Your Demo
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a motive. Dust, the tiniest particle settled on Huntley Gibson's jacket. He raised an eyebrow intolerable, with precise movements. Not wasting energy but still with an undeniable flourish, Huntley brushed the offending speck of dirt off his jacket. Perfection restored, Huntley returned to his normal state of consummate equilibrium, manning the concierge desk in the lobby of the Hotel Terminus. Stately, erect and stature, Chin held high, as if by sheer force of will, he could keep the building from disintegrating. Like the building itself, the lobby was glorious to behold, with grand chandeliers and swooping columns. If one didn't look too closely, the tooth of time had left its mark everywhere. Chipped paint, creaking furniture and in the dark corners, the debris of carelessness slowly accumulated. Huntley, now in his forties, have been concierge here for the last 16 years, and it was with sadness that he'd watch this once. Grand dame stoop gradually with the advancing years, had to witness the development of wrinkles and age spots that even the heaviest of makeups could no longer conceal. And era was winding down, and with it, perhaps, is calling his concierge. At least he knew how to put an end to things he'd seen too many garbage. Edward had materialized in front of the concierge's desk, while Huntley's minded wandered. Huntley quickly drew the air of aristocracy, if not arrogance, tight around himself. Once more, with a pleasant smile reestablished on his face, he turned to the unseemly interruption of a perfectly peaceful morning. Excuse me, sir, he said. Garbage. That's what I said. Perhaps you would like to be a bit more specific. Sir Huntley's eyebrows never fell below the haughty mark. What kind of low rent last resort you guys running here? Edward gesticulated with the pistol in his hand, pointing it haphazardly in any number of unsafe directions. Huntley never flinched. I'm up there ready to finally reboot. But no, you had to give me this garbage. He fiddled with the gotten clicking the safety on and off, racking the slide for good measure, but only managed to jam and even more see garbage, garbage click, click more fiddling with the gun garbage. I see the gun didn't perform to your satisfaction. No, it didn't because it is garbage. I think I get the picture now, sir, if you could please keep it down a bit the other guests would like to enjoy themselves. Huntley nodded toward the dining hall, straight across from the lobby. Inside the hall, a thick haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Long drapes filtered out the last bit of morning life that struggled to shine through the rarely cleaned windows. Other hotel guests were scattered around. The room is of having breakfast at a leper colony, one person per table. They were islands adrift in a sea of decay, picking morosely at their food, watched over by half asleep waiters. Time had slowed to a crawl in here, made viscous by the accumulation of broken lives and shattered hopes. The only person even halfway paying attention to the commotion, possibly because he was seated closest to the double doors leading into the lobby, stubbed out his cigarette breakfast, mostly untouched before him. Ansel Grayson, with somewhere in his thirties, though it was difficult to tell with the hard lines of old grief carved into his face. He watched with dark amusement as Edward performed his ST Vitus dance before Huntley Ansel noticed Huntley's questioning Look the concern for the comfort of the guests. Ansel waved him off. It's all good. What do I care? Edward said back in the lobby fought them. Look at this right here. He pulled with all of his might on the slide of the gun. It was hopelessly stuck. Nothing moved its garbage. Yes. Thank you for pinpointing the problem. Now, if you wouldn't mind, Huntley held out his hand fuming. Edward, slap the gun into it. Thank you, sir. With speed and accuracy of a marine, Huntley disassembled the pistol, then reassembled it with barely a second glance. Click clack could chunk gun. He held out the gun for Edward Grip first. If you would try it now. Edward snatched the gun from Huntley. You know, I had everything covered with a tarp upstairs just so nothing gets messed up. How considerate of Wouldn't want to make a nuisance of myself. Nope. Not me. Oh, I was very careful. In the dining hall, Ansel got up and headed for the double doors leading to the lobby as he passed a table. 1/2 full whiskey glass slipped from the fingers of passed out drunk. Henry Barnett. Henry could count the sober days of his adult life on one hand, and today he certainly wasn't going to add a second hand to it. His blood alcohol rarely fell below pickling levels, so his first drunk nap was scheduled just past breakfast. A lit cigarette in his mouth, Ansel caught the drop glass in midair without spilling a drop, put it back on the table and plucked the burning cigarette from Henry's mouth. On the way out, he stopped to light, another unfiltered with Henry stub casually listening to Edwards rant about garbage guns, the apparent inability of the last resort staff to appreciate tarp covered furniture and his forceful need to not be an annoyance. I finally got my courage up to do this, Edward said. Everything exactly like I want it all down to the last detail. Tristin. And he's old at precisely the right spot myself. Emotionally, perfectly aligned, I pull the trigger to take the last step, and then this This piece of garbage doesn't work. Do you have any idea what this does to a person? Do you, sir? I don't think you do. So guess what? Screw this. Screw me. Trying to be considerate. Screw you, all of you. I'll show you watch this. And without hesitation. Edward jammed that gun into his mouth and squeeze the trigger. Blair, the back of his head, exploded. Edward tumbled to the ground. Dead had last, but the bullet that took Edward's life wasn't done yet. Pulling bone and bring with it, It searched for more things to destroy and finding none slammed into the opposite wall, not two inches from Ansel's face, who was still trying to get a cigarette lit. Ansel didn't even flinch the cigarette finally catching fire, he inhaled until his lungs stung with the rush of nicotine, he puffed out some blue death and walked away. There was Edward, dead, stretched out as if making a snow angel on the carpet, the inside of his head outside of him, like a volcano erupting from his cranium. While all about him, Hotel Terminus went about its business heads turned back. Forks poked food around the plates. Waiters fell back into their trances. Huntley side. He picked up the phone. Housekeeping in the lobby. He hung up, trailing smoke and so push the elevator button. The door slid open. He stepped inside and turned around. His eyes met Huntley's weary eyes. Another death. Another day. Huntley nodded. The elevator doors closed