- David -

Inspiration springs from necessity.

David Li could not recall where he had first heard those words, but tonight they clung to him, shouting at him, demanding to be heard. Inspiration and necessity, intrinsically bound to one another.

David needed to take control. He needed to prove himself, to make good on his potential as his former professors would have put it. He had a talent that many would have killed for, and yet, so far, two years out of college and he was barely eking by. He needed something, anything other than this failure of an existence.

Most of all, he needed to create, to take his brush to a canvas and will an image into being – to pull it into existence from nothing. He had the power to inject beauty into an ugly world, to will into being an image of his own imagining and embed within it a piece of himself, of his emotion and soul, pretentious as he knew that would sound.

Yet to create that art, he needed inspiration; and tonight he longed for it, begging whatever forces may be listening to impart unto him that divine spark, that quintessential genesis of an idea, as if the very fact of his need could ignite into being an inspired flame, a creative resolve where currently he found only an empty bitterness.

He needed...

"I need a drink."

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." David cocked a glance at the tap. The handles blurred, and he rubbed at his eyes. This did not help. His vision cleared momentarily then immediately blurred once more. He decided to take a stab in the dark.

"You got an amber on draught. Don't care which."

"Whatever you say." The bartender grabbed a pint glass from under the counter and headed off.

David could feel the man sneaking a glance his way, but the bartender's face was as blurry as the draught handles. David blotted at his eyes again. Still nothing. He blinked and his vision cleared for a moment, but only a moment. His vision had been fading for over a year now.

Struggling, David pushed that thought away. If he dwelled on it for too long, he wouldn't be able to think about anything else.

The bartender returned. "Seven dollars."

David pulled out a ten. "Keep the change."

He winced as he said it. Everything was too damn expensive in the city. Everything. Hence the necessity. David needed cash. His funds were running low and his debt way too high. Isn't that the way of it, now, he thought. A generation drowning in debt before they even begin?

He laughed. Something about the bleakness of it all made it morbidly amusing. David didn't think of himself as a cynical person - somewhat down, but far from the bitter man that he could see in himself at that moment. It was odd really. His mind had chosen dark paths to follow this evening, and he reveled in them, not just basking in the misery, but more drawn to it. As that darkness overpowered him, he had no choice but to immerse himself within its confines, hugging it close in a lover's embrace.

Somewhere, deep down in David's subconscious an alert sounded. David was no martyr, and self-pity — though a path he occasionally traveled — was not one upon which he lingered often. It was good for a brief visit, but extended stopovers never led anywhere worth the cost of the stay. Something wrong, something unseen bored in, digging its claws down deep.

The bartender raised his brow once more, as if to ask 'what's so funny,' took the bill, and wandered off to the next customer before David could explain himself. Not that David planned to say anything in his defense, anyway. Why bother? At the far end of the bar, the bartender and his new customer faded away into little more than vague shapes of color.

David reached into his pocket and pulled out a small eyedropper. He tilted his head back, applying two drops to each eye, and then blinked, artificial tears streaming down his cheeks.

That's better, he thought as his vision came into some semblance of focus. Still, pocketing the dropper, he could feel his anxiety stealing back in. The drops were almost gone and he was already out of lid scrubs. He didn't have to look in his wallet to know that he lacked the cash to stock back up. Payday was over a week away.

What's a painter without his eyes? he asked himself. Royally screwed, came the inner reply.

He took a long swig of his beer, and then took in the bar around him. A pub like many others, it was lit by a scattering of table lamps, which cast a warm dim light over the sparsely populated establishment; yet equally blanketed that same establishment in deep, concealing shadows. In a further attempt at concealment, a few drab landscapes lined the dirt-stained walls, most placed in vain attempts to disguise the bar's slow decay. Despite the dim, shadow-inducing lighting, and the strategically placed paintings, the gesture failed miserably. Flecks of peeling paint and water stains protruding beneath poorly sealed windows stood as damning evidence of the bar's decline.

In a corner booth meant for four, a solitary old man dozed. His breaths came slow and ragged, and for a moment David's gaze lingered there, half-expecting the man to expulse his last breath, slump back against the booth, and bid adieu to his mortal coil. The man snorted, swatted a string of snot from his nose, then rolled his head to the side and continued his slumber.

The bartender and a young college girl wearing a USC cap chatted it up at the other end of the bar. David couldn't get a direct view on them, but he could vaguely discern their reflection in the mirror lining the back of the bar. Closer by, a few hipsters sat beneath a high window in newly aged, mildly ironic t-shirts exchanging tales of sellouts and pontificating on authenticity.

Nothing about the bar stood out. The dive bathed itself in the same orange, barely-there lighting, over the same concrete floors, dark red booths, and wooden tables as a dozen other local bars, all drowning in the same depressing early-evening atmosphere.

