"... The coldest it has ever been in a hundred years." The man on the old television set wore a large coat and a fluffy hat. He delivered his report from outside, the falling snow spattering him with white. "... We are so, so grateful for Dr. Bolsarov's warm heart in these troubling times."
The praise of such a vile man forced Ashley to look up from his whiskey. The reporter continued with his blathering.
The reporter—his name Mack Karason, according to the lurid banner below him—pointed to the big gray building behind him. "This used to be a hiding place for northerners, can you believe that?"
I can believe that, Ashley answered the reporter quietly in his own thoughts. He frowned and looked into his glass.
"Law enforcement says that many of those refugees carried copies of The Redivivus with them," remarked the reporter with a hint of snobbery.
So what? Ashley sighed heavily. Those who own you have already burned a thousand copies, imprisoned every powerful supporter, and executed the author public after he was framed for murder. Now, you're threatened by the elderly and broken who dare to have hope?
"Now, look at this: It's a school for smart young men and women who will one day direct our great nation to victory against the Verdians of the north."
Ashley scanned the expected future potentates, though it was difficult with the screen being cracked. Their eyes stared blankly ahead, into the maw of their manufacturer. No smiles, no giggling. They did not even have a hint of nervousness, the type Ashley remembered having when it was his time to go to school, so young and little. But they're not as perfect—if, indeed, this is what perfection was—as their masters thought; If either one of them failed, either through poor intellect or rebelliousness, they would be taken off such a glorious path to power. For the former, if their parents had the funds—which they often did—and were willing, the doctors could perform an alignment. The latter, however, was dealt with more seriously by the state.
Even to this day, Ashley himself didn't know which of the two disappointing parties he belonged to more. Perhaps both; he knew what was coming and ran away from home before the instructors could explain his problem to his parents.
Ashley waved at the barman and said: "I'll have another, Larson. Keep the bottle here, will you?" The barman obliged.
"If that filth is pissing you off," said Larson, smiling, "I can change it."
"No, that's fine," assured Ashley as he filled his glass, "I want to hear more of this." He slapped his satchel: inside was his camera. Tucked in with it was all the dirt needed to take down Dr. Maximore Bolsarov: photographs depicting the oh-so-benevolent doctor in places where he shouldn't be. "Maybe this reporter has the power to change my mind after seeing what I've seen," Ashley said drily.
Behind him, he heard the door open; its little brass bell chimed, and the chilling, howling wind blew through until the door was shut.
"I tell you," the reporter began, struck by a sudden pang of solemness, "he has to be one of the greatest heroes of our time."
There were many asininities Ashley was prepared to take when watching the news. This was not one of them: something about himself roped in with the word our brought his blood to a boil. That, and the real heroes of their time who were either slandered then forgotten. The real heroes that took him in: The Redivivus-believing old couple who—with the help of their congregation—turned an abandoned supermarket into a makeshift orphanage. Even though Ashley himself wasn't a believer, they still treated him equally with his worshipping brothers and sisters.
If not for his liking of Larson, he would of let his anger toss the glass at the screen and knock it off its rusty mounts.
Instead, he said: "I'm not as tough as I thought I was. Could you change it to sports or something?"
The barman loosed a hearty laugh, his hairy chins jiggling. "What? Sports are less scandalous to you?" He pointed at the screen. "But look, Ash, the damn doctor's talking to him!"
"Oh," uttered Ashley, disgust heavy in his tones, "I've seen enough of him." At least he's wearing clothes this time.
Someone sat next to him, presumably the one who just entered. It was a young lady around his age: about in the middle of her twenties. Her clothes were warm and thick, their color a dark brown. There was something military-like about her clothes and the way she talked.
"Keep it on," she said curtly. Remembering her manners, she cleared her voice and said: "Please, keep it on. Only for a few minutes."
Larson glanced at Ashley as if he had any ownership in the bar and wrote its rules. He shrugged and let the lady watch. Though what Dr. Bolsarov was saying was clearly cant and uninformative, the lady silently watched him speak. It was more of an observation, like how a scientist studies their samples.
When the Bolsarov's vapid interview, the lady said: "Thanks." She asked for whiskey. When Larson told her the last bottle was with Ashley, he shared it with her.
"Crazy world, right?" Ashley started with his fellow drinker.
