Foot Tapping

Walking was becoming more difficult. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the crumbling cobblestones that made up the once popular street. The aging man didn't much care about the details, the long evening behind the only door he had felt any sense of love at in too long a time had left his mind clouded in a haze of alcohol scrubbed regrets and washed down sorrows. A fit of spastic coughs siezed the drunkards chest for a moment. The sudden violence of the involuntary movement all but tumbled him down into the middle of the street. If he hadn't been numbed, he might have sensed the odd taste of copper in his mouth that had signalled the blood he had just spit up.

Trying to master himself, the lost soul started to struggle towards the flop-house that he called "home." He needed sleep badly, and he prayed enough drinks had been thrown down to keep the nightmares locked away for at least a little while. Working his legs was becoming more difficult.

The free drinks he thought, too many right before he left. Still it wasn't too far to go.

So focused on finding rest he didn't hear the tapping of a cane that signalled he was no longer alone. If his senses had been intact, he would have known to fear the empty echo of that cane. Everyone feared the cane.

Another fit of coughs succeeded in dropping him to his knees. When his eyes refocused he saw the blood on his hands. His hands had been bloodly for so long that he felt some sense of relief that he could finally see it.

The cane grew closer.

Unable to regain his feet the drunken man began to weep. Too many people, too much pain. He had hurt so many when he was young, beatings, theft, he had even stolen a few too many kisses from girls that didn't want to share them with him. It had been so wrong. He was wrong. Nothing left to him but a shell and his own tormented fears.

More coughing. More blood. He let himself go, his head letting slip a hollow crack as it thumped onto the street. Too late.

His last friend had just sold him out. He knew that now. If he hadn't been there so long he might have noticed the bottle those last free drinks came from. Guess he was going to pay someone else's debt for a change.

Again the tapping of the cane. The shadow of its master fell across the payment. Work is always good during the holidays.

The drunkard no longer tasted the bitter drink that he had lusted after for so long, the scent of blood that stained him faded to black. As his eyes lost focus he swore a car, a hearse, was coming for him. One last spasm and he felt his heart give out, he knew it well because it's spirit had given out long ago, the body had just taken too long to catch up.

His last breath slipped out. No more nightmares. He almost smiled at the thought.

The dark form might have laughed. But any laugh that escaped through those grim lips would have chilled the fires of hell. There were always more nightmares.

Jabbing the corpse with the cane's bronze tip only once, the mojo-maker started down the haunted street. The night was still young. There were still many more debts to collect.

He did love the holidays.