A(N) R'N R STORY: MARTIN

Martin

***
That musky smell.
You know, whenever you’re in some place old or damp, there’s always that musk. It smelt like an old library; wherever I was. I hadn’t though of a place so secluded nor open late at such hours, but when I opened my eyes I just saw what I expected. A dingy, disgusting apartment, walls torn with gashes and rotten wood, covered in an old but still somewhat persevered blue color. To take that sentence in account, a contradiction as it were, a room containing things that were well furnished but remaining in such bad repair. The furniture looked old but good as new and the lamps were so as well, cradling fire light instead of electricity. The windows had crimson drapes, a texture that reminded me of red velvet cake, one of the guards stood over looking the street. Not counting him, there were six dark men in front of all doors and exits, being that there was only three taken into account. We were in the lobby, tied to the chairs that could only belong to the dining room, of which the door rested behind me. To my right I saw a push open door, which could be made to lead into the kitchen. Finally the entrance, held via a lock and chain.  I was left to speculate that there were would be two at the front each door, and there would most likely be another six to act as reinforcements down stairs. So in fact there would be a dozen to contend with. With Branden snoring beside me, cute as he was, he wouldn’t serve as much help in my defense should things become precarious. Not to mention, waking him was not an option for that would warrant an explanation, which I was hoping to disclose at a later date. Suddenly, a -KNOCK-KNOCK-came from the door.
“Introduce yourself,” bellowed one of the guards and in answer came forth
“I am a man of wealth and taste…” the guard nodded and unlatch the door to receive another exact duplicate in stature and dress, to walk briskly to the doors behind me. From behind me he spoke in a low mutter
“Sir, if you are ready to receive him…” the kind of chink I recognized, was from silver coming to rest on china. Heavy boots goose-stepped towards me, I could hardly wait  from all the tension. A saliently composed fellow, dressed in the garb of one who could only be a conductor, came to me with a frown made more expressive by his whiskered face and a vulture beak of a nose.
“Martin…” the twat addressed me with his gruff voice, I looked up at him with a feverish hatred, made even more so once spotting the glossy metal figure eight pinned to his color.
“I had hoped that this would not be our last encounter,” the man stated with dry sincerity, he glanced at his men before leaning down “But judging via the looks of ting’s…” he patted my hand “I certainly doubt it will be in this life..” he turned away with a maleficent grimace “Is my car ready…” he asked his henchmen who nodded
“Yes my lord…”
“Good, we mustn’t keep the symphony waiting,” he grasped his cane as would a rider and held it below the arm, walking in superiority towards the open door,
“It was a good run, mate,” I spoke, and stopped him in his track halfway through the entrance; he looked at me with his mug like an old catchers mitt “Make sure you grease the bastard…” he said to his body-guards before being led away. Two of his goons stepped inside; one of them grasped his fists and cracked his knuckles. The door swung slowly shut.