Chào các bạn! Vì nhiều lý do từ nay Truyen2U chính thức đổi tên là Truyen247.Pro. Mong các bạn tiếp tục ủng hộ truy cập tên miền mới này nhé! Mãi yêu... ♥

9.The motherfucker

📝This novel is being corrected. Sorry for the misspellings


*This chapter is told from the point of view of two characters: Jack, the protagonist, and Stephen, whose writer I am not and whom I thank for giving me permission to publish this story written together with him. Who do I give the credits to.*

✴️✴️✴️

Stephen: It's a quarter to four in the afternoon. It's only been forty-five minutes since I left Headquarters, where I had been since seven in the morning today. That is the schedule I have had during this first week of September, and although I hate it quite a bit, I prefer to have the afternoons off.

Today is one of those days, in which I am not a person, one of those days in which the fatigue can me. I've barely slept tonight, and getting up so early ends up taking its toll on us all.

And things are not going quite as they would like in the police station, because I still do not know the whereabouts of Lenin Sokolov's son of a bitch, something that completely disloys me, because I fear that he will end up finding me, as he did last year, when found me in Wells. For all that, I need to clear my mind, before returning to Camden Hollow, so I decide to enter one of the many venues in Whitehall. I close the door with the help of my hand because it is made of glass, and I walk to the bar, where I lean my elbows when I arrive.

I ask the waiter for a very strong coffee because I need it, since I'm half asleep, and while he is going to do it, I turn around without separating my right elbow from the bar, to look at the television, unable to avoid raising my eyebrows , seeing that more and more people are implanting necklaces, bracelets, anklets ...

"Fuck you ..." I mutter to myself because it seems completely absurd to me that people are so completely absurd, and at that moment when I'm going to stop looking, I hear a noise.

Looking over there, I see a boy almost fighting with the local cigar machine, and I lick my lips.

"That way you're not going anywhere ..." I say and move away from the bar, determined to get closer because I know how to make packs of tobacco come out of that damaged machine, which I already know myself.

Jack: I hate everything. Right now I hate everything. I am angry with this cigarette machine that is going to swallow my money and leave me without a pack. I'm mad at the damn college even if it's Friday.

I am angry with London, with Georgina, with my idiotic friends and with all humanity in general.

I give the machine the hell out, hoping that the tobacco I just bought will fall, but I can't get anything, and when I hear a voice that seems to be talking to me, I look over there to find a tall and big guy with more of a face than zombie than me, but who seems willing to help me.

"Well, you'll tell me how why this shit has swallowed my money." I say stepping back to leave you.

Stephen: I stand to one side of the machine watching your grimace. It is normal for you to get that face, I think we all get when something like this happens to us with a vending machine.

I rest my left hand on the machine looking at it, letting the air escape through my nose when listening to you.

"This machine must have made a millionaire with me, until I got the hang of it." I wink at you and pull away from him, standing next to you, before grabbing his top with both hands, and kicking him with the tip of my foot, in his right corner. At that moment, the pack of tobacco falls to the corresponding place.

"You just have to get the hang of it." Like everything. I say and take the liberty of bending down to pick up the pack of cigarettes, looking at the brand before offering it to you.

Jack: Yeah, at that size, you might hit the machine and take all the tobacco out of it.

I stay behind, with my arms crossed peeking out from the side to see how you do it and that it doesn't happen to me again.

I give a slight laugh, almost like a protest, when you say that he must have become a millionaire with you and I wonder if you will come here a lot. I see that wink and how you grab the machine afterward to kick it in the right corner. If you do that to a guy and hit him in the crotch, you screw him up.

At the moment, my pack falls, as if nothing. And on top of that you tell me that you have to get the hang of it.

I see you looking at the pack and I pick it up when you give it to me.

"Sounds easy." I say lowering my lips. Is a lie. It doesn't seem easy to me. Sure it takes me a while to get the hang of it, but I'm not going to look bad.

Stephen: Well, you know. "I wink at you, noticing you."

I may have little shame but I don't care because I'm like that, so I point to your pack of cigarettes in your hands.

"You are right to smoke Marlboro." It is the best tobacco there is. I say and curl my lips down. "Although the Lucky Strike isn't bad either." I say looking at the broken cigarette machine, noticing the brands they sell, putting the tip of my index finger on the button of the "Natural American Spirit" tobacco pack, before looking at you.

"This is bullshit." Don't be fooled by telling you otherwise. I say removing my finger from there.

Jack: I wink at you too in response to your wink.

