Carlos leans his head against his pillow there in his corner of the conversation pit. This is where he sleeps. The little pig in a blanket. So cute with his big cheeks and his caramel colored skin. He's a wanted man. Can't leave the house. Can't call or talk to anyone. He's wasting away...
Then, at the top of the stairs, the bathroom door slides open and the steam gushes out. There she is. Towel wrapped around her supple breasts, hair wet and trickling down her spine, legs freshly shaved. This is the lion, Camille. She's so different than she used to be. Her latest prey running for the door. Carlos doesn't even look anymore he's seen them all before.
She looks down at the usually so meek little piglet and sees seriousness. She's never seen that before.
"What is it?" She asks, fear enveloping her.
He clears his throat and rolls across some body pillows to dive for the blunt on the edge of the coffee table between two elevated couches, "Jo was murdered last night... while you were... indisposed."
There comes a bang at the door. Carlos rolls his eyes, "I think your antelope forgot something."
"Can you get it?" She asks, "I've got to get dressed for work."
He looks back at her with anger but she's slipped away before she could catch his glare.
With a groan he's on his feet neglecting his own cover ups. He doesn't care if someone sees him in his bright green boxer briefs. He has to see their swinging dicks at six am when they come out for a smoke break between sessions. Sure he's a little Jealous. He hasn't so much as been able to touch someone in a month. He refuses to touch Camille because of her rendezvous. She never has any quality company anyhow.
So he pulls open the door and sees a familiar face and wants to hurl, "James?"
At first he thinks James was the boy she had over last night but then he sees the look of stress on James face and decides to rethink this. So he steps aside and allows him in.
"Where the Hell have you been?" James asks.
Carlos looks around and shrugs, "Here. I'm guessing you're here because you heard the news about Jo."
"How could I not. There's a manhunt right now for him." James says as he watches Carlos so casually sit down on one of the couches.
He's about to ask Carlos how he can be so calm when Camille comes down the stairs. She's all shiny and ready for her work day, dressed all in black. Muave lips, poofed out curls, and a pained look on her face.
"James!" She cries, "I can explain."
James scoffs, "I'm not going to turn Carlos in. I'm here because I heard about Jo."
"Oh yes. Because when a friend is in trouble we wait until after death to come their aid." Carlos grufs angrily.
James goes to sit next to him and Carlos plops himself down on the floor, "Don't touch me."
Camille sighs and looks at her phone, "I'm going to be late for work. James, do you want to meet me at Kendall's house later?"
"Kendall? I haven't heard from him in almost two years." He explains.
She nods, "Lucy's staying in a hotel in Charlotte NC, that's just outside of where he's living. He's been very closed off. He might need us."
Carlos picks up the pair of blue bluetooth headphones off the kitchen table and begins to plug in. The music starts to play and by the time the lyrics begin both of the other's are gone. He's a wanted man. He couldn't leave even if he wanted too.
So he does what he loves. He dances.
A baggy pale purple tank top over his thick pecks, black sweatpants clinging to his bubble butt and thick calves but loose around the thighs apart from where the python rests, bare feet. Three shots of whisky later and he has pink eye shadow illustrating outlines on his face like an animal snout, blue in his hair, and the word 'FAG' painted in green diagonally down the chest of his shirt. He's got the volume on full blast and nothing else even matters.
Kendall illustrates furiously. The rage in his heart is not something he's used to but it'll work really nicely for this project of his. He was actually looking for an out in this anyway. Lucy showing up the way she did. No notification, no letter, it was disrespectful but he's grateful for the art. His long blonde hair is pulled up in a bun on his head, his long yellow ruana with darker yellow streaks covers a bare chest, his khakis and black sandles go unwashed for the third day in a row and his up of hot tea has gone cold.
He's breathing in the THC when he's struck with yet another vision and his pen swivels and pulls to spring it to life. The lights all blink and flicker. The window behind him creeks open from the wind. A cold chill hit's him and the ink jar slips away to quick. He fumbles for it knocking over the tea. The liquids smear across his pages and he cries out.
"NO! NO! NO!" He begs and begins to attempt to wipe away the mess.
He holds up a page to the light and sheer terror sinks in as he sees a face. Only whose?
Carlos, tired, worn out, and hungry stops with his back to the kitchen pulling his headphones out.
A voice catches his ear, "Your friends left the door open."
He turns to see a deranged and feral young man with spectacles, a stolen lab coat, and blood all over his face. From Carlos' lips comes the name, "Logan."