Prompt 1 - An expression of love/interest (romantic, platonic, familial - you choose) - Graveyard Shift
Somewhere in Nevada...
Oh he was so fired if he had lost the manifest again. His supervisor had made it exceedingly clear, in such exquisite detail that a nun would faint, how fucked he would be if he held up the distribution one more time. They went through so many weapons, let alone so many bodies, in a day that keeping the armory stocked became a necessity for things to function as intended. If their intended function was to throw people into the blender that seemed to be this new guy Hank, then more power to them. Mellow just needed to make sure he could get paid at the end of the week. He was a check away from eviction every month and it did wonders at putting him on edge. So there he was, swearing under his breath, fumbling about in a dark munitions warehouse just outside of the quartermaster's office aka his home for the foreseeable future.
He knew he had left it pinned to the crate next to the pistol cartridges an hour ago. Hell he damn near sunk the knife down to the hilt in the wood to keep it from wandering away. Yet once again it vanished and once again he was in hot water. The beam of his flashlight briefly grazed the surface of the crate he'd been looking at when a particular blemish caught his eye. He trailed a finger down the wooden paneling; the hole from the blade was still there, but both his combat knife and manifest were gone. He hadn't gone crazy. Someone had taken it. If that recruit Jackie had gone and stolen it while he was out of the building, the little shit, Mellow would have to go medieval on their ass. He knew where the axes were kept too. But before he could even contemplate hiding a body, the chilling sound of laughter echoed down his direction seemingly from the other end of the warehouse. All his gusto faded away as he clutched his shoulder holster with impressively sloppy speed.
Must have been another hobo who had wandered in to seek shelter. Nevada had some gnarly weather on occasion. But rules were rules, Mellow reminded himself, so with a less practiced than preferred flick of his wrist he unlatched the hand strap and drew his pistol from underneath his arm. There were far too many places to hide in here and even if it was just a hobo, he wasn't quite keen on getting tetanus from a drunkard's broken bottle. He'd kill the hobo, bring the body to his supervisor, and blame the guy for the missing manifest. It was that or spend the rest of his night on unpaid overtime looking for it. Certainly wasn't looking good either way. He shined his flashlight down the closest pathway to illuminate his surroundings and more importantly the nearest corner where someone could be lurking, only to find something dour. Oh there was someone lurking around here all right. He flicked off the safety.
Upon closer inspection, Mellow pieced together who the form belonged to. Half slumped over against a wall of boxes sat the rigid body of his foreman. Two empty handgun casings rested idly by his feet with the gun interweaved with his absolutely mangled right hand. Must have popped some shots off when Mellow had been out. His grey shirt was in tatters, having seemingly been slashed to death, as the wood behind him was permanently painted a deep shade of crimson. Mellow hadn't even noticed the sound his boots were making in the blood that had pooled outwards, he had been too distracted by the laughter. Or perhaps it was that there embedded in the center of his supervisor's head, practically nailed to the crate, was the same combat knife he had used for the manifest less than an hour ago. No paperwork to be found though. It was a shame, seems that a hobo really did get to it first. At least he wouldn't get in trouble for losing the manifest now.
The guy was a complete ass anyway. So with a shrug Mellow tried his best to step around the blood (he wasn't happy about having to mop it afterwards) and moved further down the corridor of packages and deliveries. Countless blades, bats, rifles, handguns, even explosives were starting to be brought to the facility. Seemed that the Sheriff was taking this Hank guy seriously. If the stories were anything to go off of, the murderer in the warehouse responsible for gutting his supervisor was certainly not Hank. Mellow would be dead; probably killed by his own weapon and thrown through a wall. It was a weird fact to take comfort in. Shining his light down each pathway, at each intersection, all it turned up with was nothing. Just a dozen minutes wasted blindly wandering about the warehouse. Unless the man was nesting in some cargo somewhere, they had probably left the building. So with a shrug, he turned around and began to holster his pistol.
He had a single moment to react, to pop a shot off into the void around him. It missed. He had been tackled and slammed into the nearest crate by a grey and orange blur. His gun was launched from his hand with a clatter as his head collided with the solid boarding. His already darkened vision blacked out for a second and he went limp...only to find himself being held up by the aggressor. He could barely decipher a quiet "sorry" as his shoulders were gently pushed into an upright position. A blink or two later, he could vaguely see his attacker. Amid the darkness surrounding them was the sharp contrast of blaringly white makeup. Neon blue lips, all Mellow could find himself staring at, grinned devilishly back at him. Of course it was the clown, that damn clown. It was no secret they had been exchanging charged glances here and there whenever they passed each other by, but he didn't expect the goofy bastard to be this forward.
After seeing that Mellow had regained his footing, the clown's grin grew into a fullblown smile blinding the already stunned man with a set of even more pristine pearly whites. There was no malice here. Mellow felt himself be dusted off before being pulled closer in for a soft kiss on the cheek, lasting for all of a second.
"*muah*, Hehehe~"
And with that, he was shoved into the boxes leaving them, along with himself, toppling backwards. The florescent clown had run off into the darkness, giggling to himself. The lights to the warehouse turned on a few moments later. It was a good thing that Mellow's eyes were still closed from the impact but man, was that still bright. But, despite the brashness of the entire situation, and the inevitable headache that was awaiting him probably moments away, he found it cute. Just a smidge endearing~ Maybe the murder was a bit much but that was nothing new in Nevada. His attempts to sit up and pull himself out of the mess he was buried in were met with failure. It did bring to his attention however the new piece of paper stuck to his chest. Damp with just a touch of blood certainly not belonging to him, it had to be peeled off his now ruined grey v-neck.
It was the manifest, or at least part of it. Only one of the many unremarkable pages. But no, it wasn't the front that peaked his interest. A quick flip to the back revealed the paper's true intention. Scribbled rather shoddily onto the blank surface was a doodle of a winking clown, in a suggestive state of undress, chowing down at a hotdog stand. Mellow actually knew the stand to be the one just outside the office. Neat. Below the illustration, next to a fresh blue kiss mark, was a phone number and a signature.
X.O.X.O, Tricky~
Damn clown.