I turn my packet of tobacco around in my hand when you point to it, telling me that I am right to smoke Marlboro because it is the best tobacco there is. I open the plastic, although I know I won't be able to smoke in here and I put it in my pocket listening to you.

"Have you tried all of them?" "I ask when you tell me that Lucky Strike isn't bad and Natural American Spirit sucks."

You must touch the meter ninety if you do not reach it, because I am 1'80, I have muscle and, against all odds, I feel a little tiny by your side.

I look at the cigars they have in that machine and then I look at you again.

Stephen: I shake my head sideways looking at the machine again.

"Not all, but almost all." I answer, because there was a time in my life when I tried to try all the tobacco brands that I could, to find the best one.

I look at you again.

"Have you only had the Marlboro?" I ask you, and at that moment I hear a «Hey, gentleman», which makes me look back. Then I see the waiter pointing to the coffee on the bar.

"Damn, the coffee." I say and look at the waiter raising my left thumb to say «ok», before looking back at you, waiting for your answer.

Jack: You tell me you've tried almost all of them. I guess you would look for the one you like the most.

I shrug my shoulders when you ask me that question, peeking around to see the waiter who just called you. But you look back at me.

"Yes, as for tobacco, yes." I answer and point with my eyebrows. Let's go. "I take the liberty of saying, urging you to go to the bar, where you have your coffee."

"Were you looking for the best tobacco when you tried all of them, or did you buy the one you wanted every day?"

I ask looking at the ground as I walk no longer caring if it bothers you that I go where your coffee is or not.

Stephen: Your answer makes me think you've tried more things, something that reminds me of myself from your years, or even when I was younger.

I don't know I'm very good at calculating ages, but you look like a kid to me. I start to walk towards the bar when you invite me to do it, and I stand in front of her, taking a deep breath, before taking the sugar envelope, opening it and dumping it halfway into the cup, seeing how it gets wet, it becomes brown, and sinks in through the center.

"I was looking for the one I liked the most of all." I say and put the packet of sugar on the bar, before picking up the spoon and beginning to stir the coffee, resting my left hand on the bar.

"I did the same with the whiskey brands." I smile and wink at you, before putting down the spoon and taking a sip of coffee.

Jack: I stop at the bar, although I didn't order anything, as I only went in for a packet of cigarettes. But I already find it ugly not to wait for you to finish that coffee after helping me get my tobacco. If I was in a hurry, I probably would have thanked you and left, but I have no plans.

You tell me that you were looking for the one you like the most and, while you stir your coffee, I sit on a stool, resting my feet on the iron between the legs. When you reveal that you did the same with whiskey, I laugh.

"You'd end up with a good drunk..." I say and raise my eyebrows at the thought of myself and all the lag that I usually get on weekends, parties, or just when I feel like it.

"Are you doing everything you can?" I ask laughing.

Stephen: I see you sitting on the stool next to me.

I think you have a face, as much as I do, and that instead of bothering me, I like it.

I remember my youth, those moments when I felt so lost for what I had done, those moments when I couldn't find my way back home, even though I was in it, that's why I bite my lower lip, letting the air escape by the nose.

"Well, I didn't try them all at once." I tell you and turn my body to see you face on, leaning my right elbow on the bar, and wrapping my hand around the cup. After hearing your question, I curl my lips down.

"More or less". I say and shrug my shoulders. But especially when I was your age. I point to you with the cup I lift from the saucer, to take a new drink of coffee.

Jack: I don't know how old you will be, but I reckon you get quite a bit out of me. Surely you are over thirty although it is not that you have wrinkles. Occasionally, possibly more expressive than age.

You turn to see me and I casually keep my hands between my legs apart, not caring if I disturb someone from behind, while I listen to you.

"Well, I try everything at once." I answer by nodding. "It makes you shit at first." Then you get used to it and, other times, you go back to being pure shit. I say laughing.

Something tells me that «when you were my age» means that you are no longer the same as before, that you have calmed down, or that you have settled down. Something that my father never tires of repeating to me ad nauseam.

Stephen: I listen to your words.

Your appearance makes me think. It makes me think that you are the typical vicious, the typical bad boy who wants to try everything, and who does not want to leave anything pending, that is: you are like me. Very me but in you. Very me at your age, and somehow, although I do not know you at all, I wish that when you get to my age, you will be like I am, and that you are tired of trying so many things.

I put the cup on the saucer and lick my lips.

