I awoke to the blaring of an alarm in a different room of the apartment. Feeling the warm blankets wrapped around my body, I shifted, burying my head underneath the pillow, shoving it against the arm of the coach. Grant, usually so punctual, let the alarm ring until the volume was on full blast. Reluctantly, I threw the pillow off my head, sitting up.

“Grant!” I called out. “Wake the fuck up!”

I heard loud shuffling, and then a bang, as if he fell out of bed. Suddenly, he was at his door, and when his eyes met mine, his jaw dropped.

“I-I-Ike!” he stammered like a madman, rushing me while wearing nothing but his boxer brief underwear. When he came close, I could smell his unwashed body; he hadn’t showered in days.

Holding my nose, I replied, “What the fuck, man. When’s the last time you showered?”

Grant’s fist balled up, and he slugged me straight in the jaw. My head cocked back from the strike, and the pain radiated through my head. Rubbing absently at my chin, I turned to stare back at him. He reared up again, and I put my arms out defensively. “Wait! Just wait.” Shifting away from him, I added, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re pissed before you hit me again? Remember, I’m an injured man.”

“Injured?” Grant replied, his fist trembling in untapped rage. “Ike, you were gone for over two weeks. Where the fuck have you been? You left your phone… all your clothes. Everything!”

My breath caught in my throat. “...Did you just say two weeks?”

Grant nodded.

“I’ve been gone for two fucking weeks?”

He nodded again.

Scratching my head, I said, “Shit… What the fuck did you put in that edible? I’ve been having a fucking trip for two whole weeks? How am I even alive?”

“What edible?”

I pointed to the kitchen. “The one in the fridge; it was the only one there.”

“Oh…” Grant replied, putting his hand to his chin. “A friend gave it to me. Said it would calm my nerves—with all the tests coming up. It didn’t have anything… well, except for some weed I assume.”

“That wasn’t fucking weed. I had the weirdest fucking dreams—like old-school fantasy shit. Werewolves…. stuff like that. Two weeks… where the fuck was I, Skid Row?”

“Not likely. That’s where I checked first. And the cops, they laughed at me when I tried to report you missing. Shits fucked man.”

“Fuck me…” I suddenly realized something and surged to my feet. “What about my job?”

Grant finally relaxed, moving to the coffee table and grabbing a simple white envelope. He handed it to me. “Final paycheck. Got sent in the mail. I tried to tell your manager, the fat one—” He snapped his fingers “—Gary. Yeah Gary, but he said it was job abandonment. Nothing he could do.”

I slouched back down to the couch, running my hand through my hair. “Fuck… I lost my damn job. Fuck Gary, he always had it out for me.”

Grant merely shrugged his shoulders. But, surprisingly, he sat down next to me. “That’s not all. I was so worried about you that I may have, also, called off a few days. Maybe a few too many. Like you, I also lost my job.”

I turned to my friend. “Oh, man… I’m sorry.”

He waved it off. “Doesn’t matter—temp job, anyway. You know me, pushing for that doctorate. Work was just getting in the way. But…”

“But…” I replied, sensing a shift in the conversation and tone.

“Well, I won’t be able to cover a portion of the rent anymore. Luckily, I still receive an allowance from my parents, but I’ll need someone else to pick up the slack. Ike, I love ya’ man, but unless you can find a new job quickly, one that pays some real money, I think I’ll need to evict ya’.”

Grant’s words struck me hard. Very hard. I hadn’t realized until then how much I replied on his friendship. Besides a place to stay, he kept me grounded to the earth. Without that, I may as well be another nameless face in the streets of L.A. Remembering my time in the dream, I was suddenly filled with renewed vigor. If I could kill a damn Werewolf… er, Wererat, then I could find a damn job.

I stood, looking back towards my friend. “I got it. Don’t worry, I’ll figure everything out. And don’t go placing the ad on craigslist yet.”

Grant smiled. “I hope you do. I got it this month, but next, I’ll need double your usual amount.” It stung, but I nodded towards him. He rose from the couch and walked towards his room, but stopped at the entrance, his hand resting on the handle. “And don’t go disappearing on me again. If you do, the couch won’t be here when you come back.”

“You got it.” Grant closed the door, and I laid back down on the coach again. I was suddenly exhausted, as if I’d run a few miles. Or fought a bloodthirsty Wererat. Two weeks… I was gone for two whole weeks.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

My arm slung off the side of the coach as I thought, and as it dangled, I felt something peculiar. I grasped the unknown item and brought it to my eyes… It was a knife. Made crudely, as if it were made hundreds of years ago—

And it was covered in blood.

***

I walked down a dark alleyway alone—not one to learn my lessons. Water dripped off slick, red-bricked walls, and it smelled of musk and piss. If I listened closely, I could still hear the sounds of devious footsteps walking behind me, fraying my nerves.

Luckily, unlike the last alley I’d been in, nothing happened to me as I reached my destination. A signless door with large metal bars greeted me. I pushed it open, and the weight of it pushed back on me. The door was heavy, and my muscles strained against the hinges, but, in the end, I managed—

A true warrior I was.

