The Worst is Over (Perhaps) Pt. 2

One thing that you, and everybody else for that matter, needs to know about Sean is the fact that he believes himself to be better than the common man. Or woman for that matter. He believes that his time spent in university, as well as the money in his coffers, has somehow elevated him above the common rabble, and that somehow, being elevated makes his motives and actions mysterious to those he believes as some kind of worthless primitives.

"Never a one."

The phrase rang in his ears like both an insult and a condemnation. Sean's face twisted between expressions, much like his brain twisted through thoughts of how to approach the sticky situation. He could try and fob the old man off, but he figured the old coot would just shoulder off any kind of weak explanation. He could club the old man and drag him inside. The thing about old people is that when they died in their own homes - usually to a house fire suspected to be caused by cheap, nasty cigarettes, nobody really bothered to ask any questions. But even that idea was risky. It was still a little bit light out, and Sean imagined that a lot of the neighbors would at least be glancing out every once in a while at this time of the evening.

Finally, his brain settled on an acceptable plan. His easy, hyena grin came back, and he took another puff on his cigar, trying hard to ignore the fact that he'd almost chewed right through it.

"Would you like to see?" said Sean.

"See what?" replied Harold, suddenly focused back on the raggy cigarette wedged between his teeth.

"My house," replied Sean. The plan was coming together neatly in his brain. It was genius. Or it was actually very plain, but to a narcissist, it was foolproof.

Harold took a quick puff and wiped his eyes. Despite smoking for decades, for some reason tonight, the smoke was bothering him.

"I'll think about it."

"Thursday, for dinner. I'll get the smokes too," said Sean. "And I promise... everyone comes out after."

"Never said I wouldn't," was the gruff reply.

Thursday rolled around. Harold seldom left his home. His regular attire was frayed wool pants, a greasy wife-beater, and a set of miscoloured suspenders. Today, he figured he should at least dress up a little. He found an old, tobacco-stained shirt he'd worn to church... once. He couldn't recall when. It still fit, though back in those days he had a barrel chest instead of a barrel gut, so the shirt didn't look as good as he recalled. To modern standards, he looked about as good as a cake with six years of mould on it, and smelled about as good as well. Harold only believed in showering once a week, citing that water shouldn't be wasted. As well. He couldn't smoke in the shower, so he seldom took more than five minutes in one.

When he arrived at Sean's front door, he was greeted by the titular gentleman himself, in fresh-pressed pants and a patterned dress shirt, likely made from silk from a thousand subjugated sydney funnel webs.

"Welcome," said Sean. His ever-present and painfully white (surgically white, some would say) grin beaming.

"Please come in. Make yourself at home. The rest of the company will be here soon. Here, let me get you a smoke."

Harold looked around in disgust. All of the furniture was new and stylish. Which meant it was all composed of an assortment of boxes, or boxes covered in other boxes. Sometimes there was a rounded edge, but it was always on the back of the seat, well away from any kind of sitting surface where it may have possibly contributed to a person's comfort. Grabbing the cigarette that Sean had provided him, he promptly lit up and took a drag, and then immediately began coughing.

The cigarette was... divine. Unlike the skunk ass he'd been smoking, it was like inhaling fresh air (though anyone who doesn't smoke would likely tell you it still smelled like shit). He took a puff, and then another. A half-cocked grin crossing his face. The doorbell rang moments later, and Sean opened the door to not one, but two lovely young ladies. They were dressed in revealing dresses and had their hair done in intricate hairstyles. Expensive perfume wafted from their every pore, and their most interesting feature was their ability to produce hot air instead of thoughtful speech.

Sean seated everyone at his table, a heavy hardwood slab that was illuminated by two candles. Harold didn't know why, but he got the feeling they were probably pilfered from a church, since no regular candles had business being that white. Dinner was served, and again Harold was disgusted. No plate was circular, instead being all square with a divot pressed in the middle where some pathetic portions of food waited to be consumed, usually in one bite.

Sean's two ladies each daintily picked through their tiny meals, commenting on its taste and texture, and congratulating each other for... well. Who knows. To Harold's mind, these two women were prostitutes, hired to provide a bit of class to what would otherwise be two men eating together. Which was only slightly less faggy than two men sleeping together. Harold inhaled his dinner and then sat back in his chair, thankful it was a proper dinner chair and not another box. By and large, the two ladies ignored him. And rightfully so. Youth these days tend to ignore greasy, smelly old farts who themselves further facilitate being ignored by being rude, gruff, and glaring all too much. Harold was alright with this. At least for now. He'd never been good with ladies anyway.

Sean finally polished off his plate, and then took the dirty dishes to his dishwasher. Harold noted it looked a lot like a hospital autoclade. On opening it, he spied two other plates, and a whole lot of gleaming knives. Sean closed it before he could get an accurate count, but he went back to focusing on the two ladies, and then another cigarette.

After enjoying another two cigarettes (the ladies smoked cherry flavoured cigars, something Harold couldn't abide by), Sean stretched languidly and yawned.

"How about we start winding this party down. Anyone want to come help me pick a bottle of wine?"

Something was playing in the back of Harolds mind when he noticed that both girls volunteered (well, one volunteered, but the other refused to be left behind).

Sean retreated to the back of his large house with the two girls in tow, opening a large door to what appeared to be a basement. An unfinished basement.

"Are you coming, Harold?" said Sean.

"I'm right behind you," he replied. Something about this was exciting him. Following the three down into the basement, he felt the hairs on his neck prickling.

It was dark, but ahead he saw Sean waving at him, holding a heavy-looking door open.

"Come and see my collection," he said, almost softly.

Harold knew the tone of voice. It was like a child coaxing another to see his hidden stash of playboys with the parents just outside the room.

"Come and see..."