First Date

Many who know of me and the niche of study my journalistic integrity endures wildly brings me into the faces of many broken, twisted, unstable, intriguing, or plain freakish oddities in human form. I remain crude to remain social leveling with their off-centered biases, upsetting others in my field who can’t take the risky behavior that radiates poor outcomes with every question I pose. These Rock stars, eccentric Nascar drivers, or agoraphobic architects winning awards but call to say they’re in a DMT coma and can’t pick it up until the Titan’s orbit reverses the tides. These tasks I’ve taken to bring to light the strange, the unknowable, the fringes, ugly cursed stepchild have been to broaden the horizons of the dark and fanciful that exist inches from your daily lives. Not all of it pans out to anything more than some coo-coos with talent no one needs, according to readers of my last few stories, but the wait is over. It’s been three years since my time wrestling with the unfathomable antics of The Whiskey Hotel during their Witchy Bombardment European tour, and now I’ve finally got in contact with another bonified anomaly. She’s known as Detective Alice Scarlett.

I first discovered her skills during a stop on tour in Amsterdam. Jimmi Moone sought information on a missing person from one of his shows and hoped to hire her with no short of money on the table. I mainly came to find out more about the person in question for their story; however, the nature of his questions and her answers altered my perspectives of the band in the woman unpacking alone in her flat. She wouldn’t take his case, something about a house that lept off its ground floor and chased a man to the sea. Some how she pegged that I was an outsider immediately. I’m one for living within the confines of who I’m studying to provide a specific view, but she caught my occupation, its trivial nature, and my trauma-led magnet to the drug-fueled suffering I’m constantly making excuses for. Detectives do this sort of Dick Tracy shit all the time, and me picking her trench coat pocket and finding her agency badge only worsened her resolve. Since I was out in the open, I offered to tell her story off-handedly. She, in a tank-top and tight khaki pants matching a grey vest, pulled out a gun from her bra. Before she finished her threat, I asked where that weapon could have possibly been, given her bust size and the barrel of the .357 magnum. She promised to explain what division of Interpol would hire a drunk beat cop whose one claim to fame was quitting on TV due to some mantle-caressing mining hole where she freed modern-day indentured miners. Many have speculated about the explosive ordeal, yet its creation and the theorized use of the undiscovered crystals by the conglomerate leading the human rights ignoring expedition is unknown. Her only stipulation was that I find her, no hints.

Three years of studying the weirdest cases, sifting through countless files of the occult or anything that matched some of the book titles I could remember from her cluttered flat in the capitol. That was the first dead end that drove me battier than a DC flick. They put me on track with the lost nephew of a fellow journalist who claims his teenage nephew's return at his own funeral was thanks to the efforts of a Mr. Adams, that found and retrieved him from a place he either couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about. The most he gave were the taste of pain in excruciating detail and the twenty-three department store doorways he walked through to get home. Mr. Adams, turns out, was sent by Alice Scarlett to his exact location. Yet neither were available to talk about the daring recovery until now. Three years of investigation taking me through spotty records of her accomplishments with glaring misprints as minor as a victim’s sir name or entire companies that have never existed, more and more felt disjointed. No one was changing their tune, and things grew odder still. She has solved or is directly related to no less than three hundred cases with several agencies across the globe in the span of three years, coincidently, starting the day after I showed up on a whim as she moved into her new flat. No matter the severity of the inner workings and no matter the outcome, she disappears, suffering no consequence.

The only conclusion that’s available with the little I could gather dictates they struggled with the same issue as I, leading me to pursue her for the answers to questions so many have. I was set to meet her, get this, on Friday, October 13th, during a full moon at a bar called Black Weekend. Please don’t ask me how long it took me to solve that riddle. Due to my living situation at the time being acquired so suddenly, I was forced to live with an acquaintance some may know for his late-night trips into the so-called astral plane. Living on a pathetic couch never fails to make me regret my life decisions when said couch might have an over-dosing ‘patient’ waiting for the ‘doctor’ to remove the leech from his ear. Being wreckless needs its own entire form when I do my taxes, and the number of deductions would surprise you. It’s a wonder I made it at all.

I wasn’t sure whose bed I was in, but I had been cowering naked under the blankets hiding for hours, waiting for the F4 tornado of judgemental wasps to move on or dissipate in the walls where they came from. Feeling the stray stings persevering through the comforter led me to believe the meeting wouldn’t happen as I started to realize I was in a hotel room and not the spare bedroom/lab I had been renting for two days. As soon as I sat up, the temperature outside shot from a rising second sun to a hall of clean, dry ice floors and walls, and the bed wouldn’t be long. The alarm I set wouldn’t die until I killed it, but I was forced to leap from clothing items to furniture until I made it to reality enough to keep from losing the tips of my fingers on the gasly-frigid dresser. Fifteen minutes from go time, and I had to deduce I was forty-five minutes out at a Marriot Hotel and shared it with someone based on the clothes in the bathroom, but I hadn’t time to remember what the hell that was all about. Phone, keys, notepad pen, hidden recording app queued up, great, down to the Chevy S10. I really hoped it was out there; how did I get here?

