The Scent of Betrayal
Life can be so cruel sometimes. At the lowest of the low or at the peak of your prime, the universe, the sublime, won't spare you a dime. It will forever remain bitter, tormenting your blooming Maytime with a piercing winter. Like the spiteful preacher who disregards your pain in the name of the Lord's test. So evil, so vile. Even years away from his days of crime, living a life of exile, Spike Spiegel is tormented by the universe for the simplest things. And no one, not one of his friends, comrades, or spacemen, is willing to help him.
He's in pain, his vision is blurry, and he can barely see. His weak body is unable to move. He reaches his arm. "H-e-l-p…" his voice cracks, barely audible. He can't even remember where he is anymore. Stranded in space, somewhere far, far away. Has he lived even for one day?
"Stop being dramatic," an unclear female voice. Her voice sounds so familiar, as if he has seen her just yesterday. Someone he's known for a while. But she sounds disappointed. In the end, it seems the cowboy has failed at all his causes. He still can feel the smell of fresh tobacco; that Marlboro he shared with his friends. Only if he could do that once more….
"My time-come…" At last, his arm drops, hitting the floor and making a deafening thump. The show has come to an end, and the curtain is about to fall.
"Oh, for fuck sake, Spike! You are not dying," at last, Faye's face comes into focus. She's leaning in on the chair with her laptop on her lap, frustrated like a mom dealing with her toddler. Ed's sitting on the floor, ignoring the drama.
"But I am," Spike laments, stretching on the couch that's too small for his tall body. Swinging his long legs that are hanging from the couch's hand. "Can't live—ike this—need a cigar…"
"Stop whining. We'll get to the next station soon."
"You've been saying that since yesterday!" he pouts and rolls on the couch, now lying on his stomach.
"Yes, we're getting there. Aren't we Jet?" she looks at Jet, but he just tilts his head.
"Why don't you mind your business?"
"Can't do."
"Surfed the world on yolo only to be left a solo. Why life should be so cruel," he laments, dramatically gripping his chest. "Just give me cigar."
"Don't got one," she replies.
"Then shut up, old nanny. Jet, you got smoke, don't you? I know you do!" Spike begs like a kid at the toy shop. Jet keeps standing afar, ignoring him. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Spike will give up at some point.
"Jet, don't you want to say something?
"C'mon man! I know you got some."
"Already told you I don't have any," he walks past them and goes to pour some drink to help him deal with Spike.
"LIES! I've been counting!"
"Smoked the last when you were sleep."
"You always go to sleep before me."
"I woke up in middle of the night."
"Lies. Lies. And more lies. I can't believe how is everyone betraying me!" he looks at Ed from the corner of his eyes and starts pspsps as if he's calling a cat. "Psst, Ed." No response. "Ed." The silence is truly heart-wrenching to the bebop. He's a cowboy who has lost his ranch. "EdWaRD!" he leans with his body on the couch and his hands on the floor, stretching to book Ed's shoulder.
"Yess?" Ed turns her head like an owl.
"I know you got smoke! You gotta have one. Where is it? Where have you hide it?" Spike asserts as his voice becomes more and more menacing with each question. Ed raises her eyebrow and pulls herself back.
"She's a child, idiot," Faye hisses.
"So?" he asks rhetorically.
"I'm 11, dude," Ed says, shrugging.
"So?" Spike repeats, clearly not seeing their point.
"Ion smoke dude!" Ed exclaims playfully.
"Then you're missing a lot in life."
"Would smoking turn me into a theatre kid like Spike?"
"Probably," "No," Faye and Spike respond in unison.
"Then, I'm good," Ed smirks and puts her headphones back on.
Spike sighs loudly, looking around to find a saviour. He sees Ein under the table, playing with his toy and wriggling his little butt. Spike walks on his hand, like a horror movie haunted character—with half of his body still on the couch—reaching to Ein. He pokes Ein's puffy butt. "Ein, hey boy." Ein happily turns his head to look at Spike. "You got a cig to spare?"
"That's a freaking dog." Faye smacks her head.
"A data dog," Spike argues.
"It Is Still A DOG."
"Jet. Oi, Jet!" Spike shouts at Jet, who's chugging down his drink.
"What?"
"How long till we get to the next station?" he asks pleadingly.
"We'll get to mars tomorrow," Jet chugs the last bit of his drink and begins to walk back.
"I'll be dead by then," Spike groans and lies back on the couch, croaking to his demise.
"Rest in peace boy," Jet walks past him as he takes his last cigar, lighting it right on top of Spike's head. The smell of tobacco flies down to Spike like the smell of turkey on Christmas night. And Spike weeps like an orphan who has no home and family to celebrate Christmas with; and all he can do is to inhale the savory scent in to fool his stomach.