Maybe it had just been his mind, but eyes fell differently on him now. Did they really manage to see his change? The bartender Benny, he knew from so many years ago bent at the waist, peering hard over his glasses and Undertaker approached. The old man complimented, "You look like shit kid, where the hell did you go? Looks like a train hit ya."
'Taker sat down and nodded solemnly accepting the drink which was set in front of him. "Not exactly, but pretty much what if feels like, so I might have as well been. Anything happen when I was gone from here?" He asked, looking back over his shoulder, eyes hidden behind sunglasses dragging over the crowd that packed the bar.
"Same shit really, fights, drugs, battles, rumors, and the occasional brawl that took out three tables and a stall in the men's room. Everyone's been speculating where you were for the most part though, which is a very interesting question if I do say so myself.
"After all, the man who would have already downed three shots of whiskey and shoved two punks away in this bar hasn't even taken a sip from the glass I have him, and it looks like the hair by your temple is graying. So what say you mister immortal guardian of the underworld?"
Undertaker snorted in disgust, tilting the drink in his hand to see his own reflection. Jesus, he did look like shit, it was hard to see the difference in his hair color in the dark brown liquid though. He returned his attention to the elderly barkeep, looking over the mans face, skin like old leather, hard and splotched with sharp whiskers sticking out from his cheeks and chin and dulled stone gray eyes.
"Mark, let's go in the back, after all, I really do think you need to talk."
Benny nodded to his son who stood further down behind the bar on duty, signaling for him to pick up the slack while he ushered his favorite patron through an 'employees only' door. Undertaker rubbed at his temples before downing his drink and trailing after Benny. The back room was almost as poorly lit as the bar, aged sofas sat on each wall an end table topped by a bare lamp accompanying each seat, and a door in the far wall leading further into the bars storage area.
"What is it Benny? What is it that you want me to say to you?"
Benny closed the door behind them, and leaned his aging form against it. Adjusting the dusty glasses that sat on his nose as he began to address the real problem.
"I need to know what's going on with you 'Taker, because I doubt that's really whom you've been left as. In the near ten years I've known you, you've never changed at all. Most of all you've never aged…until now. Two and a half weeks you're gone and now you have black bags under your eyes and you're getting gray roots, not to mention you're just about as pale as shit…paler than normal at least."
"What do you want me to say Benny? The last two weeks have been harder than anyone in this fucking bar can imagine. I gained and lost all the power in those god damn books I've set my whole life after in mere moments and was lucky enough to get the shit beat out of me on the way. I personally don't think I need to look like I just came from some day spa," he grunted, gritting his teeth together, irritated at the very fact his friend was right.
"Immortals don't age. So what is it, are you still Undertaker or are you back to Mark again? Did you lose your gift son?"
"I didn't lose shit Benny! You know damn well the last thing I do is lose things. That motherfucker The Embalmer stole it from me. He took away everyone's mortality, mine, Paul's, even his own. I know that if I find him I can get it back, I bet I can get back and take everyone's powers along with it." He raged, standing to his feet, ripping the sunglasses off of his face.
"You know you can't regain immortality from a mortal, even if he was an immortal himself before. There are rules to living in the dark side of the world, strict unforgiving rules. The only one who can give you your immortality back is an immortal themselves, either a druid, witch, or necromancer. Not to mention that there is a seventy five percent chance of failure if a woman isn't performing the ritual for you."
"But women hardly exist in those positions anymore, Benny. They haven't for years."
"They don't do it because so many women are murdered when they take those positions. Whole families have been burnt alive in their houses; estates where covens of witches and druids stayed were broken into and slaughtered. Even if women are left out there they are not going to be advertising their business out of fear."
"That doesn't mean men can't do it. Twenty five percent means it works. If I go through it four times I have a good chance of it working at least once. You're trying to make this seem more difficult than it's going to be."
Benny just shook his head sighing. "You have no real idea about this ritual you want to do, do you? You'd be lucky enough to live through the first one, and I know you wouldn't be dumb enough to try again, let alone three more times."
"How would you know what I would do? It's easy for you to stand there and preach 'cause you ain't in my position!"
"You need to go home Mark. You need to go home and seriously think about what you're saying. We both know, even though you aren't accepting it, you're in danger being here now. You have one too many enemies in this bar that would love to take you out permanently and now is their chance."
Mark refused to argue with the aging bartender anymore. He placed his own sunglasses back on, tightening that leather jacket around his form. A half grunted 'See ya later' was thrown Benny's way as he left. The worst side of him was longing to go out and get smashed out of his mind, the mortal side, but what remained of his common sense pushed him back to that apartment for rest.
He didn't doubt what Benny told him, he was a smart man, but Mark didn't want to believe that his fate was sealed. He didn't want to believe he was Mark again for that seemed far worse a fate than death. The memories of mortality were old, shoved back where they couldn't be seen and covered in dust like an old book on a sagging shelf. A brother, a mother who cared for him, and family he just wanted to forget.
He stayed home for the next day trying to watch the T.V. and regain touch with a human culture so long ago he had given up on. Sex was the obvious prominent theme on everything though it seemed no one else though so. Other channels brought sissy watered down shows that supposedly dealt the occult but in reality it was nothing more than a few prissy girls giggling about pretending they were witches or some 'fun but sassy' blonde slaying vampires. All sorts of crap on every channel, enough to rot your brain into a dull contentedness.
When the television became unbearable there was no place to escape but to the outside world. The first place he bothered going to was a twenty four hour analog of Denny's where he ate the first meal in two days of mortality, before going to a store where he stole black hair dye. There was no way in fucking hell The Undertaker was paying for dye to cover gray hair, something called dignity and pride that his human side thrived on burnt in his chest.
What he needed was to fight though. Joints ached and scraped against one another while his stomach growled and head throbbed for a quick adrenaline rush. He didn't need to find a fight, one would find him. Walking in a foreign neighborhood at night would be enough to give him his sought after gift.