"The worst thing is that what turns out to be pure shit is your brain". I say with a gesture with my lips. "There will come a time when your brain turns to diarrhea, and there will be nothing to do." I tell you by drinking my coffee again, looking at the saucer when I put it on it, before looking at you again.

"How old are you?"

Jack: You listen to me without saying anything. Your face looks like that of an uncle tired of working, who has had a bad rest or little sleep. It's the typical Friday face. Similar to Monday but generally friendlier.

All you say is that what turns out to be shit is the brain. Something to which I shrug my shoulders, looking across the bar, where the waiters work. I listen to what you say, as if you are warning me of what can happen to me because you know it. Until you ask me my age and I look at you again.

"Twenty one." I answer waiting to see what your answer is.

Stephen: You roll your shoulders facing the other side of the bar. It is clear that you don't give a shit what I say to you, who cares what anyone says to you during your youth? Sooner or later, one way or another, we all end up risking our lives when we are young. I did things wrong, drank too much, smoked a lot more than now, and tried marijuana, but the worst thing I did, it had nothing to do with alcohol or drugs.

I swallow hard as I think back to that accident, something I think about every day, something I know I will never forget, something I will live with until the day I die, and which will surely continue to haunt me after dead. I nod my head when you tell me how old you are.

"Twenty-one... How old..." I say with irony smiling, thinking that in truth, we should all think ourselves less older than twenty-one, and pay more attention to our parents.

"At your age, I was a bit of a son of a bitch." I tell you, starting to laugh, before drinking my coffee again, waiting for your answer.

Jack: You mean I'm nothing older by giving me that answer in that ironic way. It's not something that bothers me too much. But I tend to be like oil when I put it in water: I always stay on top.

"Not as much as you, of course ..." I say raising an eyebrow. But I burst out laughing when you tell me that, at my age, you were a son of a bitch. Somehow, I think I, at my age, am a son of a bitch.

That makes me laugh and I do nothing but blurt it out.

"Well then I think you were the way I am." I say because it is not something that worries me too much." I just live life and I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks.

Stephen: What you tell me makes me raise my eyebrows without taking my eyes off you. You just called me 'old', or so it seems.

"It's just that I turned 72 the other day, don't fuck around." I say looking into the bar, annoyed by your comment, but when I hear you laugh, I look back at you.

You call yourself a son of a bitch, when you tell me that then you think I was the way you are, and no matter what you tell me, I nod, determined to tell you what I say:

"I think so. You look like a son of a bitch." I say pointing at you before grabbing my cup of coffee, and finishing it off, because I need energy, since I'm half asleep.

"Although I think I seemed even more of a bastard than you, with your years." I say leaning my elbow on the bar without taking my eyes off you.

Jack: What I say makes you feel bad. Normal. It's what I wanted, just like what you said about me made me feel bad. I'm sick of being seen by a fucking kid.

You iron out again, though you end up laughing afterward, literally calling me 'son of a bitch' with all your little shame. But it is that you should not know what shame is either.

"I told you: I am." I affirm thinking about the many things that I have done.

But when you tell me you looked even more of a bitch than I did, I raise my eyebrows, mildly surprised, although the other part is exaggeration.

"Well, you still have it. I can't imagine how you would be at my age..." I shrug my shoulders. 

"That, though, takes more on what you do." I say wrinkling my brow. I'm curious what a son of a bitch you were, although I don't even know if you still are. You look like it.

Stephen: You claim you are a son of a bitch, and even if it's wrong, it makes me laugh, because you remind me of myself.

But maybe you are not joking, maybe you are not a bastard, but a bad person, and I am laughing because I think you are talking about leading a bad life because of alcohol, drugs or sex.

Perhaps you are talking to me about worse things, because nobody knows the life of a person by talking to them once.

I swallow hard, wetting my lips, running the tip of my index finger along the edge of the empty coffee cup, to do something in the meantime. I smile when you tell me I still look like a son of a bitch, raising my eyebrows as I do so.

"I still am." I wink at you, because I really don't consider myself a son of a bitch, I consider myself only myself, and I like being who I am.

Hearing what you say, I nod my head, and then look toward the door when I hear it open, seeing a middle-aged man enter.

I move a little against the bar to rest my back on it, still looking at you.

"Do you come often here?"

Jack: I don't know how old you are. I'm curious.

You laugh too, although you probably see me shit. I see what you do with the coffee cup and I look at my empty side. In the end, since I was only here for tobacco, I didn't ask for anything. But I really want to smoke so much that all I want is for you to finish that coffee and keep chatting outside. I listen to the question you ask me and I look at you, shrugging my shoulders.

