Of all the late-night eateries near the docks, Fat Sal's had become a haven for wannabe gangsters, desperate ladies of the evening, bootleggers, racketeers, and all other manner of lowlife wannabes attempting to make ends meet in the city of debauchery and sin known as Torn City. All were welcome as long as they could afford a cup of coffee or an egg and Spam plate with a side of light cigarette ash. The non-ashy plates cost extra.
Several of the overhanging lights had exposed wiring that would spark every minute or so. The walls were painted, plastered, or smeared with at least three different shades of yellow. Several pieces of the tiled flooring were missing and replaced with cardboard, which seemed to be replaced with more cardboard when things got muddy. Several of the booths appeared to be stolen from other establishments, as not a single one looked like it belonged with the rest.
And the smell. It smelled like fishy water, in a sewer, mixed with dog shit, and hammered down with a sweaty stripper pole that hadn't been wiped down for three generations.
In short, seventy-year-old barns in Chernobyl were more appealing and structurally sound than Fat Sal's diner.
“Aha! I'll take that you suma'bitch!”, the balding cook flashed a crooked, tobacco-stained smile of triumph as he viciously knocked a white pawn off the board with a black bishop.
Salvatore Guzman, the owner of “Fat Sal's”, a diner of questionable food and hygiene, was a short, fat, balding “Cuban” man in his early forties. He had been balding since his twenties and always wore a Panama hat when he wasn't directly behind the grill. His black tank top was stained with different cooking ingredients, tobacco, and burns.
Though he liked to tell everyone he was from Cuba and Hispanic, Fat Sal never knew his parents, had zero culture, and had never even left Torn. He was about as Cuban as pizza or Wonder Bread. The only thing Fat Sal knew about Cuba was from T.V. and his “Cuban” sandwiches he liked to peddle in his diner were basically a turkey and cheese on white with spicy mustard.
The sound of thunder boomed in the background like echoes of some distant battlefield, and the grizzled old vet's concentration seemed to wane.
The man Sal was playing against didn't even seem to register the capture. His gaze was transfixed on the napkin dispenser before him for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Lightning cracked across the sky outside and reflected off the dispenser, its bright flash stabbing into his mental faculties like a piercing headache that wouldn't go away. He rubbed his temple and continued focusing on the dispenser as if it were the only thing to exist in this reality. His ears started ringing slowly at first but gradually picked up in pitch and volume.
After several moments, his glare grew more and more intense, until Sal slammed down his fist upon the booth's table.
“CAS FOR FUCKS' SAKE! STOP DOING THAT SHIT!” exclaimed Sal.
The grizzled war medic's eyes quickly darted back to the present and the chess match before him.
Right. I'm back here again...in Gawd Damn Torn. I really am never going to escape this hellhole.
Caspian cocked a sideways grin.
“This never was your game, Sal. Too many angles. Too many possibilities. Too much thinking. And never enough patience, my guyyyyy.” the slimmer man replied.
He tapped the side of his forehead to emphasize the thinking part.
Caspian Payne, despite being the same age as Sal, was in better physical shape, seemingly more carefree, and lacked a lot of the signs of wear and tear of a man in his forties. Everywhere except the eyes and hands...they looked rather haggard and worn. His dark brown hair was in an awkward stage of growing out after being buzz-cut short for a number of years and looked like a man in desperate need of a shave. He was wearing a simple green denim jacket, black shirt, blue jeans, and plain brown combat boots.
“Pawns are meant to be sacrificed. Let them fester about...let them trap you behind their machinations and lies, and you are doomed to suffer the consequences.” Caspian added with a sly grin.
He moved his outlying rook across the board into the back rank with a flash of satisfaction. Sal had trapped his own king behind a line of pawns with no way of escaping out of the situation.
“Check. Mate,” replied Caspian with a wink.
After about ten seconds, Sal knocked the chessboard down over the side of the table in frustration.
The grizzled old medic was unaffected by the outburst. It was just typical ole Sal and his short temper.
Caspian took out a joint from his jacket, lit it with his lighter, took an extremely long drag from it, and exhaled it across the table at Sal.
“You know, I'd get drug tested like 5-6 times a year. For all the usual suspects. Didn't matter if I had nuffin in my record or a history of good performance. One single pop for something as silly as pot and they'd fire my ass. Monthly paycheck, pension, benefits all down the drain, and I'd get a strike on any background check for being kicked out of the military. And it's not even as bad for you as alcohol. Innnit' crazy? Fucking hypocrites. Send you to a bloody sandbox and won't even let you smoke a plant.”
The medic took another long drag of his joint and smiled at his old childhood friend.
“How da fuck did you wind up as an owner of such a...fine establishment, my man?” Caspian flashed Sal another sly grin.
It was clearly time for shit talking.
“Muthafucka. You don't write, you don't call, fall off the face of the Earth. I got a postcard from you eight years ago in Dubai??? Whaaddaa fuck my dude? A couple of days ago, twenty years later to the day you left these streets in fact, you show up bustin' my balls about what I'm doing with a smirk on your face? Same Ole Cas! Always thinking you're smarter than everyone else. Still an asshole!!!!”
Cas could tell his old friend was taking a harmless row at him but also avoiding something.
“I heard Delphine died,” Caspian said aloud as if he were talking about the weather.
The complete lack of buildup and the sudden change in tone and posture were electrifying. It was as if all the air had been sucked out in a vacuum.
Sal seemed to shift his weight around and said nervously, “Yeah, I figured when I saw you come in a couple of days ago, it might have something to do with that. She went peacefully; it was a blessing.”
“In fact, I read she was murdered,” Cas replied coldly.
“Well, yeah, but you know, peacefully murdered.”
