Here is the prologue to my novel. More coming tomorrow. Or the next day. Enjoy what I have so far, which isn't much.
But I'm getting tired and whiny. Enjoy!
Slaton could smell him. The musty scent of age and decay mixed with something sweet –cloves perhaps- mingled down the hallway into his room, viciously potent and alarming.
It didn’t hit Slaton immediately. He was busy working on something important, something revolutionary. Muse blared loudly through his computer speakers; a cigarette dangled from his chapped lips, ashes falling into his lap and keyboard, stinging his hands slightly; his phone sat next to his keyboard, beeping at him like a cat desperately whining for fresh cat food. Empty Funyon bags and half-empty Mountain Dew cans sat precariously on the edge of his particle board desk, waiting for the slightest shake to spill their contents onto the messy floor. His Oregon Trail “You have died of Dysentery” t-shirt that stuck to his skinny frame was stained with ash and Mountain Dew.
He didn’t care, and in fact, hardly noticed. Time and personal hygiene had become a blur to him as he feverishly typed his letter of warning, of prophecy, and an apology, to the world.
Almost done, Slaton thought to himself as he took a brief moment to rub his green-gray eyes, and pushed his messy blonde hair back from his brow. In the background, Mathew Bellamy swooned:
Is our secret safe tonight
and are we out of sight
Or will our world come tumbling down?
Will they find our hiding place
is this our last embrace
or will the walls start caving in?
Then, at that moment, the potent smell finally broke through his impenetrable wall of motive. Slaton went pale, as pale as Casper.
He is here, Slaton panicked. What the fuck is he doing here? God Dammit, he’ll ruin everything! Slaton stood up quickly, and went to close the door to his room.
A shoe managed to jam its way between the frame and door. A classic British wingtip shoe, made with aged leather that was faded gray with age, jutted its unwanted presence into Slaton’s room.
“Amusing, you little bastard,” growled the voice behind the shoe, “but it won’t do you any good,” Slaton had always thought the voice was a mix of Morgan Freeman and Krusty the Klown from The Simpsons.
No, no no no no! Dejected, Slaton opened the door, allowing his full vision of the person behind the shoe.
A large man, around 6 ft 3 inches tall, filled out the entirety of his suit with a muscular frame. The suit was a classic woolen suit that, like the shoes, was faded gray with age. It was almost impossible to gauge how old the suit was with just one look. Slaton got the image of a tailor in England, in the late 1800’s, working on the fabric, sewing on the three buttons for the jacket with delicate skill.
An impeccable white button up shirt was match with a blood red tie. Slaton could swear that in the right light, or right environment, he could see a smiley face shimmer on the tie. A white handkerchief, folded neatly into the breast pocket, managed to show the tip of a symbol, but it was too tucked in to see it all.
The last detail on the suit were the New York Yankees cufflinks, aged like the rest of the suit, an old gold and pearl-white.
The man wore a fedora, with a red ribbon. Under the hat, long brown hair was neatly pulled back into a braid.
His eyes, those eyes, are what scared Slaton the most, black as night, as black as they get, with constantly angry, arched eyebrows that sheared away any thoughts of ever pissing off this man.
His nose was slightly forked, with nostrils that flared when he spoke, lips that always seemed to be on the edge of sneering.
And the scar! Running thinly from one small ear to the next, along his cheekbones, right under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose, it startled Slaton with its brilliant, violent red sheen. It looked like a fresh wound days ago when Slaton met him, and it looked that way still.
Today he was clean shaven, Slaton noticed, and shuddered as the man walked into his room. The man contemptuously sighed as he looked around the filthy room, and sat down on Slaton’s full size bed that had no bottom sheet on it. Slaton took a seat in his computer chair, and prepared for the worst.