The traffic was fine, not that I remember much of it within the grips of a comedown, but I arrived relatively unperturbed, if not sweaty and more than a little out of breath. I darted to the restroom for a sprucing up with cold water, moving as quickly as possible. When I took a stool at the bar to confirm her presence with the bar tender, he put four shots on a tray and pointed to the only booth with a flickering lightbulb without a decorative shade. All without a word, from the bar to the dark back corner from any customers.

I approached with the tray introducing myself with an apology, to which she replied through her smoker’s voice, “I waited, didn’t I? My drink, Markus?” I scooted in the church pue booth, and before I was settled, two of the shot were emptied with accompanied slams upside down. She followed with, I’ll answer your questions on the level, not below, and only if YOU’RE above my count. You okay with that? You were rode you dry, weren’t you.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I’ll save that for later, Detective.” She insisted on asking while I was suffering the immediate side effects of whatever rot gut Everclear laced concoction. She asked that I run her through the last hour in detail. The more explicit the imagery of the guilt and psychological turmoil on the walls of a past version of me laughing at my denial-ridden current ass, the better. Not that I was keen on turning this into a two-way confessional, but talking kept me focused on the tangible. A scratchy throat would be the minor issue searing through my voice box with what I said, so I downed the next one making sure to account for the time necessary for recovery. Contests like this act as a filter for the lifestyle commitment I’ll have to endure for the story and enhance the lore surrounding them. A doctor in Louisiana needed me to stitch up a slash he received during one of his on-call patients. I dedicated an entire chapter in ‘Janet’s Moone: Afterlife of the Whiskey Hotel to the week in the Czech Republic, earning the respect of a Shaman’s Lizard familiar. The only worry with Alice’s drinking initiation involved the dedication of Harry, the bar tender to her, and ridiculously none of the other nine customers.

“If you don’t mind, Detective Scarlett, I’d like to jump right in with an issue I think will throw people right into what makes you an interesting anomaly. Mainly, most find someone who has been born yesterday to be too naïve to develop the list of feats under their belt. I mean this with the utmost respect.”

“Am I listening to the wrong language?”

“I’m asking why does no one know anything about you beyond three years ago? No birth records, a social security number cleaner than a newborn, no schools, or even tax records, according to my research, meaning your sketchy success rate is doing a lot of heavy lifting.”

Another round arrived in time to fill the space I assumed she was using to think of a response. Six shots on the tray, and she put three back like she was in tune with my nightmares, and the bar tender leaves them there like a bitch. “Markus, you surprise me, so I’ll level with you; the answer to that question isn’t meant for this article. But while you think of your next one, who goes on a hallucinogen bender three days before meeting a vital piece to their livelihood?” She had a point.

“My accommodations were what I like to call ‘four out of five black stars’ as an average review score as long as the stars represent felonies you can get away with on the property, but I didn’t wake up there. I guess I fleed at some point during the orifice cleansing.” I tried the snapping trick the had the tray loaded and ready, hoping to get water, to no avail. Couldn’t understand whether I had become invisible and unable to produce sound, but it took waving my arms like the mayday signal ran out of power, but once the water arrived, I got to work on those shots.

“That is touching. So the dedication is there, but a mind like yours needs constant stimulation. You have that good old spunk, don’t you?”

The third glass that sent literal fire water a running for the hills had me coughing up a lung gripping the table and booth seat, rocking to the wave patterns of a sea amid a hurricane beyond the eye. She remained still, and thus to reorient me, I focused on her frizzy red locks steadying the seas back into a dingy, sticky floor, practically taking my shoes off. “Before I ask what's in these drinks, which is very important to my investigation, what is the expertise that allows you to remain abundantly untrustworthy yet the most highly recommended by previous clients? And I mean, these reviews are rough, I mean, get this— 'that dirty skank fucked my son before she put him in jail for the murder of my wife.’ Or the official, whose name I’ll keep quiet, stated sternly that there was never a moment where he felt safe with anything you suggested, did, or demanded in the recourse of returning the stolen Ark of Fung Chow to the museum it was sold to. Thoughts?”

“You aren’t a slouch; I’ll give you that. Truthfully you don’t have the time for that one either. Hmm, I’d hate your story to be all fluff. Shouldn’t we stick you who does my hair or if these are really ten-dollar shots?”

