I was laying in bed and thinking about the silly thing I wrote just below this post, and I just started talking in my head, first person, writing a story for that picture. I liked how it sounded in my head. But in my head, it was Marv's voice from Sin City talking, not me. These are his words... Click the title to read the rest.
I toss my cigarette on the ground and shove the gun deep into my pocket, then push through the doors and walk inside. The place was empty, a real honest to god shit hole this one. One guy standing around, he aint got no life outside of this place, its got him by the balls. There's an old man behind the desk listening to the sound of his own heart as it ticks the seconds off his life.
I'm at the desk and tell him I want a room for the night. He doesn't look up. I'm nothing to him, I could be the hapless stiff standing next to me with all the world around and nothin to live for but hope and a prayer that life cant be this ugly, but it is.
His hand disappears inside a drawer and comes back with a rusted shank of a key you could die from if you looked at it too long. I run my hand across the worn out desktop dug out with knife gouges and smeared with old coffee stains until the key is in my hand and I'm shoving it into my pocket, right against that gun. I've got my hand wrapped around it now and I'm staring at the geezer with enough intent to burn his face off, but he won't look at me. What have I gotta do to get him to look at me?
I feel the sweat on the back of my neck now, and the dust from this crazy old place is starting to burn inside my lungs. I turn my body to the side and let the gun slide out of my hand. I walk towards the stairs and look back at the woman who was behind me. What's her story? Everybody has a story.