"Sometimes, when I leave the university, when I am taking a walk and I feel like having a drink, or when I have to buy tobacco." I shrug my shoulders. "I've never seen you ..." I wet my lips, shaking my own words.

"Are you coming this way?"

Stephen: I listen to what you tell me, while I take a small sip from the cup, drinking the little drop of coffee that was left inside it, keeping my eyebrows raised. I look at you with that same gesture, leaving the cup in its place.

I step away from the bar, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, for the black leather wallet. I lick my lips as I do, and shrug my shoulders.

"Only when I'm thirsty after work." I joke and look at you. "I come here from time to time." I look at my wallet to get the right coins for the price of the coffee I just had, after looking at it once more on the poster in case it has risen in these days.

I put them on the table, and put the wallet in my pocket again, looking at you.

"I think I'm going to put a picture of when I was your age in my wallet, so if I see you around here again, I'll show it to you, and you see what a son of a bitch I looked like." I wink at you waiting for your words.

Jack: It seems that everything is working in my favor and the anxiety I have when I can't smoke is going to end, because you finish what you have left of coffee, looking at me with an impossible pimp gesture. Surely beats my face, yeah But I am not going to accept that something surpasses me.

I nod when you say you come over from time to time and I get off the stool when I see you paying for your coffee.

"Do you still carry photos in wallets?" I ask, spouting a raspberry, calling you 'old' again because I feel like it.

I raise an eyebrow at you as I pull on my jacket ready to walk to the door, glaring at you.

"Do it, yes, that's how I see you..." I wink at you and reach into my pocket to take out my packet of tobacco, which I open to offer you.

"How old are you?" I ask because I can't handle curiosity anymore.

Stephen: The question you ask irritates me, I think you just called me 'old' without saying it in a literal way.

I laugh to myself, and bite my lower lip thinking of a good answer to give you, as I walk away from the bar.

"I can't show you the gallery of my smartphone, lest I make the wrong photo, and show you one that is not for you." I wink at you, seeing how you walk towards the door like me, surely you intend to follow me, walk with me through the city as if we had known each other forever, but I don't tell you anything, just when we go outside, I take one of the Cigars from your Marlboro pack, because that's what you offered me after winking after telling me to do it and that's what you see.

I'm going to put the cigarette in my mouth, but you ask me a question. I'm about to tell you the truth, but your comments have made me feel bad, so I stand in the middle of the street, looking at you with a smile on my lips.

"Your father's." I say and wink at you. In spite of everything, you make me laugh.

Jack: You tell me that you don't show me your smartphone gallery because you can show me a photo that is not for me and that leads me to wonder if you have a girlfriend. Something that I think is a real mistake.

You end up taking one of my cigars when we go outside and I take one for myself, bringing it to my lips when I reach for the lighter in my pocket while you leave your cigar standing and smile at me before telling me that you are my father's age.

I'm going to light my cigarette, but I stare at you because what I've told you made you feel bad again and I like that.

"Well, shit." "I say holding the cigar between my teeth, so I can talk to you. Finally, I light it and bring my lighter closer to your cigar.

"You take them well." My father is 45. He looks like your grandfather.

Stephen: You stare at me as if you were squared by my answer, but if so, you don't show me, something that makes me think once again that yes, you are like me, but not just like me at twenty-one but like me now.

I put the cigar between my lips, and my left hand in front, so that the fire does not go out when you light it for me.

I look at you raising my eyebrows. You are hesitating, because I did not know how old your father was, to give you my real age with that comment, but at least you tell me that I take them well, that means that you do not calculate 45, something that I like.

"I'm thirty-six." I say with the cigar between my lips, feeling his movement as I speak.

Jack: I breathe in the smoke from the cigarette going while lighting yours and when I do, I can put the lighter next to the package in my pocket, taking a drag while nodding when you give me your actual age.

You are not wrong. But it's not my style to say that, although I can't help but curl the corners of my lips down before licking them and starting to walk.

"By thirty-six you're worse." I say laughing, not caring about walking around London with a stranger I only know is thirty-six years old, a son of a bitch, and who tasted tobacco and whiskey to find out which were the best, for not knowing. , I don't even know your name.

I notice the vibration of my mobile followed by the sound of some message, and I look at you: Yes, you are close to 6' 3". That I don't know, but I calculate it. And, in the end, I decide to ask you a question when I remember your mobile because mine rang.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Stephen: I take a drag on my cigar when you light it, and I push it away from my lips, grateful that it didn't stick to them. I put it between my fingers watching you as I walk by your side.

