He barged in. In tight leather pants, wild, careless hair over his beautiful eyes. He had a voice of an angel in distress or a demon escaped from the icy pits of hell. He could fly but preferred leaping from wall to ceiling when the mood struck him. Like a dancer suspended on invisible strings.
Soon, he was joined by an older man smoking a cigar. This man could fly, and to prove it, he had the scars, burnt skin and hands. All he did was drink. And write. What he wrote, the young wild man read aloud, half singing, half speaking in that deep voice. What he wrote was a plea to another friend, who had disappeared on the both of them. This dark night, they came here to look for a sign.
Together they sat, or one sat while the other moved about; both drinking straight shots of J.D. and some vile rum, waiting for an apparition to emerge from the cigarette smoke. To kill time, they drank, wrote, read, sang, and drank some more.
The cold gust of wind and fresh snow blows in as the creaking door opens. Nobody else seems to bother, but a chill runs down the old man's and the wild one's spines. Followed by a wave of disappointment. Busted. It wasn't their friend. But a face just as familiar. Death. They'd have to leave soon. Oh well, might as well get him into the conversation for a while, he anyway is just enough company when you can't find what you were waiting for. And they were running out of time anyway.
They waited. They performed their gigs, all the time waiting for the one friend who left long time ago. Death just sat there, a great listener. He enjoys a good show. As they got drunker and more eloquent, he took out a paper and made a note with an old goose quill he fobbed off some other drunken sod long time ago.
No ink. 'These old-fashioned things', he sighed. He turned and asked if he could borrow my Parker pen.
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