Rube watched with a perverse sort of fascination as Mason poked and prodded at the cookie in front of him as though he were afraid of it, as though it were some foreign species that he was analyzing, tearing it apart jab by jab. For a man who had eaten gum he'd pulled off the underside of diner tables, Mason was being incredibly picky.
"Rube," Mason began, finally looking up.
"Eat the cookie." Rube said, and Mason returned to poking at it again. This lasted perhaps another half a minute, and Mason looked up again, but only with his eyes.
"But Ruby," he tried, and he was beginning to sound very stressed.
"Don't talk. Eat it." Rube said, and again, Mason began systematically deforming the innocent cookie. The Englishman opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted, "Eat the goddamn cookie, Mason."
"Fine!" Mason shouted, and crammed the entire cookie into his mouth, choked, and died.
No, just kidding, he was already dead. He just kind of coughed a little.
"Good." Rube said, watching Mason chew furiously at the cookie, ignoring that everyone in the restaurant was now watching them closely. Well, almost everyone. The only exception was Kiffany, but she had proven time and time again to have a high tolerance for the strange. Rube liked Kiffany, she did her job and never tried to nose in – though it probably helped that Rube left large tips.
"Alright," Rube said, leaning forward, and Mason stopped chewing, just looking at Rube with wide eyes and his cheek bulging with cookie. "Something has come to my attention, and I have a very important question to ask you, Mason. Now, I asked you this once before, and I know what your answer was – but, how do I put this gently? You're a liar."
Mason swallowed audibly.
"That's not fair, Rube," Mason said, pointing a little, "I'm usually very honest; especially about being dishonest."
"Yes, but in this instance, I can't help but feel your answer was maybe a little hasty. So I'm going to ask it again, and I expect you to be honest," Rube said, "Can you do that, Mason?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm a kid, Rube, I'm not a kid. I'm a full grown man, and if anyone says otherwise, they're shitheads. Yes, I can bloody well be honest and I can handle anything you dish out."
He put on his toughest expression, which was that sort of stiff-upper-lip-wet-eye look that he got so often. Mason had yet to realize this expression actually made him look constipated, rather than hardcore.
"Alright." Rube said, putting his hands up in front of him, palms out to signify he surrendered, "Fair enough."
He clasped his hands together on the table, and in that moment, Mason was reminded of the Godfather. This was not comforting.
"Mason, are you drinking again?" Rube asked.
"No." Mason responded immediately, so fast that his answer overlapped the last word out of Rube's mouth.
Rube didn't look convinced.
"I mean – 'no'." Mason said, putting a little more emphasis on the 'no' this time, as though it would make his answer more believable. "Why would you think something like that, Rube?"
A long silence followed,
"Want to try that again?" Rube asked.
"No." Mason said, and began to get up from the seat, "Look, I have to go -"
"You don't have to go anywhere. Sit down." Rube said, forcing Mason back into his seat. At this point, Mason reflected on the fact that he needed to do some weight lifting, or Rube needed to lay off the steroids – either way, he was fairly certain no one should be able to hold an entire person down with one hand. It wasn't right.
Rube was a freak of nature. This wasn't a new theory. The other one was that Rube was actually an alien, but that had been an epiphany that had come when he'd been stupid enough to slug back Zambooka and Tequila at the same time. He was really lucky he was undead.
Not that he hadn't been wishing he was fully dead the next morning. He still couldn't remember everything about his revelation, but all he knew was that somehow he'd found a parallel between Rube and the Pod People.
"Why are you doing this to me Rube? Why are you asking me this?"
"Because you have responsibilities, Mason," Rube said, "Because we have the sort of job that can't be fucked up."
"Are you implying I'm a fuck up, Rube?"
"No, I'm not implying you're a fuck up. I know you're a fuck up." Rube said patiently. There was a telltale edge to his voice, however, that meant his patience was beginning to thin – no one had ever seen Rube completely lose his patience, and that was generally because they behaved themselves before he could. No one wanted to see the bomb go off, because all of them were uncertain how much damage would be done.
"Oh thank you so very fucking – "
"Just shut up for a minute, will you?" Rube said, putting a few bills down on the table before getting to his feet, "Come on, we're going outside."
"Why outside? What's outside?" Mason asked, eyes flicking around the Waffle House, as though trying to find some other way to escape.
"A moment ago you wanted to leave; now you want to stay? What's outside, is fewer people." Rube explained, gesturing to the restaurant in general.
"Why do we want fewer people?"
The Godfather wanted him outside. He was going to take his cannoli or something.
"So we can talk with fewer ears listening." Rube said simply, and there was something a little too cheerful about his voice right then that made Mason decide he was maybe pushing it already.
Like a man walking to the guillotine, Mason stood slowly from his seat, and Rube put an arm around his scrawny shoulders and led him outside. He practically pushed Mason up against the nearest wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest,
"The point is that we can't afford slip ups, Mason, because people rely on us being able to do what we're supposed to do – bring them to the next life." Rube said, "We have to be able to perform correctly, function properly. You can't do that while your brain is swimming in black label."
"I said I'm not drinking. Why isn't that good enough?"
"Because you're carrying your flask again." Rube said flatly, and Mason gave him a sort of deer-in-the-headlights look. He had no where to run. "The silver one you've got so cleverly tucked into your jacket pocket. The one you've been using to top up your water glass every morning when you think no one is looking."
"You're very confrontational today." Mason said weakly.
"You have a problem, Mason."
"I don't have a problem. I can stop if I want to."
"But you don't want to, do you?" Rube said, and it was rhetorical. They both knew the answer. "Because it gives you something, provides euphoria – however brief – makes you stop thinking too goddamn much for a while, right?"
Rube was leaning in, voice low, eyes fixed on the Englishman. All Mason could seem to do now was stare.
"And after a while, it's not enough, so you have to drink more. It's called building a tolerance Mason, your body is getting used to the alcohol, the buzz is wearing off. The more you drink, the more you need, and the more you need, the more you drink." Rube said, "So you tell me whether you control your drinking or if it's the other way around."
A long silence followed,
"I'm undead." Mason said eventually, "It doesn't matter what I drink. I can handle it."
"You're pulling at strings, my friend. You're making excuses." Rube said, pressing his lips together so they formed a thin line. "You're in denial. I don't care if you are undead, because the alcohol is still slowing your motor reflexes, affecting your breathing, your ability to think properly, to make decisions quickly and coherently. It won't kill you, but it will make your life so fucking miserable you'll wish you were in the place of one of the victims in those brutal murders we witness every goddamn day."
"Stop." Mason said.
"You're an alcoholic, Mason,"
"Just stop, alright?" he said again, putting his hands up to make his statement visual, "I don't need to hear this. Not from you, not from anyone. I'm fine, I've been fine this long, and I'll continue being fucking fine."
"You need help." Rube said.
"I don't need help. I don't need any help, and I don't want any. Just – leave this alone, alright?"
Something about Rube's expression changed; almost softened. It may have been that his eyebrows stopped furrowing for a moment that caused this, but whatever it was, Mason didn't like seeing it.
So he began to walk away.
"Mason?" Rube called after him, and the Englishman stopped a moment.
"Yeah?"
"Reap." Rube said, and held out a post-it.