The Car Crash Effect- Chapter One

The humid October sunrise blended with the yet-to-lull, riotous neon cacophony of the Las Vegas strip to scratch like finger nails down a blackboard against the one large window that hung draped down the wall of the twelfth storey hotel room, casting an insipid beige glow that was more a new tone of shadow than any tone of light over the extravagant lounge.

The slats of the polyester (or some other poly) window blind rattled sleepily in the polyester breeze cast by the bulky air conditioning unit at the large window.

The profound, characterless sky swirled with reflected hues of the Nevada desert, the black glacial highways and the epilepsy below and hung menacingly hopeful over the degenerate, regenerate and in some cases even just plain generate gamblers that were heading back to their hotel rooms, and the fleets of daffodil or, depending on your opinion of taxi drivers, urine yellow taxi cabs that gambled at roulette wheel stop lights.

The entire restless scene did not gaze intently in at the plush, blood red carpet so fluent and velvet it could have been the glass smooth surface of a (grotesquely miscoloured) lake.

The lake spanned the entirety of a vast rectangular room. Not gazing in through the window, you couldn't see a tall, narrow, pale pinewood door on the almost depressingly sterilely spotless white wall that extended flimsily a short distance perpendicularly to the right.

This door led to a palacial bedroom; stunningly beautiful and therefore of no interest. It was accordingly left vacant and the door remained shut.

Placed with its back against this wall was an extended length, single cushion couch. The upholstery was a soft cream colour, it was run through with meanders and ripples of a darker cream where the fabric was worn, but far too rich to be tatty. In all, it was an exquisite, inviting couch. Two more of the same design and half the length extended at right angles from the original, effectively cornering off a lounge area of the spacious living room and allowing those sitting (or lounging, or relaxing, or laying, or resting, or reclining, or unwinding, or dozing) to face eachother and converse.

A good few feet behind this area, in the very centre of the room, was a large, round, pine table. It could comfortably seat seven perfectly angled, comfortable dining chairs with faded cream cushions that completely covered the tall, narrow frame so that the person sitting could lay their head back, and inwardly curved, ornate pine legs. The seats were angled upwards slightly, so that the person sitting was fully at ease. Were it not for their lack of arms, they could have been considered (somewhat cosmopolitan) thrones.

Although the table could comfortably seat seven of these chairs, two had been removed and the remaining five spread out. Each had been provided with a small, low drinks table that, aside from its size, was an exact replica of the main table. A black, shiny ceiling fan with gold trim and dangling chains that looked too flimsy to pull on to control the speed at which the blades spun hung above the table. It was beating the air far too slowly to be making any difference with a low, rhythmic "waugh" sound that set a beat above the hum of the air conditioner.

In the wall opposite the window was a tall, wide, heavy set of thick pine doors with generic metal handles. They were the entrance (and exit) to the hotel room and subsequently were securely locked in four different places.

In the left hand wall, opposite the lounging area, were two more tall, narrow pine doors, and in the far corner was a tall, rubbery pot plant with rigid, sweaty, leathery leaves.

One of the two doors lead to a large, hospital clean kitchen, and the other to a ceramic, gleaming bathroom almost as big as the living room that, if not for being so modern, would have fit a Roman bath house.

Of the five seats encompassing the table, four were occupied, hunched over playing cards in solemn silence and avoiding eye contact even with the royalty on the face cards.

In the first seat sat a young man (or possibly an elderly boy) of average height. He was somewhat average looking and had average length faded brown hair that had been spiked up with gel that was now a day old and so was looking dry and tufty. Aside from his wide, deepset eyes and a blunt nose that had been broken a few too many times, his face was long and unassuming. His eyes were the same generic, faded brown as his hair and his skin looked dry and was darkly caucasian. He blended into the crowd even where there was none.

To his left sat a pre-occupied looking young woman who was definitely no more than a girl. She was tall- her head rose almost to the point where it rested comfortably on the sculpted cushion of her high-backed chair. Her wispy hair was either extremely blonde or white as it fell forlornly across her shoulders, and was not so much straight as it was flaccid. Her bangs; being the same length as the rest of her hair, were indistinguishable, but there all the same, and her scruffily cut fringe  for the most part came down to her eyes to complete the shadow that framed her face. She had pale skin, delicate features and helpless looking ice blue eyes. Her face was long and pointed, her nose was pointed and long and her thin lips were the same noteless colour as the rest of her face. She made a habit of shrouding her slender, almost frail frame in an ancient looking cream sweater that was at least three sizes too big.The gaping sleeves that hung down and entirely engulfed her minute, skeletal, probably always cold hands were more than big enough to conceal four aces, but she seemed the sort of person who would wind up with a joker and the rules for playing bridge if she tried.

The seat to her left was occupied by a lean man. His bright black hair (assuming that black can be bright) was styled in an unfashionable manner and cut to the same length all over. Bony elbows barely covered in pasty, blotchy white skin protruded to rest awkwardly on the table top from the short sleeves of a smart, sensible red and white shirt that was starched too much and buttoned too high. He periodically sniffed even though he had no cold, and his fidgetting would have been an ideal tell if he didn't fidget constantly. He blinked a couple of times almost as if involuntarily and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his slender nose with the tip of his thumb. He bent his back uncomfortably to withdraw as much as possible from the vision of those seated around him before realising that they were all waiting for him to play his hand, at which point he almost obediently folded his two and four of diamonds apologetically. He stared silently down at his thumbs.

The seat to his left was luckily vacant, and to the left of this seat was a man of substantial carriage whose eyes of blazing white with their tiny pinhole pupils glared intently about the room. His flabby cheeks and frame that spilled over the edges of the spindly, stately chair- he was more wide than fat- gave him the semblance of a bulldog; an impression that was only intensified by his flattened nose with its flaring nostrils and the depth at which his bulging eyes were set that was either profound or neanderthaal-like. He was expensively attired; affecting an exquisitely tailored tan business suit and a monogrammed sky blue silk shirt. His gut protruded over an oversized belt buckle embellished with a gaudy American eagle; talons extended as if swooping in for a kill and studded with rhinestones. A white cowboy hat that he often jested was made from real cowboys, with tan trim, rested at a commanding angle on his head.

He sighed exasperatedly in an effort to intimidate the awkward silence that hung over them all and pushed away the two of clubs and seven of hearts he held in flat hands. His gaze continued to scuttle around the room, from one averted face to the next.

"Well God Damn, am I playing cards with monks?" He demanded agitatedly in an over-emphasised Texan drawl. "Somebody say somethin'! What do y'all do for a living?" He grew even more frustrated over the shallow silence with which he was answered.

"Better an awkward silence than small talk" the first, average looking man to his right in the circle around the table finally responded glibly, without looking up from his cards, his own accent shapelessly American. The Texan turned on him.

"Tell that to him, son" he joked distastefully with a snake-like smile, nodding towards a shapeless heap on the floor between the table and the exterior doors of the hotel room.

There, spilling an ominous blood red stain onto the blood red carpet lay the motionless form of a diminutive Hispanic man with olive skin, short black hair and a five o' clock shadow, boyish good looks and two bullet holes in his chest.