shit.’” he said sagely, like he was quoting the gospel.
Fair. Allen thought as he returned his attention to the form in his hands, considering the implications.
Jimmy took a swig of his lukewarm pint, watching Allen over the rim.
He set the glass down with a soft clack.
“So… still game?”
Allen didn’t answer right away. He just kept looking at the form — the smeared ink, the implied warnings, trying to glean all the important bits that were left between the lines — then slowly folded it and slipped the listing into his coat pocket.
“Yeah,” he muttered finally, rising from the stool. “Let’s see what kinda mess we can make of my first F-job.”