Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
I was built in 1908 by a meat packing company. My predecessor, a brothel, had been destroyed by the terrible earthquake of 1906.
As a building, many abominable things can happen to you: Fires, floods, storms, mold, rats, cockroaches… the list is rather long and earthquakes are surely on top of most houses' lists of horrors.
The number one on my list is abandonment. I fear nothing more than being left alone for good. I've seen this happen to friends of mine: Sometimes suddenly, sometimes slowly, the inhabitants move out, the stream of visitors breaks off and then no one stops by for days, weeks, months, years – except for the rats and cockroaches. No one cares anymore about the leaks in the roof, the cracks in the walls, the broken windows…
Some buildings enjoy the peace and quiet that comes with abandonment, but I'm surely not one of them. I know that one day, without warning, someone in an expensive suit will appear, walk around with a sneering look on his face, wave his arms like the world belongs to him and throw around words like "great improvement", "modern face of the city" or "giant leap forwards". Then he'll show his entourage a ground plan and they'll all applaud.
A couple of days later men will appear, drill holes into the cracked walls and fill them with something called TNT. Don't make me spill out what TNT does. It's too horrific.
As I said, I've seen it happen to friends of mine.
In the early 1920's, a speakeasy was established on my first floor that was later turned into a strip club. Oh boy, what times they were! You wouldn't believe the things I've seen and heard. G.B., the so-called "Al Capone of the West", was found dead in one of my backrooms in 1932. I don't only know who killed him, I also know who ordered the hit! The club was closed in 1954 after an unusually thorough police raid.
Apparently someone hadn't delivered the bribe money in time…
The meat packing company reclaimed the first floor and for a couple of years my life became very solid, following the rhythm of dayshifts, nightshifts, time stamp clocks. All around me, however, the world changed: I don't know why, but people seemed to be leaving the city and by the mid-70s many, many of my friends stood empty. Roughly around the same time I kept hearing rumors about the company closing down. First it was only a whisper in the grapevine, but it grew louder and louder till one day the boss made an official loudspeaker announcement.
It was horrible.
Step by step, in the course of six months, all the workers went away, some crying, some angry, some protesting loudly, but in the end they all went. A little later they removed the machines. It felt as if someone was pulling out my intestines.
For several years I was left to my own devices. Not a day went by I didn't fear the arrival of someone in an expensive suit. In the nights dreams of horrible explosions and dying friends haunted me.
Then, one day in the spring of 1980, someone indeed walked in. But he wasn't wearing an expensive suit. In fact he looked kind of scruffy. There was blood on his shirt and he was armed. Nevertheless I welcomed him, as well as I could – kept my windows closed tight so that he wouldn't catch a cold from any drafts, tried not to creak with my doors… He didn't look like someone who used TNT.
Well, I was wrong on that point, but at least he never used it against me.
With him living in me, it was almost as if the speakeasy days were back again. People called "clients" came to see him and he told them his name was Christopher Chance – the guy you go to when no one else can help.
He often worried me, this Christopher Chance… More than once my doors were kicked in or, even worse, blown open with that damn TNT. I witnessed shootouts, torture, emergency surgeries on the kitchen table.
Over the years, however, things slowed down a little. His beard grew grayer, his movements became slower… he grew old.
One day a young man and a woman came to see him. With a puppy! I love dogs, but in a meat packing company they're not allowed on the premises, so after the strip club closed I hardly ever got to see one, only occasionally on the streets around me.
Chance welcomed the man with his gun at the ready and told the woman her escort was an assassin. To my great surprise the woman said she already knew that. I watched the two men closely that night. They talked a lot and for whatever reason Chance seemed to trust the ex-assassin. In the morning he and the woman went away, leaving the puppy behind. Shortly after, Chance left, too.
Before he stepped outside, he stopped for a moment, turned around and looked at my insides again. I recognized the look on his face; I had seen it before, on the workers' faces, before they left for good.
He was saying good-bye.
I never saw him again, nor the woman. The young man came back, though. He looked completely heart-broken and I really wish I could have done more for him than prevent the doors from creaking. For a while I thought he would drink himself to death. But then a huge man appeared out of nowhere. Winston was his name, as I later found out. He talked to him and somehow he set his head straight.
With these two, the clients came back again. The young man even called himself Christopher Chance! Okay, I could have done without the bullet holes in my walls, the smashed windows, the picked locks, but on the other hand I heard so many stories, saw so many things…
And I was never alone.
Until six months ago. A whole group of thugs invaded me. They took Winston away. He came back a short time later, arm in a sling, sad and hurt. But no sign of Chance.
For six months, not a word from him. Winston turned down clients, telling them Christopher Chance wasn't residing here anymore. Hearing this, I almost longed for an earthquake or some TNT.
When the woman appeared, I initially thought my nightmares had come true at last. With her high heels, business clothes and strict hairdo she was the female version of a man in an expensive suit.
Thank God it turned out she was a client. And bless her heart, she brought my Chance back.
Right now, she's walking around inside me with an odd-looking man who calls himself an "interior designer", whatever that is. She's talking about putting in glass walls, a showering facility and extra windows.
I'm not sure what Chance is going to say when he sees this, but I love it. She's remodeling me to meet Chance's clients' needs better. In other words, Chance and Winston are going to continue helping people.
That means, I'm not going to be alone anymore.
Thank you, Mrs. Pucci. I hope you stick around for a while.