In an alley, off Sansome Street, Philadelphia, PA
The sound of crunching, like a mouth full of potato chips, all bitten down on at the same time, followed closely be the sound made by tearing apart a pair of denim jeans, followed by a disconcerting shuddering throughout his body confused Emmett.
Like ripping’ out the seat of your best pants…He thought to himself.
That was the best way he could have described what he was hearing, if anyone would have been there in that dark Philadelphia alley to listen to him. And with each ripping sound, Emmett had to admit, just like when he had ripped out the back seam of his jeans, these ripping noises were each accompanied by a minor feeling of…release. A lessening of internal tensions. Like stresses he had no idea he had been carrying, being lifted away. Like one butt cheek suddenly popping out from the burst seam of a too tight pair of pants.
Only ten days left in the night class in which Emmett had enrolled, and he now was coming to the dim realization he might never see his final exam. Another more slowly moving part of his mind, a rustier part of his mind, cried out that he would never see his mother, father or brother again; but that small, insignificant part of Emmett's cognitive ability was currently being ignored. Emmett had never been known as The Thinker in the family; that role was reserved for his older brother. Now he was slowly, small cognitive stone by small, cracked pebble of thought, beginning to put together the evidence around him. The shattered memories of the last ten minutes.
Only ten minutes...? Maybe five... almost feels like i been drowsing for an hour.
And seeing what it might mean, when taken all together, well, it puzzled him. It made no sense to Emmett, this was like absolutely nothing he had ever experienced before. And would never again.
There was another tremor that wracked his body. It meant... something.
While he could admit to just not ever being a strong thinker, or at all academically inclined; he was handsome, that was usually his role in his social circles. He was handsome, he would say he was also manly, and, had anyone asked him, Emmett was a talented artist. When he tried. When he thought he really needed to put effort into it, and sometimes he even tried
hard enough that others could see his talents. But if he was honest with himself, his talents had gone to shit a long time ago. He had skated breezily through school, and then spent a few years wasting his parents' retirement savings to go to college. His grades were never good enough to have his tuition picked up by the state, because... breezing through. Emmett dropped eventually from lack of interest. Dropped out to out to take a job.
Another set of shuddering jerks, this time his shoulder made a popping noise, and then there was another tearing sound.
Not a "career," but a job. And a few years of hopping job to job had made him realize he wanted a career, and not a string of jobs. So, it was back to school he went. Hoping to get a degree in illustration, maybe find work he would love to do in the publishing field.
His older brother, John, had the talent and the brains; that’s why, even now, John even did well as a fashion designer. Everyone said so, even John himself, his older brother. In fact, especially John.
His older, more loved, more talented, successful artist of a brother. Quiet. Studious. Arrogant asshole of a brother.
Years ago someone, he couldn’t remember who, had told him he was a “very pale imitation” of his older brother, and that he should just stop trying to compete with him at the art school they had both attended. People like that guy just didn't get it. They just didn’t get it.
I wasn’t competing with John; I wanted to be John…
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a harsh jerking of his form from side to side. The figure crouched near him in the shadows stood up from whatever it was he had been doing.
Why was he taking so long to just take my wallet? That thought exploded with harsh clarity into Emmet's thoughts. It was confusing, this was ALL confusing to Emmett.
Wet warm drops of... something... struck the side of Emmett’s head as the man he thought of as “The Mugger” towered in the shadow of the alley above him.
The alley was filled with the wet slurping sound his dogs used to make at their bowls in the morning when Emmett would feed them the canned food. These were punctuated by crunches, slurping sounds, and ripping noises. The puddle below him was icy cold, but the stuff dripping onto his neck and face felt warm, blessedly warm. More of that odd potato-chips-being-
crunched followed by more ripping-denim sound bounced about the alley, and lanced through him.
He could feel his body getting colder, and wondered when the asshole would just take his wallet and go, so he might get up and get some help. He didn’t feel so great.
Aside from the creeping cold, and the wetness soaking through his clothing that added to the cold, he was also getting nauseous and light headed.
His face, neck and right side of his jaw were completely sore from being hit so hard, and cold from lying in the puddle when
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his assailant had rolled him over to get at his back pockets. He must have had a hard time getting the wallet out; he shook me around a lot when he rolled me on my stomach. His right hip had started hurt, and was now cold, too. His left arm throbbed in the way a sore tooth throbbed. Meanwhile, that small, rusty, seldom used bit of his mind started to cry. There was something Emmett had been missing, but was becoming more and more relevant to him.
He didn’t get it; even his mother had said he wasn’t a strong thinker.
… that hurts, why Moms be that way?
The sudden ringing sound came unexpectedly from above Emmett in the portion of darkness that was “The Mugger.” It was a popular tune, he almost recognized it. Something on the charts, but it was way foreign, too.