“How did I miss that?!”

The tray of drinks had been sat in front of me, lit on fire, and Alice had to stop it spinning by the time I flinched at the sight of them. Now, I can’t say this was quick thinking or blasphemous curiosity, hoping to pull Alice out of her shell before I ended my night in a body bag. I smothered the drink in her hand, burning my palm until it faded. I drank her second shot, blowing it out before taking back the surprisingly smooth instant mind shifter. Everything I saw now shifted four inches to the left or right; I was getting them mixed up, dealing with my hands feeling halfway to the neighboring table. Once it was in the gut where the real fight began, I smothered the second. And in hopes of relief, I waterfalled the final one from a reasonable distance. She finished hers while I slapped the brick wall to offset the suffering drowning my eyes.

“You’ve earned your questions, but God damn, at what cost?” she said at my expense.

Although I couldn’t open my eyes from what I believe was the hint of Wasabi, I asked, “I’m not sure of your living situation, but would you move in with me?”

“I’d say hold your horses, but you obviously needed the head start.” She replied.

“I know you’re not in town for me, as flattering as I can be, but I believe shadowing you on your ‘technically’ vigilante cases—” what those glasses held will be the bane of my existence. The nine patrons getting their long-awaited drink orders were staring at me when my eyes drained of tears. I forgot the sway of the vessel I was secretly on. The rocking had progressed to that of a pirate carnival ride swinging back and forth beyond the 90-degree line, soon to make the view through the window upside. I couldn’t relax during the swinging G forces. I gasped silently, “there are no seat belts.” I watched Alice’s hand creep across the table, fingers gearing up for a snap at the tip of the nose just enough to flick the tip. If the pop didn’t cure my paralysis, the sting from her sharp nails would. I hope she doesn’t disappoint. After both, I continued, “--will keep you from divulging more than you feel comfortable; meanwhile, I’ll study, observe, and take what I can get. If you’re as interesting as your reputation, this shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I don’t deal with dead people. You want my answer; I’m going need you to perk up, my Scribbling Cowboy.”

“Don’t count me out, darling. I’ve got more going on thane you realize. Consider the sources that led me to you.” I may have been slurring by this point.

“I like you, Markus. Don’t ruin that love of my vibe with your emotional issues. The tangy taste, the colors, and the work you’ve died for, as it is tantalizing down to my tits, don’t compare to those puzzle pieces lost in the couch you sold on Craig’s List. Or you’re evident motivation to discover the 80s-era pharmacy drugs stolen from a villain’s most frustrating hostage failure orbiting a conscious star. And that jab you made about Mr. Admas is just too much for ‘The Bigsby Witch.’ That was your working title for this piece, right?”

Pausing first to regather my constitution, something that stretched this conversation in the wee hours of the night, I began to notice the Bar tender eyeing me too. I didn’t believe she was upset by the feminine-focused ridicule against her; however, the preview she most likely forcefully acquired paints her in a tragically defenseless dim glow. I continued, “The working title stems from shit like me never once mentioned anything about a Mr. Adams. So if you’re going to toy—”

“We should play darts.” She hopped out of the seat, struggling at first but gaining her footing was nothing. Sliding towards the end of splintery pue, slowly embracing this awkwardly devastating state of being that I concluded would last forever, I tensed into a halt, watching Alice bogart the dart board from two gentlemen. They weren’t hostile despite her interruption of their game to 350, although admittedly more aggressive than needed until she stabbed them both with a dart she stole from one of them. One got it in the hand, the other the throat, and as that ordeal ended, she waved the drink tray holder and me to the area now clearer than ever. I didn’t see how her two oozing shots disappeared, and it would be some time before I got a closer look, weaving in and out of staring morning drinkers as the tables appeared to rearrange between blinks. I couldn’t believe the booths glued to the walls and helping me stand as my legs regained feeling. ‘Jesus!’ Yet I had chatted up a table of single women, only partially put off by my incoherent babbling. Behind me, she said, “Aw, that would have been so sweet. I’m only slightly jealous you spoke them to the wrong red head.”

The gust from the fellas leaving, ripping in that cold air of the brisk night, alarmed every single nerve individually, but the temperature was not to blame, nor the starling suddenness that altered my breathing patterns to choking on the wind. Was it chilling my bones to numbness? Had the blisters hit third-degree burn levels before I could perceive the agony? What was happening—Alice’s guiding arm around my shoulders pulled me back around to face the dart board, and I wondered how the hell does that keep happening. “Here’s the terrible of your situation. We’ll play to 350 fifty; what do you know, it’s already up there, and I’m winning. If you win, you got me, roommate, and a few interrogations you get to supervise, I don’t know, whatever you’re into. I’ll be ending all communications with you right after you pay my tab otherwise. You feel you got this?” Her slur seemed to hit hard on that line.

