Pierrot

Pierrot looked at the mirror for the second time. Two long painful seconds later he wrestled the eyes to do it once again. Torturing himself he managed not to look away and study the image longer. He was disgusted, ready to puke all over the the table. "Drink, I need a drink," - he thought and in a swift violent motion he rushed to the bar in a dark corner crushing furniture and stomping on garbage on the floor. Half apple got in a way and he collapsed on a floor sliding on rotten fruit hurting back. An awkward landing caused shrilling pain in the right elbow; crafty chair was at the exact position to hit the back of Pierrot's head. This sudden ruthless attack by furniture and scraps was the last straw. The old man didn't realize it would come to a point where even a glass of cheap bourbon may become unreachable, like many other much more sophisticated things in his failing life. He tried to stand up, but the legs didn't obey and weak seared hands trembled in futile attempts.

Maybe it was time to end it all. There is no point in caring about his useless existence anymore. He can stop suffering at once, cut the frail thread of life, there are more regrets in continuing this Commedia Dell'Arte than in cardinal sin. The gun was in a drawer, five steps from cheval-glass. Such a paltry distance in ordinary situation proved insurmountable for an old drunken clown bleeding and squirming on a nasty floor. Pierrot started to cry. Whining old freak with the face painted white, forever hiding its natural features. Was he ever young? Hopeful? Happy? The dull, uninspiring life at the bottom of food chain is the only thing to remember. Past, present and any foreseeable future share the same decadent color and smell. Pierrot decided to crawl on his elbows, but the pain was too much. Than he wanted to roll on the floor but the back and the same treacherous elbow refused to cooperate. The clown didn't advance an inch to a deliberating killing machine. Finally puking partly from excess of alcohol, partly from disgust and despair Pierrot stayed on the floor slowly passing into Morpheus domain.

- Flying Grasshopper, Frank! - young man sitting at the bar raised his hand to attract barman's attention.
- Yes, sir. Would you like Stolichnaya or Smirnoff in it?
- Stolichnaya, you old fart, don't you know what kind of vodka I like?
- Just asking, there is nothing wrong with that. It's called customer service, but the kinds of you don't probably deserve it. I can pour any cheap manure in this minty compost and you are going to lap it up faster than I say "Grasshopper".
- Hey, Frank, don't you get a point? What you are doing is exactly the opposite of the customer service. Look, you know me for how long already? Two years? And I always drink the same cocktail, and you always ask me what kind of vodka to put in it, and I always reply "Stolichnaya". How hard is it to remember, Frank? So shut up, make me a drink and stop complaining.
- You are complaining, not me. Here is your drink, for God's sake, Marston how can you drink this?
- Now you teaching me, Frank? I don't question your taste man, so don't bother me with your opinion. How many more times have I to explain that I enjoy it, man, period, stop your soul searching conversation and get a life.

Marston slowly sipped from the glass seemingly enjoying the drink. It's Friday night, time to visit good old friend Alain. He threw ten dollar bill on the bar and headed to the door. Frank looked at him with disgust. He loathed every single thing about the guy. The very existence of this young man drove him mad. And his taste in drinks sounded like a verdict. Marston too wasn't particularly fond of Frank, and as much as the barman didn't hide it. He looked at the giant grasshopper on bars street sign, shrugged his shoulders and walked away to the Alain's place humming a sacrilegious song.

In five minutes Marston was knocking on the door. Nobody answered. He spat on the floor, but the spittle flew down awkwardly and landed on his new shoe.
- Oh, for God's sake!
He took out the handkerchief to wipe the spittle off the shoe. He knocked again and listened carefully to the noises behind the door. Fuzzy sounds of body movements were distinct in the silence of the night. Maybe Alain was asleep, or drunk and unconscious, which is his usual state. Marston kicked the door and it opened with little resistance. Dark and unfriendly room with smell of alcohol and garbage presented itself in its naked ugliness, sticky floors squeaking with every step. The body in white gown with vomit stains laid on the floor, the face covered in spoiled exaggerated make up. Marston carefully stepped over Alain and sat on the chair wiping it before with same handkerchief he used on the shoe.
- Hey, Alain, wake up man, you have guests!
The clown moved slightly, opened his eyes but it was evident he was still asleep. Than his look became more focused and he was able to recognize late visitor.
- What do you want? I told you I'm going to pay you next week.
- And when was that? Do you remember?
- When was what?
- The day before the next week, schmuck, do you remember?
Alain sat on the floor, the pain in elbow and back stopped being so severe. He was slowly coming to senses. It is familiar face. Unwelcome and dangerous face, the face he would much rather not see at this moment.
- I need a drink, do you mind? - he asked - Bring me a glass and the bottle, you know where they are.
Marston granted old man's wish. After a couple of gulps Pierrot's eyes became much more engaged. He looked at the late night visitor and said
- Look, man, I know I'm late with the money, but you have to understand, I'm in a tough situation right now. I'll pay you back as soon as I have it. Our premier, it's wicked, man, you have to see it, come to the theater, I'll get you a ticket.
- Sorry, Alain, I'm not a theater goer. You promised the money, but somehow I have a feeling you don't have it.
- Marston, please, come back in a week, I'll have your money.
Young man stood up and walked around the gloomy room without a word. He opened the cupboard and looked inside searching for a knife, but couldn't find any. He continued searching the drawers for any sharp objects. Alain meanwhile was able to crawl to the drawer and reach the gun in it.
- Hold it there, pal!
- You talking to me, stupid clown?
Marston turned back holding a hammer.
- Put it down! Put the hammer down! Now!
Alain was holding a gun aiming at his adversary. His hands shaking and heart beating hard, so hard it was about to jump out of his chest. His finger on a trigger, the moment has come. One shot separates Alain the clown from Alain the new person. He could rob Marston and drive far from this disgusting town, some nice, sunny small town with friendly citizen, where he could nod to the neighbors on the way to tobacco shop. He pulled trigger, but nothing happened. Not even single bang. He stood hopelessly shocked in disbelief.

Marston leaped fast to the stunned debtor and smashed Alain's head with the hammer. Blood gashed staining his hair and face. The suit was ruined as well. He kicked the gun out of clown's hand, than added two more blows with the hammer to the head. Red blood mixed with the dried up vomit creating wild pattern. Blood on clown's face, pieces of brain and bones laying around. The killer went to the bathroom to wash the hands. Bloody water ran down the sink. A pair of eyes calmly looked from the mirror. Like nothing really happened. Marston used familiar handkerchief to wipe hands. The jerrycan with gasoline appeared and he started sprinkling surroundings.

- Who's laughing now?... - he mumbled sarcastically, throwing burning match.

WORDS: 1410