Note: This story is more than likely to tread on mature grounds as well as containing content involving male/male relationships and a very liberal smattering of swearing. All content unacceptable for this site will be cut from the story, and can be received via e-mail upon request from the readers once said chapters have been completed.
Humans are creatures of habits, rituals, and routines. They get up in the morning, have some coffee, go to work, take a break and have some more coffee, work some more, go home, go to bed, and do it all over again the very next day.
That sunny morning in Seattle, it was no different. The streets were packed with cars commuting to work, mothers were walking their children to school, and people were going about their lives as they always did.
Again and again.
Around and around.
"It's like a carousel." George said, and Mason was the only one of the remaining four to actually look up from the table.
"Eh?" he said, shriveling his nose up.
"That guy over there," George went on, pointing to a man across the Waffle house, and Mason followed her finger with his entire head, "He gets the same thing every day. A coffee, an orange juice, and a blueberry muffin, and he always sits in that same seat. Every day."
"So?" Mason said, deciding to keep up his current record of single-syllable responses.
"So," George went on, "Doesn't he ever get tired of it? I mean, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I don't really like muffins." Mason said, completely missing the point.
"It sounds like he's afraid of change." Daisy piped in, sitting back in her seat and waving a dove-pale hand in the general direction of their subject matter, "He's stuck in a monotonous existence, and he's afraid to leave the protective cocoon he's built around himself."
"You sound like a horoscope."
"Well, that's because I'm just that insightful, Georgia." Daisy said in that affected accent before pressing her glossed lips together in a little smile and picking up her coffee.
"Or you're full of shit." Roxie said, attitude already in full swing.
"You are really miserable in the morning." Mason said.
"You're full of shit too."
"You're miserable in the afternoon, as well," Mason went on, oblivious to the fact he was sitting next to a woman with a permit to carry. It wasn't that he didn't know she had a gun; he'd been shot by it once before, so there was little chance he would forget, but for the moment he didn't care about consequences. No doubt he would later though, if the expression on Roxie's face was any barometer.
"In fact; I don't think there's a time when you're not miserable. When are you not miserable, Roxie?"
"When you're not around." Roxie said, and stepped on Mason's foot beneath the table hard enough to make him yelp.
"My god, you're a bitch," Mason said, and the she ground her heel in. No one really seemed to notice, so Mason just writhed in tortured silence.
"Really Roxie, you must see it. The man is quite clearly unable to get on with his life." Daisy said, and looked over at the man – he was currently in the process of paying his bill, "Middle-aged, no ring on his finger, his wallet is completely devoid of any pictures."
She clicked her tongue a little,
"He's being held back by something." She said, as though it were final.
"Or he just likes blueberry muffins and being single." Rube said, and began handing out their assignments for the day.
"You know, Rube, you're kind of like that too," Daisy said, looking down at her post-it without much enthusiasm; someone was going to die, same old, same old, "You've got a routine."
"That's because I've got a job to do." Rube said, giving Roxie her post-it. The moment it was in her hand, she was on her feet, taking a moment to casually grind her heel once more into the bones of Mason's foot before disappearing. He let out a moan of pain and relief now that she was gone, clutching at his foot.
"No, it's because you don't like to change things. You like a schedule." Daisy said, waving her post-it around a little.
"You're right. I do like a schedule." Rube said, leaning forward a little, clasping his hands on the table in front of him, "I like things organized, neat, and clean-cut. I want things to happen when they're supposed to happen, and not a minute earlier or later. I want things like clockwork, all the cogs and wheels moving exactly how they're supposed to, making everything tick."
Daisy looked at her post-it a second time, realizing then just how much time she had,
K.J. Washington
Highpoint Branch Library
10:18 a.m.
"This is in fifteen minutes," she said, fanning one hand out to express just exactly how annoyed she was by the entire situation.
"Yes." Rube said, "That's right. So you better get a move on, my dear Daisy Adair, or you're going to be late for your reap."
Daisy made a little scoffing noise, got her purse, and stood from her seat,
"You know, I don't see how you can expect a girl to work under these conditions Rube," she said, putting her pale hands on her hips, "I haven't had any time to prepare."
"This isn't a stage show, Daisy," Rube said, "Someone is about to die, and you have to be there to make sure they get to the other side. And if you aren't, there will be hell to pay."
"Yeah Daisy," George said, head down on the table now, having stopped paying attention to the conversation up until that point, "Move it, or you'll fuck up Rube's tick."
"You too, peanut." Rube said, smiling and handing George a post-it, and she finally looked up from the imperfections of the table grain, "You're on the little hand too."
P. Webb
Kleftiko Kitchen
10:16 a.m.
"Fuck!" George shouted, and practically launched out of her seat.
"I'll go with you Georgie," Mason said.
"No you won't." Rube said, placing a hand heavily onto Mason's shoulder, basically holding the Englishman down in one spot.
"No I won't." Mason agreed, smiling nervously at Rube, at George's retreating form, and back again, "Why won't I?"
"Because you're staying here," Rube said simply, and turned to their usual waitress as she passed by, "Kiffany, can I get a cookie for my friend here? Warmed up, please?"
"Oh shit." Mason said.
"What?" Rube asked.
"Oh shit, fuck, you're buying me food." Mason said, eyes going unnaturally wide as Rube finally removed his hand, allowing Mason to function properly again – he knew he wasn't going anywhere anyways. It wasn't as though Rube had ever threatened him with physical violence, but there was something distinctly intimidating about a man who was just a promotion away from being Death himself. Mason liked to think that in his spare time, Rube sharpened scythes with whetstones and listened to Blue Oyster Cult wearing all black.
What? He used to do a lot of drugs, okay?
"What did I do, Rube?" Mason asked, leaning back a little, as though to get out of arm's length, "I did all my jobs, I did 'em right. I took the souls; I haven't done anything illegal, right? I've been good. I have. What did I do, Ruby?"
At this point, Rube was staring at him with his mouth open a little, thick brows furrowed slightly,
"Why does everyone get so fucking nervous when I buy them food?"
"Because food is your tranquilizer," Mason said, fingers twisting together nervously on the table, "The anesthetic before you bring down the axe – scythe – on our simpering little necks."
Kiffany placed the cookie in front of Mason, giving him a little smile, to which he responded with a tiny, pathetic whimper,
"Thank you Kiffany," Mason whined, then looked back to his boss, "Fucking hell shit bullocks, what did I do, Ruby?"
"Shut up for a second and eat your goddamn cookie." Rube said, rubbing at his temples.
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