Vegas, Baby!
MoshPit
The lights were on, but no one was home. It never occurred to Christian how vast a theater could look when empty. He stood alone, on the stage, in awe of the multitude of seats in the house. So peaceful and quiet. It unnerved him. The paranoid part of his mind tended to take over when things were too quiet. He started to hear things that weren't there, see things in the shadows. A creak of a floorboard. Axe murderer? Probably.
He needed something to distract himself with. A program, a splinter, anything. He turned his eyes to the set. Two large cardboard boxes lay off to the side both full of light bulbs. Someone had started to strike the set.
From the corner of his eye, he saw something peculiar. A little girl. Rather, a picture of a little girl, life sized, a painted realistically on a sheet of wood. A smile graced the girl's
dark face, and in her arms she held a basket full of daisies. A wicker Sunday hat sat on her head, a pink ribbon tide around in and dangling from the back. Christian crept closer to it, marveling at the detail put into such a small piece of art. Even the girl's dress looked to be made of real cotton. He reached out, daring his fingers to prove his eyes wrong.
"Don't touch that!" Christian jerked his hand back with such a force of surprise that he nearly fell backwards.
" 'Get in the car', 'don't sit on the bed,' 'don't touch that.' People in Vegas are snitty. And possessive." He looked around, trying to pinpoint the voice. He saw no one.
"We're a snitty race. Suck it up and deal." Footsteps echoed off the wooded floors, soon accompanied by the sounds of wheels, all badly in need of some grease.
"I spent three hours on that girl's eye alone," the voice
continued. "The paint hasn't dried yet,
and if you mess it up so help me, I will beat.
You. Down."
"That was a hyperbole."
"Overstatement is a sign of character. That's what I always say, at least." The voice was right behind him now. Christian turned, and looked down. Before him stood a man, a short man. He wasn't a dwarf, exactly, but he couldn't have been taller than five feet.
"Is this someone you know?" Christian asked, motioning to the little girl. An uneasy look settled on the man's face.
"Sort of. I call her 'little Madeline.'" In an instant, he switched gears. "You must be Mohammed. I'm Tunces, come with me." And that was that. He turned, and started to leave. Christian had no choice but to follow.
"Wake up's at five," Tunces said. "If you're staying with me, you ain't staying for free. For the remainder of your stay, or until you get your own place, you work for me to pay off your rent. Clear?" All Christian could do was nod.