Nonetheless, David found himself oddly drawn to the place; connected to it, as if it ebbed and flowed with some hidden source of inspiration, a source that pulled at the back of his mind, begging for attention and lighting the creative fire. For a moment he forgot about his slowly diminishing vision and his meager bank account, and he settled in.

The place felt not peaceful, but right somehow. Even in its depressing décor, it mirrored him. The bar had seen better days, and now it wallowed with him in the misery of the L.A. evening, sweltering in the dry heat. David sipped his beer and relaxed.

***

The day had started off with a glimmer of hope, which had been far too infrequent as of late. David had many talents, but networking, which was the lifeblood of a city that thrived on entertainment, that talent had never graced his repertoire. The hard truth was that David was terrible at networking, or socializing, or simply communicating with people at all. So, when Joe Garrett, David's old painting professor, had landed him a meeting with fellow Cal Arts alum, Kris Glazer, it meant more to him than just a courtesy hello. To David this meeting represented a life preserver – a first step to pulling his head above water.

If the meeting went well, maybe there'd be another meeting, and possibly another, and maybe, just maybe, David could spin that into an actual opportunity. He needed the trust of one of the landed elite, someone that could proffer his name to a gallery or even to an apprenticeship program. He needed someone that knew how to navigate the slick-suited, onerous waters of the meet-and-greet and the cocktail hour schmooze-fest.

Kris Glazer just might be that person for David. The man may not yet have been walking the halls of artistic royalty — lacking his Piss Christ, or Tilted Arc — but his star's ascension had become a forgone conclusion. One spark, one painting at the right moment in time striking the right chord (and discord) and Kris Glazer would rise. Even in the interminable wait for that final catalyst, Glazer had been accepted into the elite if not into its highest pantheon.

So, when David had set off down Franklin Street exiting from the shit-heap of an apartment building that he called home, he had started that afternoon with an unusually prominent sense of optimism. It had comforted him, as if spending a day with a childhood friend and finding yourself slipping right back into your high school roles, the years and hardships in between rendered meaningless.

Even strolling down Highland, pushing through the throng of tourists amassed at the commercial Mecca that had sprung forth around the former Grauman's Chinese Theater — a trap that David avoided whenever possible — he found himself holding out hope for the future ahead. The pot-bellied Spider-Mans and more appropriately drug-addled Jack Sparrow impersonators could do little to dampen his spirits.

Of course, there was one man that could rain on his parade. Rain? No, it didn't rain in L.A. Shit. There was one man that could shit on his parade. That man, of course, was Kris Glazer.

A little after five that evening, David had given up on him, just over an hour past their arranged meeting time. A little after six he finally received a text begging off with a rain check.

No, begging gave Glazer too much credit. The man had brushed David off with a weak, ephemeral offer of rescheduling.

Swamped. LA, right?

Another day?

TY, man!

***

Fucking Glazer.

David downed the remainder of his beer and signaled for another. He couldn't see clearly, but David was fairly certain that the bartender rolled his eyes at the gestured request. Fuck him, too.

Waiting on his beer, David envisioned Glazer stepping through the threshold, squinting blindly as he pushed into the darkness. David had more than a few choice words for him. He'd smile and wave him over to an empty stool. Then as Glazer sat his smug ass down beside him, lightly clasping the edge of the bar as he scooted into position, David would bring his pint glass down hard on those delicate fingers. He'd slam it down until the glass spider-webbed and shattered, and then he'd grab the biggest broken shard he could find and cut those fingers, filleting the flesh, yanking it back, and avulsing skin and meat from the bone beneath.

David shuddered. What the fuck?

As the horror of the vision took hold, he catapulted from his stool making hastily for the bathroom.

Once there, he twisted on the tap, splashing his face with the hard water. Satisfied, or at least, less stunned, he glanced up to the flaking mirror. His pallid face stared back at him, his eyes wide, his dark bangs drenched, rivulets of water cascading down his cheeks and dripping from his soft jawline.

He had never in his life envisioned harming someone, not seriously, and yet if he dared close his eyes he could see the skinless fingers of Kris Glazer, mutilated beyond repair. He could taste the ecstasy in slicing away the skin and knowing that this dick would never paint again. He could...

...he could taste the vomit forcing its way up. David swallowed the bile down and clenched the sink, waiting for his stomach to calm. The image flickered before his eyes like fairy lights flitting across his vision after straining his eyes shut. Yes, something was definitely wrong. Why couldn't he stop fixating on filleting Glazer's fingers? Why were all his thoughts so bitter and dark, and so utterly unlike his normal self?

***

Waiting in the diner for their meeting earlier that evening, David's cheeks had flushed. He had imagined the stares of onlookers instinctually aware that he had been stood up. The whole incident had infuriated him, and what little hope he had built up had fallen with tenacious speed. Yet despite all of this, there had been no desire to harm Glazer. Yes, David knew that Glazer probably felt that he was better than him, and that some karmic justice was due the man's way — whether it would ever arrive — but violence had not entered David's mind at all — not while he had waited at that diner.

