"#17"

     A graying well-muscled obese man throws a stained bloody shirt toward the sink in his run-down room in some seedy pay by the week motel. Sitting on the end of the stained mattress he pauses, looking at his huge scarred and broken hands. He coughs and hacks, spitting blood onto the threadbare carpet. Moving to the sink he rinses his mouth of its reddish black film and begins to scrub at the soiled shirt with a tiny bar of white soap. Looking himself in the mirror, carcass a collage of scars he is reminded of what brought him to this place.

     A tiny elven like girl maybe 13 years old, glowing pink hair and pale blue hoodie sodden from the cold winter rain taps on an off-white door labeled “#17” at the back of a seedy motel. Her exaggerated anime-like makeup is streaking down her face from the rain and tears. Shaking from the cold rain and fear, she flinches as a large man opens the door, standing there wordlessly.

     He stares at her with the look of relief and sadness upon his face. She takes a small dark revolver from her hoodie and nervously lifts it, pointing it at him. He is unfazed. Her eyes are puffy and blurring as the pistol makes one sharp crack.