The Great Nation.
Alfred sighed, pushing his hat a little farther back on his head so as to get a better view of the papes a sweaty little kid was carrying. Oh. Well wasn't that just encouraging. Fourteen dead in this shooting? Jesus-fucking-Christ.
Johnny-whatsisname in the corner was wiping a glass; pitiful excuse for a pub didn't have much business until later in the day, when the club below opened for business and flooded with patrons. This left the doors open into a still bar- one that only sold water, juice, and Bevo. Not exactly what the doctor prescribed, but it did go well with greasy fried eggs, and sausage- was it sausage? God, Alfred hoped so- on Sunday morning.
Sunday in Chicago to be precise. Maybe his breakfast was one fit for kings then? People out on the street, scavenging for garbage- fuck, even nasty sausages were better than licking the lids of random containers.
Fuck.
And it was impossible to ignore Arthur's voice in his head, nagging him incessantly. Why the fuck was Arthur in there in the first place? Alfred snarled and ran a hand heavily down the front of his face, ignoring the looks from passerby as he tugged on his eyelids.
Arthur was a jackass. A stupid fucking jackass. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Not only did the man smell obnoxiously like flowers all of the time; at every summit meeting Alfred had to contend with staring at the monstrosities the Arthur called eyebrows growing infinitesimally larger every damn second.
Fuck!
Ah. So that was the purpose of the sausage this morning. Blinking almost owlishly at the link he had just brutally murdered with his fork, Alfred lifted up a piece to stare at. And, Christ, sausage wasn't supposed to wiggle like that, was it?
Sighing softly, he took a bite, rolling his eyes at the woman in the corner who started to gag as she tried to stomach the slimy creature upon her plate. Now that Alfred was actually paying attention, it was a wonder that he hadn't noticed the small black particles of something floating about his eggs. Food had never once tried to hurt him, but maybe this case was a good time to err on the side of caution.
It was probably just luck that he noticed the black cruiser sliding around the corner. It must have been instinct that caused the waitress to trip behind him, yanking his chair over with her. It must have been important- useful to him- hell a lesson for the future to see that kid get mowed down, not by the bullets spraying like rain from the gangster's gun- but from the rain of glass that accompanied the screams and panic.
Kid's mother was down to, blood so red that it looked like paint seeping out the front of her dress.
Alfred couldn't see any other option than to throw himself over the waitress, and hope to god that the bar man was still behind the stand. A squeal similar to that of a frightened animal shot out through the shop, punctuating the sound of glass breaking and gun fire.
Alfred really didn't want to look up and see which of the cooks had been shot.
Notes:
-Bevo is a non-alcoholic drink served during prohibition that was supposed to be a substitute for alcohol.