"When hasn't it been?" The lady countered not unkindly.
There was a pause between them.
"That Bolsarov," Ashley said with gentler tones, "are you a fan of his?"
"No, not at all," said the lady.
"Me neither," said Ashley, hoping they could find some common ground. She was a pretty one, but he was never one to be intimidated by looks. "Regular folks like us … why would we be?" Ashley downed his glass. The lady slid the bottle to him when he eyed it. "But I think his time will come quite soon."
The lady looked perturbed by this and asked: "You think so?"
Whether it was his drunken state or just the foolishness that kept him from being a dictator manifesting itself, Ashley mistook her expression for that of interest.
"No," he declared with a slight slur, "I know so." He giggled to himself as he refilled his glass. "I know I got the perfect shot." He rubbed his camera's satchel. When the lady didn't adore him for making such a bold but vague statement, he looked back at her with a stupid smile on his face.
At that moment, Larson went to the back to use the bathroom, oblivious to the conversation. There were only two of them at the bar; the place was usually empty this late on a Tuesday. Garry was the only other patron. Lost his house five years ago, Garry did. Larson, being a good brother, let him sleep here. He snored softly as the lady scanned the room to make sure there was no one else.
Then she turned to Ashley, a sharpness in her eyes.
"The perfect shot?" she asked, "I'm assuming mine is crooked?"
Ashley looked at her with surprise. She didn't strike me as a photographer, he thought. It's not every day he runs into another photographer or rather one he'd expect to tell him they were.
"Ah," he exclaimed with excitement, "you too, huh?"
Usually, photographers these days kept to the shadows. Perhaps he shouldn't have blurted out about the perfect shot, but what was done was done. Besides, this cute novice may want to ask him for some tips.
"The Black Oculum hired you to replace me?" the lady asked, "take my contract?"
The Black Oculum, Ashley silently mused, are those the flier people? Or was that the Bleak Oculum? Ashley tried to hide the pity from his features. Their pays terrible, and their targets are always washed-up celebrities. After I destroy Bolsarov's life, I'll send some help her way.
"No way," Ashley answered, regardless of what organization she meant, "but hey, you sound like you could use some pointers."
The lady, at first disheartened, then confused, was now nonplussed.
"Sure," she said, looking uncertain.
"Personally," Ashley began, "If I can't get a clear shot in the daylight, I wait for them to walk under a street lamp or something. Their face is really important to shoot. Otherwise, it could be anybody, am I right?"
"Picking off the correct target is … important." The lady said this drily.
Ashley threw up his hands in surrender, realizing the condescension he may have expressed. "Sorry, sorry," he apologized, "of course, you know that." He gave a nervous laugh and went on.
"It's all right," the lady said, "but I do have to ask you something."
Ashley's eyes lit up at this. "Oh, yeah? What do you want to know?"
"How do you live with it?"
"Live with what?"
"The dead."
Oh shit, thought Ashley, that beloved actor, Isaac Coy … was she the one that did him in? The actor had taken his own life when the photos of his adultery lined every magazine for months. No doubt the photographer made a living. Though if this was indeed her who took those photos, thought Ashley, why is she wasting her time in this rickety old bar?
Ashley sighed. "Look," Ashley started, running his fingers through his dark-brown hair, "when it leads to them doing stuff like that. Dying and all, just, you know … look it's not like you pulled the trigger yourself, right? I know that's fucked up to say but …"
The lady was astounded by this. "What are you getting at? Of course, I did. We always will. That's who we are."
"Think about it this way," said Ashley, trying to look for a different angle, "well, first off, can you choose your targets?"
"Yes."
"So just pick the troublemakers. Take Bolsarov for example. When I take him out, the world will be a better place."
"I can't believe wasn't told of this." The lady rubbed her temples. "I needed the money."
I can share some photos, thought Ashley, why not? When he reached into his satchel, the lady quickly slid her hand into her coat, a fierceness in her eyes. What's her problem?
"Relax," he assured, "I'll pay for the drink, but first … "
He placed the photos on the bar, showing Bolsarov in an odd, yet pleasurable, situation.
"Go on," he encouraged his drinking partner, "take your pick." He slid three fingers on three particular photos and drew them towards himself. "Well," he said, chuckling, "those are mine. I'm looking to buy a house with the pay I'll get from those."