Yet here at this bar...

Glass through flesh, down deep and thrusting up. Blood and tendon oozing through an inflamed wound.

David winced and stifled a moan. He didn't know if it was a moan of revulsion or ecstasy, and that disturbed him most of all.

His questions remained, their unspoken answer that which determined if he were a good man or a bad man. Perhaps not bad, but something else other than good for sure.

Why was he so fixated on violence, tonight, and why had these thoughts intruded so forcefully over his psyche?

***

When he had paid up and had left the diner, it had been almost half past six. He'd had a couple hours to waste before he was supposed to meet his girlfriend, Erika, and so he'd taken to foot and wandered Melrose, occasionally twisting his way down side streets and back up, killing time. The weather had been tolerable, just starting to cool for the evening and the winds calming down. He had been meandering in this aimless way when the first signs of rain started. What had he been saying about rain and L.A.? It was an L.A. rainfall, so barely a drizzle, but even so he had sought shelter, and that was when he had first caught sight of the bar.

At the time he had still been upset, but it was a mellow, dull type of upset, and tempered by expectation of the night ahead. Erika and he had planned a dinner with friends up at the Formosa, and, despite his disappointment, he had been looking forward to seeing her, venting a little, and then moving on with the evening's festivities.

Yet, when he spotted the open sign of the bar shining into the early evening haze, something had shifted. The red neon had cast an eerie glow over the dark façade, shining gently off the wrought iron railing that guarded the sidewalk from the descending steps that led to the basement entrance.

Seriously, David had thought. Basement bars might dot downtown on the occasional corner, but here in the Hollywood area they were far less frequent. He had glanced down the narrow staircase revealing the subterranean entrance and a small wooden sign jutting out from the doorway. It read simply Grady's.

Not the most strategically placed sign, David had thought, but only in passing. Something about the place had called to him, demanding that he enter, and that demand had drowned out all other thoughts. Had it been then that the dark cloud had struck sending him down into the vile mood that now dominated over him?

Vile mood. He laughed. That was putting it lightly.

Yet, no matter how he framed the unsettling thoughts that now dominated his evening, David believed that it had been then, upon seeing that sign, that the dark cloud had settled, and yet he couldn't precisely place the catalyst of its descent. He only knew that when he looked upon that basement entrance, catching sight of the bar through the lower window, he had been compelled to enter.

Suddenly he had needed a drink to drown out the shit-storm of the afternoon.

***

He was lost in this train of thought, staring past the old man now drooling into his unkempt beard, when his phone rang.

"David, where are you?"

Erika. Their dinner was supposed to start at nine. David glanced to his phone display: half past. For the life of him, David did not know where the time had gone.

"Shit! I'm sorry," he blurted out. How had he kept her waiting so long? Mentally admonishing himself, he stirred to leave.

"I'll be right there," he said. Erika assured him it was okay, only asking that he hurry, but he couldn't see how it was all right at all. Their plans had been firm.

Blurting a rushed goodbye, David hung up, shucked on his coat, and pushed back from his stool, slapping down a tip for the second drink as he did. His fingers lingered on the edge of the cash, then reluctantly released their grip on the two singles, brushing against the rough wood of the bar, the coarse texture scratching against his fingertips. His wallet was growing increasingly barren this evening and he felt it deeply.

For a moment more, his fingers rested on the bar's counter, thoughts of lost time and dwindling bank accounts being usurped by that same compulsion that had drawn him down the basement steps in the first place.

Did he really want to go? Something unseen beckoned and he contemplated sitting back down and ordering another beer.

I shouldn't leave, he thought. I belong here.

Then the moment passed, David slipped his hands from the coarse, thinly lacquered wood of the bar and down into his pockets, and he started off. As he did, the bartender looked up from the tap, and though David couldn't see his face clearly, he knew that asshat was judging him.

Fuck him, he thought, for the second time that night.

Click. The mental station changed.

A hand clasped the bartender by his red hair and slammed his judgmental face into the tap. His forehead cracked open and grey matter poured out into the waiting pint.

David winced, his steps faltering as he tried to tune out the unbidden image. He paused there, mere feet from the threshold, the L.A. night waiting ahead of him, the welcoming embrace of the bar behind him.

Then, he thought of Erika, waiting at Formosa, their evening plans slowly slipping away. He pictured her disappointment, and his own at being its cause.

At last, he rushed out the door.

As he slammed into the crisp night air, the violent imaginings faded into oblivion as if they had never been there at all. There was only the light evening heat against his skin, a tickle of wind just beginning to howl through the streets once again, and the mingled smell of exhaust and sweat. The burden lifted and David slowed to a stroll.

As he turned up La Brea, he imagined the stars above, currently hidden by the city lights, and everything seemed okay. Today, life had shat on him, but it would wash off, and he'd keep moving forward inch by cliché inch. His mood thus improved, all thoughts of violence vanished as quickly as they had previously sprung forth.