I see the gesture you make with your lips when I tell you how old I am, and when I go to smile because I think I look young for my age, you tell me that by thirty-six I'm worse. That irritates me so much that I have to bite my tongue so as not to shit on your fucking mother.

I laugh inside looking at you.

"Who knows how are you when you get to my age..." I say taking another puff on my cigarette while listening to the sound of your mobile, a sound that will surely be that of a new message on WhatsApp.

Hearing your question, I look at you. Surely you are the typical one who does not like having a girlfriend, because the same thing happened to me at your age, but I smile.

"I do have a girlfriend. She is twenty-two years old." I say winking at you, smiling and nudging you, meaning to say that I'll be old but I have a very young girlfriend.

Jack: I shrug my shoulders when you throw that 'to know' how much they tell me many times when they talk about the future that I don't even look at to make many plans.

I'm going to take my iPhone for a second to see who it is when you tell me you do have a girlfriend, winking at me, to which I nod without caring until you nudge me with a smile that seems mischievous, to tell me that she is twenty-two years. That is, the ones that I am about to meet.

That leaves me out of the game. Yeah, you just gave me a bang in the whole mouth. But I'm not going to let you know.

"Well, it's a mistake." I claimed. "I cheated on the only girlfriend I ever had." I tell you thus giving you the only valid explanation that having a girlfriend seems to me to tie myself to someone.

But yours is very young, you are older and, surely, it will keep you hot all day. That thought leads me to raise my eyebrows and I take one more drag.

"It's hot?" I ask because that is something that cannot be missed when talking about girls.

I look at you, holding that drag on my lungs for a few seconds until I let go of the smoke.

Stephen: You shrug your shoulders when I tell you that I do have a girlfriend, but your face changes when you hear how old she is, something that makes me feel good because I've beaten you in this round.

I take a drag on my cigarette and when I lower my arm, you tell me it's a mistake, that you cheated on the only girlfriend you ever had. I've never cheated on anyone, because I've only had one girlfriend before Alice.

But despite that, I know that I have behaved badly with many girls, that I have broken the hearts of more than one of them with not wanting to give them more of myself than just sex, but to the only girl that it hurt to break her my heart went to Nelly, whom I broke into a thousand pieces without wanting to. I swallow hard.

"Well, that must hurt, huh?" I say leaning forward a little to talk to you. "Get your horns out, I mean." I lean back and when I hear your question, I can't help feeling anger, but I can't with your pimp gesture, you can't stay above me, that's why I'm not going to let you do it.

"Very hot. To take bread and wet." I say when I remember a Spanish expression, which I read a long time ago on a web page thanks to a friend.

Jack: "The host that hit me hurt more." I say when I remember that I returned to her house as if nothing had happened, and she had already found out.

"If she hadn't been held, she would have smashed me to hosts instead of powder, as she used to." I say laughing until you tell me that your girlfriend is 'to take bread and wet'. I don't know where I heard that, but I find it funny. Although, what amuses me the most, is what occurs to me to tell you:

"Well, give me bread." I answer while still laughing.

I hope I don't risk you taking this the wrong way and instead of bread you punch me. I still don't know your name but, I'm having a good time. And that matters more. Maybe I won't see you around here again and become one of the many people I've talked to and goodbye.

But, if not, we will have good times because you do not stop being similar to me.

Stephen: I'm going to tell you that it's normal for your girlfriend to give you a host, but I can't help but laugh when you tell me that if they hadn't held her, she would have destroyed you with hosts instead of powder.

I laugh with you, but I suddenly stop laughing when I hear you say so arrogantly 'then, give me bread.'

I'm laughing with you, yes, it's true, but it's also true that you're driving me crazy, that's why I let the start of a nervous laugh escape from my lips.

"Tell you about your fucking mother, kid." I say thinking that I'm not cutting your face right now, precisely because of that, because you're a twenty-one-year-old boy, and that slows me down, for now, because if you keep going, you'll end up getting paid, and not precisely in money.

I look around me, crossing the street afterwards. I have to go to the same place I always go, but I know that I will not be able to get rid of you yet, so I know that I have to continue walking without sense, because I do not live in London.

I look at you after taking a new drag on my cigarette, when I looked to the left, and I notice how you walk.

Of course you are very much like I was, maybe that's why I didn't hit you.

Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen247.Pro