“My turn, right,” I responded, taking the darts from her uninviting hands.

“But you’re two drinks behind.”

She pointed to the black ooze of Kraken, Baileys, crushed ice made from the tears of orphans, and a healthy portion of whipped cream. She drank two of them without breathing. I refused to do that, but my lips stayed in contact with either glass as I threw for two triple twenties and a bullseye. “Should I have worn gloves before touching that drink? Fuck, that’s greasy. I can see a mini series. You know, like the Deranged cases of Alice Scarlett.” She looked at me, glaring with the intent of burning a hole through my soul or into the ceiling fan not far behind me.

“Then it’s agreed, first to 750, now get my darts. Nasty fella, you turned out to be.”

An Abororigini Village in Adavale forest in Queensland, Australia, trained me on throwing weapons of their people and helped me get amazing at my own. Traveling with a comedy group testing their might living as they do to have an authenticity to their complaining and belittling remarks to their culture, I discovered the lengths that must be understood to make their insane, gross tradition absolutely hilarious. Since the thin camera crew and I were allowed to be respectful, they offered some enlightened perspective through calming meditations, building shelters from the trees and earth, and some weird shit you can make with snake venom, lots of lime, and some stuff of the backs of some frog. Hatched, knives, boomerangs, axes, those swinging ball things that traps legs, I forget, but it was in place of any fighting amplitude whatsoever.

I felt like she was talking to me between shots, but it could’ve been each round flashing different washes of visual inconsistencies, good thing she couldn’t aim for shit. After losing her lead significantly, she brought it down to sip by sip, mimicking. However, by my third triple twenty of the game, she called for these four turquois drinks with a layer of smoke glued to the liquid that didn’t shake when he sat them down on the table that could use a pack of matches under a leg or two. “Were they just pink when you touched it? What the--”

“I didn’t see anything,” she said, finishing the second one and inhaling the smoke after the glass was emptied. “Smoke second, remember that.”

“Forty-five points from victory, and you’re going to have me drink some that gave you a nose bleed? I miss your sporadic rule changes.”

Her eyes dazed over, and I thought her neck snapped open like a Pez dispenser for a split second, and while I didn’t see her fall, she stood back up and brushed herself off and demanded I fold or throw. I wasn’t surviving this without an exit strategy. I pulled out my notepad and a pen, jotted down a note, folded it several times, and wrote on the front. I secured it to her hand and left her a wink before facing my possible death. Drinking the first one was pleasant enough with its skittle-like aftertaste. It was that smoke that needed no introduction entering my lungs. Suddenly my head bumped into the Moon, and in the confusion, I launched the first dart at an ice comet knocking it off course from a collision with earth; the other was deflected by and satellite and sent it and the dart towards Antarctica. Alice’s hand came down on my shoulder, dropping the bar on my head, positioning my right to behind the line again for the second throw. The second drink didn’t make me 240,000 miles tall, but I seemed to be throwing from the same distance floating aimlessly just outside the Moon’s gravity. I guess the sun is coming up. I couldn’t help running towards the exit as soon as my hopeless little dart prepared itself for burning up on reentry, but I wouldn’t see the show. I bolted out of the door to puke in the street I hoped was still there.

I’m not sure when she read my note, but it read:

Open once you’ve realized I won.

Here’s my number to call me tomorrow around 11:00 am-ish. Thank you for a wonderful time. Since I know you’ve stolen my plastic, I guess breakfast, after I get out of the ER, will be on you. Can’t wait to start working with you.

Good Game,

Markus Pepper.

*Addition to the Prelude: The next day, around 1400 hours. She was waiting for me at my hotel with a cut hand; still, blood with fresh stitches that I later found was from when she read my note, looked back at the board at the bullseye, and broke the glass she was holding. Apparently, she squeezed it until it popped in her hand based on my credit card statement. Further strange, I had lost my room key card and assumed it happened during the pick pocketing from the previous night or it was sitting in the room since I left in a hurry. When I took my issue to the front desk clerk, the man couldn’t find my name attached to a single room, but I was recognized by a maid that had seen me on a prior date, sporting a hell of a smile for me. She assured the manager I wasn’t crazy and did stay a night in the hotel. When Alice asked for her room key after finishing her cigarette outside, she was handed my room number Key. I couldn’t have blown an O-ring and passed out in the hall when I saw it happened to be the bed I woke up on the previous night. I’m not sure the order of events that occurred, but that is how I came to live with Detective Alice Scarlett.