Lifer

Out of the many stories you’ve probably heard, read, seen, they all probably started at the beginning—or at least most of them did, somewhere close to the beginning. There was probably a hero, there was probably a villain, there was probably something like a moral or philosophy that held the story in check and made you feel good about yourself at the end, or made you want to improve yourself…something along those lines.

This ain’t a proper story. This story runs long and it doesn’t go anywhere. It doesn’t have a beginning, or an end. There are no heroes. There are no villains. There are only people, their beliefs and their actions—just like in real life. And these people face trials and tribulations and the occasional celebration, just like us in real life.

We read books to go on fantastic adventures, and to meet beautiful people along the way. But we also read to judge places and people, unknowingly. We read so that we can become better people, but being better people means being better than those who have failed before us. And even in books and stories, people fail, so much so that it even makes real people, real people like me and you, fall apart on the inside.

…

…

. . . . . .

VERstehe mi-

My bad—let’s ignore that.

Now, let’s meet some of these fine people, eh? Let me introduce you to a city in the sky, decked in flames and lights, wreathed in riches and décor, a purgatory between the heavens and the ground. We start…from the bottom. We start at Headhunter Headhunters.

Headhunter Headhunters was a small place of immoral conduct and dubious business, which sat tidy and prim in an otherwise abandoned area near the Outskirts of the first level of the New City of Los Angeles: Live. It was a small, square building with very few features to distinguish it from the rest of the deteriorating block; not even a sign or mark of designation could be found anywhere outside the building, telling passersby just exactly what this building housed. Not that one was required—HH was a headquarters for grim and lonely injustices. Everyone knew where to find it.

On the outside of the building a door opened out onto a third-floor fire escape, and out walked a man older than his years. Yakuza Jimbo was twenty-seven, and at the same time seventy-two. His eyes had seen too much, his ears had heard too much, his hands and mind had done and thought too much. His thin, jet-black hair was peppered with grey strands, and his eyes had bags under them. Yet he always wore a smile, which won hearts and envious respect in equal parts. Even after a rough awakening he wore that grin all the way down the stairway to the second-story entrance of Headhunter Headhunters, his toes springing him forward to the tempo of an old Sun Ra song cluttered in the back of his head.

Tip-toeing down behind him was spry, brighter-than-springtime Annie, who, by pure appearance, seemed to be in every way opposite to Jimbo. Though only five years younger than the man, her dreamy smile conveyed childhood nostalgias, upbeat riot grrrl songs putting fuel into her feet as she nearly careened into Jimbo with every step she took. Where Jimbo sported a sharp dress shirt and clean slacks, held up with studded suspenders, Annie trotted down the stairway in a Pixies T-shirt and grey sweatpants, the latter with holes near the knees. Jimbo’d only realized, by the time they were near the second-floor entrance, that she was humming the tune to Gigantic, the song she’d shown him when they first met.

Jimbo drawled, taking a coat from a rack near the entrance. Annie slipped in through the doorway as the door slid closed.

Jimbo stopped in his tracks. Annie ran into his back, shuddered and leapt back.

Annie said.

Jimbo said, his serious demeanor disappearing in an instant as he pulled Annie in close and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled in bliss for an instant as she felt Jimbo’s face bury into her thick curls of hair, before he led her to a set of two doors further down the hallway. He opened the door to their right.

Jimbo said with a chuckle.

Annie asked.

Annie started, and curiosity got the better of her. Why? What’s the—

I need to talk to our potential client…alone.

…is it about the name?

Jimbo was silent. A small smile still hung on his face; he tried with the might of several happier men to keep it there. Annie continued, What could be wrong with ‘em knowing your name? They could be relatives! Or at the very least co-workers.

That’s exactly what could be wrong. Please, stay here. Close the door. If anything happens…you know there are better men than me out there, right?

I still haven’t left, and I know that quite well.

He left, sweat beginning to shed from a brow that had been dry for years.