Caspian blinked at Sal in disbelief and said, “Tell me, Sal. How is one peacefully murdered?”
“By uhhh, not being tortured and dismembered while one is alive?” Sal added with a cough.
“Look, I know you traded one warzone for another and picked up some skills on the out and out, but this is Torn, my guy. You know how messy it gets here. You can't be running around these streets asking all kinds of questions. That will get the wrong type of people all agitated. Getting mixed up in this shit because of some chick that did you dirty when we were kids is the wrong move, my guy. You've built a life outside of here. YOU GOT OUT! Just go, brother. It's not worth it. Really, sincerely, no homo. I love ya, but get the fuck outta here.”
Caspian tilted his head sideways and said aloud, almost more to himself than Sal, “It's just so weird. So unexplainable. I recount all the places and memories from this exact place in time back then, and Del was always in the best of them. As the years rolled on, there were times when I was just done. And I do mean “done” with all of it.”
The old vet glanced at Sal solidly to emphasize the finality of “done”.
He continued, “But I'd think back to how happy we were...back then...and it'd drag me out of that pit. She did that for me, Sal. Despite how things turned out, I still had those moments. I'm breathing because of those moments...”
Sal scratched the back of his head and said, “You really shouldn't be looking into that business, just chalk it up as...”
Sal's response was interrupted as four men entered the diner at 3:12 AM on the most random of Tuesdays. All four men were dressed impeccably in custom-tailored suits as they entered the establishment. The closed sign on the front door clearly didn't apply to them.
“Long time no see, Sally. Didn't mean to break up date night with the missus, but rent's due. Bes' pay up. Ya feel me?” the seeming leader of the group said to Sal.
The cook left the booth abruptly and replied, “Ya ya ya. I got it right here. No worries, Tom.”
Sal disappeared briefly into the back office room before returning with a thick envelope, presumably filled with the “rent” and handed it to Tom near the front cash register.
Tom jiggled the envelope slightly and declared, “This doesn't even feel like half of what you owe us Sally. Boss is not gonna be happy. But I guess that's not gonna be my problem anymore. Steve is taking over for me. Say hello, Steve.”
Steve simply nodded curtly towards Sal as Tom pocketed the envelope.
“No, REALLY, say hello,” stated an unsatisfied Tom.
Steve seemed to almost sigh, as if the absolute last thing he wanted to do was dirty his suit, before lashing out like a cobra with a vicious left jab, right cross, and then a vicious left hook.
Sal didn't know what hit him before he was bleeding all over the table, with Steve holding his head sideways on the diner's main table with a gun pressed against his head.
Oh fuck. Sal...what have you gotten yourself into?
The remaining two thugs glanced down at the old vet and began to reach into their suits. Caspian, not waiting to see what they were reaching for, pulled out a tear gas grenade from inside his own jacket, popped the pin, lobbed said grenade down the aisle towards the group of suits, and beelined it towards the ladies' restroom that was ten feet away.
The sheer wave of offensive smells that hit Caspian's senses was instantly nauseating. The whole room smelled like decaying flesh, blood, fecal matter, and just an all-around unsanitary mess. It almost made him gag, and he had seen mass graves in Baghdad and Somalia.
This is the ladies' room? The tear gas might have been better. For fucks' sake.
Knowing he only had the briefest of moments, Cas removed his denim jacket and quickly tied it around his face, making sure to cover his nose.
Cas pulled a SIG P365 from his waistband, pressed against the door with his shoulder, and opened it slightly. As he saw a figure approaching his concealment, he opened the door wide and started firing.
Two shots to the chest and the approaching threat dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The old vet fixed his attention on the chaos around his friend, noticed significant coughing and disarray around the uninvited intruders, and got to work.
Two more bullets sent the second unnamed man to the ground.
This wasn't the movies; only 7 bullets remained, and Cas didn't bring a reload, so every bullet mattered.
Why didn't you bring an extra clip? Because you thought this wasn't a warzone, you fucking idiot. Torn, you never cease to amaze me.
Suddenly, severe pain and a BURNING fire were felt in his shoulder as Caspain was struck by a bullet from one of the remaining two targets. But adrenaline roared within, and pain ceased to exist in this state. You only stitch yourself up after the enemy stops moving, and they were still moving.
“Do you have any idea who the fuck you are....” barely left Steve's mouth before...
**CLICK**
Those were the last words that Steve would ever utter on this earth as a single bullet entered the front of his dome and exited the back of it.
Who talks in a gunfight? Kids these days have no professionalism.
A bloody and grimacing Sal screamed in absolute panic, “Cas, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO????” This is bad, this is soooooo bad. I'm a dead man. You're a dead man. There's no coming back from this. I HAD IT COVERED. They weren't going to kill me. Jezzus Christ. We are so fucked. Those were Monarch goons!!! Do you even know who Monarch is??? Wait, I thought there were four of em...?”
Tires screeched outside from a car hauling ass out of the parking lot. It seems Tom had made the only intelligent decision of the night and made a break for it the second gunfire ensued.
Caspian was about to chuckle at his friend, but he suddenly felt lightheaded. He looked down at his right shoulder where he was shot, and there was a lot of blood. There was, in fact, SO MUCH blood. Way more than there should have been. The world felt so very heavy all of a sudden, and he slumped down in front of the cash register.
“Cas! Don't you bitch out on me like that. You can't stir up a whole heap of trouble on me and then pass the buck like that.”
Caspian grinned up at his old friend.
Same ole Sal. Same selfish piece of shit.
“I think I might need something stronger than weed at this point, Sal...”
Caspian's focus drifted back towards the door as an unknown figure started to enter the diner, but his vision got blurrier and blurrier, and he could not make them out.
Dying was more peaceful than he realized. And colder too.