The lady blushed at the three he chose. She looked up at him suddenly, taking her hand out of her coat.
"You … you're a …" She couldn't find the words after that. She smiled prettily then started to laugh.
Ashley joined her, though not sure what she was so happy about.
Larson came around from the backroom. "What's so funny? Ash, are you—" he saw the photos "—Oh, why the hell you bring those out for?" The barman pointed at one and said: "What's that thing they are putting on him? Actually, don't answer that."
"I better get going," said the lady as she stood up, "keep those. I don't need them."
"You sure?" Ashley asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. It turns out we have different careers."
Larson told them the drinks were on the house. Before the lady could leave, Ashley asked her something.
"I don't even know your name," he told her, "my name's Ashley."
She took his outstretched hand and shook it. "My name's Ashley, too."
"Are you new to town? I can show you around tomorrow."
"I won't be here."
There was another pause between them.
"Maybe we'll see each other again," said Ashley.
"Maybe," said lady Ashley, "but I doubt it."
There was nothing more to say between them. The lady bristled as she checked her watch.
"Nice meeting you," she said gently, allowing a wry smile to form on her lips, "Ashley."
And like that, she was off: out the door with the cold winds greeting her.
"What's the rush?" Ashley said glumly to himself.
"Beats me," said Larson, shrugging, "though there was something about her. Something unsettling."
Ashely smirked. "I feel pretty settled., aside from the fact she just left like that."
Larson grunted at this. "Different careers," Larson mused, "so she's not one of you public humiliators?"
"Those who pay us are the humiliators," Ashley retorted, "I just give them the stuff." He examined the bottle: only a few drops wet the inside of it. "Whatever, or whoever, this Bleak Octarine was, they've got some strange hirelings." It was Black-something, wasn't it? Whatever …
Larson dropped the glass he was cleaning, its shattering waking Garry.
"Please," Larson said, his eyes wide with fright, "Please tell me you don't mean the Black Oculum."
Ashley was taken aback. "Actually, now that you say it, I think it definitely was. Why?" When he said this, Larson swore out loud; he swept the broken glass under the bar with his boot. "What's up? What's wrong, Larson?"
Larson did not answer him: he quickly got out from behind the bar and shook his brother to awaken faster. He whispered something to him. Upon hearing, he sobered up immediately and ran upstairs.
"Larson?" asked Ashley, he too growing worried.
"That woman told you she was with the Black Oculum," he explained.
"Is that bad?"
"Damn, Ash … You've never heard of them?" Larson was going through every drawer, picking out money, jewelry, and some small pieces of paper.
"No."
"Their killers for hire." Upstairs, Ashley could hear Garry fumbling about, probably doing the same up there as his brother was down here. "No one. No one, gets told their talking to a member of the Black Oculum and lives. Secrecy and stuff like that." Larson suddenly bellowed to Garry above, startling Ashley. "GARRY, HURRY THE HELL UP. WE'RE GETTING OUT OF HERE NOW!" He turned to Ashley, "You can come with me, Ash, but I can't guarantee your safety."
"I was planning to sleep at here just for tonight," said Ash.
"She'll come back, you little fool."
"Maybe."
Larson was amazed at Ashley's stupidity, "You've only just met her. My God, how can you be so—" Garry reached the bottom of the steps, rotting, close-to-bursting backpack strapped to his shoulders. Ashley only smiled at the barman. Larson shook his head but then raised his hands in surrender. "All right, all right." He took the keys of the bar out of a pocket and tossed them to Ashley. "The place is yours for … hell, until I feel safe coming back. Which could be a long time, my friend." They shook hands. As soon as they broke, Larson stuck his hands in his pocket and pulled out his truck keys. "I'll leave some money for a motel for when you come to your senses. Good luck, Ash."
Just like lady Ash, they were gone.
But Ashley stayed. He would wait until morning, and then he would drive to Branigan's to deliver the dirty photos. After that, he would return here. He would keep coming back here until the lady returned.
The Black Oculum hired you to replace me? Take my contract?
Lady Ash's words rang in his head as he pulled out the filthiest of the photos from his bag.
"Dr. Maximore Bolsarov," he said to the photo with some pity in his voice, "you're one unlucky son of a bitch."407Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡatUL9mB8O1