Inside, the shop was filled with an assortment of timeworn trinkets. Light filtered in through a break in the overhead rafters revealing dust floating in the air like falling leaves in winter. The place was filthy, and I wondered silently if it’d ever been cleaned before. Each step served to punctuate my thought, kicking even more dirt up into the air which drifted down to rest on some old maps. Reaching down, I wipe them off.

There was a rap on glass not too far away, and a masculine voice followed after it. “Can I help you?” I turned around a bookshelf to view an empty glass counter. Walking towards it, I saw expensive looking items inside. Jewelry, watches, and knives… anything and everything imaginable. I leaned my arms across the glass to get a better look. “Get your arms off the glass. Were you born in a barn?”

“Sorry,” I said, taking a step back.

I heard continued shuffling, and I leaned over the counter, making sure not to touch it, to see a bear of a man shifting through some old-looking stuff on the ground. He peered up at me, and I immediately retracted my previous assessment. She wore thick powdered makeup, red lipstick and black eyeliner. Standing, she towered over me, despite my own moderate height.

The woman flexed reflexively, showing deep veins in her biceps, and I knew she could crush my skull if she so inclined. It was in stark contrast to the red dress she wore. The pawn owner reminded me of Little Red Riding Hood—if Little Red Riding Hood was 6’6 with a full beard who benched three-hundred plus at least.

I coughed into my hand. “Hmph. Yes, well… I was seeing if I could pawn something here. I need the cash… ma’am?”

The pawn owner nodded in approval, her discerning eyes becoming more accepting of me. “Well, this is a pawnshop. Pawning stuff is typically what we do. Well, that and running off crackheads.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “What do you have?”

I carefully reached into my pocket, pulling out a knife which was wrapped in a plastic bag. I set it down on the counter; the glass clinked as it touched. At the glare she leveled at me, I shied away. Nimbly, her hands shot out, ripping the dagger from its plastic sheath and throwing the bag to the ground. I reached out to want her, but it was too late as her hands ran the length of the blade and through the dried blood.

Looking at her own hands, she sneered. “Did you kill someone with this?”

“What? No!” I replied, perhaps too hastily as her eyes narrowed once again. I had practiced my lie so many times before coming here. Even made a backstory about having a hunter in the family, but I could tell that she’d dealt with this type before. My type; the lying kind. In a moment of clarity, I decided to be truthful… sorta’. “It’s not human blood.”

“Hmm,” she replied, still holding the blade which she turned around in her hand. She placed it back down, avoiding the glass, and setting it on the wood partitions. “No sale, I don’t want any part of what trouble you’re bringing. Sorry, I just get feelings about people.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but that stare she gave—it was a stare that she’d likely given many a drug addict trying to pawn loose, stolen items. It spoke to her unwillingness to take any shit. I saved my breath, reaching out and grabbing the knife.

Something seemed to catch the pawn owner’s eye as she suddenly put her hand down on mine, holding me still. “Wait,” she said, moving my hand and picking the knife back up. “How old did you say this was again?”

“Ancient,” I replied. “I don’t know exactly how old. But old.”

Again, she turned the knife around in her hand. “And how much do you want for it?”

“Three-hundred.”

She bellowed out a laugh. “Not a chance. Fifty bucks.”

I knew the three-hundred was a longshot, but, sadly; I was hoping to get more. “One-hundred,” I countered. “And it comes with the promise that if I can get more old stuff like this, I’ll send it your way.”

The pawnshop owner looked me up and down. “And do I need to worry about how you obtained said items?”

“No,” I replied simply.

Taking my answer at face value, she reached out a hand. “Deal.” I shook, but she pulled me close, and as I tried to resist, she let me know how much stronger she was than I. “If you’re lying, you better hope the cops deal with you first. It would be better than me.” She let go, and I reflexively pulled back. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” I replied, rubbing my sore hand. It was a stupid retort, but it was all I could manage at the time.

“Ruby.”

“Of course it is.”

She put her hands on her hips. “And what’s that mean?”

I took a step back. “Nothing… nothing. It’s your pretty red dress. My name is Isaac, but my friends call me Ike.”

“Alright, Isaac,” she replied with a coy smile. “Sign here.” Placing a paper down in front of me, she handed me a pen.

I signed the dotted lines, writing my initials where asked, and she placed an ink pad on the counter, adding, “Thumbs.”

Sighing, I placed my thumbs into the ink and pressed them to the paper. “There.” Ruby lifted the paper to her lips and blew, setting it back down on the counter. She opened her till, pulling out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill which she pulled between her two hands. She set it to the counter, and I hurriedly pocketed it.

Smiling, she said, “Good doing business. Hope to see you again soon.”

I turned and left as quickly as possible, closing the door gently as I did. Walking away, I couldn’t help but wear a smile on my face.

My stupid, gullible face.

Then, I heard a sound echo in the alley. A familiar one who said, “Empty your wallet.”

“Aww shit, it’s you again?” another voice added to the first. Then, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw my two ‘friends’—the very same who’d mugged me before—emerge from the dark.

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