Like that Brazilian chic who belly danced through her videos...or is she German…no, she’s German, she just acts like a Chica to get attention…got mine…
His thoughts wandered fuzzily from one image to the next of the woman whose name he could not, for the life of him, remember. It might have been "Gizela."
But Emmett had never been that strong a thinker.
“I am so sorry, my friend,” came the voice from above him, gravelly, but a lot like that old Latino
dude, the one from …from
…oh man, what was it?...from that Kim…something… show, yah, that might have been it! Me and John used to watch it... it was funny to watch really old cartoons... Or Probably, some shit like that, anyway…real old show from like a hundred years ago my mom likes…
The voice drifted down to Emmett as he turned away, pulling out a gaudy golden wrist tablet. It was a rich voice, resonant, cultured, and it rolled across him like breakfast syrup; it reminded him of the old Latino villain from a cartoon.
“This is Tzal! How may I help you?” he said cheerily, followed by a short pause. “No, think nothing of it, I was merely at dinner with a fine young man, my dear. But, please, I love the sound of your voice. Continue, if you would be so kind, and I will listen to
every word you say to my poor old, tattered ears.”
A pause came, while Emmett tried thinking. He has good manners, for a mugger…but man! Is he slow, I would’a had my
wallet off me, an’ been gone by now…
And failed as the pause on this end of the cell conversation continued; and that surprised Emmett as well. The old man was using what looked like an actual cell phone. What he took at first for a small wrist tablet was... an ancient cell phone. He knew
what they were, but even the oldest grannies he had seen now used at LEAST datpads, if they couldn't afford a tablet.
And once the datpads became wrist implants, anyone who wanted to be seen in public making a call had one.
Shit…even my parents had wristers before I was born…
Emmett’s own wrist, where he thought his wrister implant was, even now calling the police, was pulsing in abject agony.
“Yes! I would love to look into this matter for Him, how could I not? But, please, speak more to me. I am at your service…Miss…? Ah, Constance, what a lovely name! I am at your service, Constance!”
He’s smooth, I wish I could be that smooth…
Emmett's own opening line of "You know you wanna gimme your number!” was wearing thin lately…My chicks would love to hear me be as smooth as this guy is…Why am I getting’ so cold?
Another pause, during which Emmett felt himself getting more sick, his stomach roiling in sudden bloating, twisting diss-ease. The earlier nausea bubbling up in an unexpected geyser of grays, browns, and reds that ejected from him in a hot stream almost reaching the nearest dumpster. The resulting combination of pain and relief forced a shivering moan from his lips, now going pale from blood loss.
He knew he should be worried, but he just couldn’t be bothered anymore. And the sounds around him seemed more and more to be coming through a bad Fi-stream to get at his ears. Distant. Muted. The sharper notes now round edged and rolling senselessly about Emmett's head.
Why am I coughing, feels like I’m trying to breathe through soup…Do I have a cold? I feel cold…but some parts of me is hot…
“Scotland?" The rich, mellifluous voice sounded shocked. "Yes, yes. Tell Him I will be there by tomorrow to oversee…Oh, but I have just recalled. Forgive me, sweet Constance! I will be in Canada working for the venerable Mister Wood for the foreseeable future. I am so sorry. Oh, no Miss Constance, no amount of money would change my mind at this time. I gave my word, and what am I now, but a man of my word?” Another pause. “Well thank you for understanding my predicament, Miss Constance. Yes, I am always a professional, and the next time your employer has need of me, please call; I love the sound of your voice. It is such a pleasure to hear your dulcet tones; they make my evening just a little bit better. Ah, thank you, and good day.”
As the old Latino sounding dude turned from him to walk away, he dropped something down onto Emmett’s face. His last earthly thought was; that looks like my jacket sleeve…but it’s all stuffed with sausage ‘n shit…
“My young friend, you have grown cold, and have lost, as they used to say, 'that loving feeling,' as they say. Good day and thank you for the dinner. And the entertainment. I wish you well in whereever you may next find yourself…”
The sleeve of his jacket rolled off Emmett's face with a dull meaty sound and the little finger of his left hand, the only one remaining, bounced and waved crazily as he tried to focus his eyes on the gory mess. His right eye no longer obeyed, half submerged in the muddy, gritty puddle as it was, and his left was growing dim as a vise of pain continued to constrict about Emmett’s throat and jaw where he had been struck.
The clicking of his assailant’s heals in the alley and a sharp cold shudder marked the passing of Emmett from all further pain. It was for two more days that his torn asunder, and mutilated body lay unfound near that third dumpster in the rear of that small alley off Sansome Street. He didn’t care by that point; Emmett had never been a strong thinker.
Even his Mom, and Dad had said so.