0.5-The Asylum Interviews: Bronx: An Asylum Tales Short Story

THE ASYLUM INTERVIEWS: BRONX

An Asylum Tales Short Story

JOCELYNN DRAKE

C
ONTENTS

C
HAPTER
O
NE

“W
hat the . . . Get the hell out of here!”

My brain was swimming, my stomach was churning, and there was a woman screaming like a demented banshee hopped up on PCP. Hell, she could actually have been a demented banshee, but PCP wasn’t their drug of choice. Gritting my teeth, I cracked open one eye and immediately shut it against the angry glare of bright light pounding down on me. This wasn’t my bedroom. The light was never this bright in my apartment.

The woman was shouting again and I could hear more voices added to the general cacophony. I opened my eyes, squinting against the bright light and the noise. I was in a bathroom. Correction: I was in a fucking filthy ladies’ room. The fractured linoleum floor was wet and littered with bits of toilet paper, broken beer bottles, and what looked to be a used tampon in the far corner. The doors to the two stalls were open, revealing a wide variety of messages scrawled across the stall walls. Looking at the other wall lined with a counter and two sinks, I finally saw the woman who had screamed. Not a banshee. A banshee wouldn’t have worn a horizontally striped shirt over sagging tits and a bloated stomach. She leaned her hip against the counter as she glared at me, not that I could blame her. The contents of my pants proved that I was in the wrong room.

With a grunt, I pushed off the floor with both hands, a sound of disgust escaping me as my hands came away wet. I refused to think about what it really was. That whole complaint that men were so gross was clearly all a ruse to cover up for their own filth, at least going by this bathroom.

“Get the fuck out!” Miss Saggy Boobs ordered as I walked over to the one sink that wasn’t clogged with soggy paper towels.

“I’m washing my hands. Your floor is repulsive,” I snarled, earning me a bit of wide-eyed silence. I quickly washed my hands in cold water and some meager soap droppings I could get out of the pump. I dried them on my jeans rather than touch anything else in that room. Slipping around the sour-faced woman, I stepped out of the bathroom, but turned back just past the entrance. The scarred wooden door slamming in my face announced “LADIES” in stark white letters.

My brain felt as if it was covered in a haze, and my reflexes were slow. I looked around the crowded bar. By the combination of gaudy neon signs, loud rock music, and enormous wooden bar off to my right, I realized that I was at Cock’s Crow, which was just down the street from my tattoo parlor, Asylum. But how did I get here? My brain refused to call up any memories. Everything was a thick fog that I couldn’t pierce.

A large man walked past me, his shoulder checking me hard enough to spin me around. Of course, I was unsteady on my feet and the room was already swaying so a stiff breeze could have knocked me over, but that’s beside the point. Someone was nice enough to catch me from behind and steady me once again. The bastard with the bulky shoulders sneered at me. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it again when something over my shoulder caught his attention.

“Smart decision,” rumbled a deep voice from behind me. “Why don’t you just keep moving?”

The asshole nodded and quickly joined a crowded table near the back of the bar, sitting with his back to me. Twisting around to see who my newfound protector was, I felt my stomach lurch when my gaze landed on a troll with spiky blond hair. This couldn’t be good. Had I bumped him when the other guy knocked into me? The troll didn’t look pissed, but in general, trolls were angry, violent, and extremely territorial.

However, this one surprised me when he gently took hold of both my shoulders and scrunched down to look into my eyes. The troll frowned at whatever he saw and stood up again.

“Someone slipped you something. Mickey, roofie, something,” he announced with a shake of his head.

“Yeah, I was beginning to guess that,” I agreed, rubbing my temple with the heel of my palm. “Still not remembering too much at the moment.”

“Let’s get you something to clear your head.” Treating me as if I were a small lamb being led back toward the barn, the troll turned me around and directed me to the end of the bar where it wasn’t crowded with people. I let him guide me along as my brain started to pick pieces of memories out of the nothingness. I had closed up the shop and walked down the street for a couple of drinks with . . . someone.

“Hey Bronx!” Dolan called as we approached. I could only guess that the minotaur behind the bar was talking to my new, unnamed friend. “Gage? You’re still here?” Dolan continued as I slid unsteadily onto a bar stool. “I thought you left with Parker a while ago.”

Frowning, I stared at the wall of alcohol behind Dolan, trying to remember. My old friend Parker Banton had stopped in the shop before I closed up. He had gotten permission from his girlfriend, Jill, to go out for drinks with me. We walked down to the Cock’s Crow. I sat down at an empty table while Parke had gone up to the bar to get a couple beers. And then there was a big blank space in my memory.

“Looks like this Parker slipped you something,” Bronx murmured.

“Fucking bastard!” Jumping off the stool, I turned toward the front door, but my legs became jelly and my knees buckled. Large hands grabbed my arms before I could hit the floor and I was hoisted back onto the stool I had just vacated.

“Let’s clear your head before you go charging off,” Bronx said, slowly releasing me. He hesitated, making sure that I wasn’t going to fall off before he turned to Dolan. “Mind if I slip behind the bar and mix something up? He drank something he shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s fine,” Dolan quickly agreed, stepping back so that the troll could squeeze behind the large bar. I wasn’t surprised. Dolan may have been running some dirty business on the side, but everything had to appear on the up-and-up to the occupants of the bar. The Cock’s Crow had to at least look like a respectable joint, or at least as much as a bar could. It wouldn’t help if I passed out at the bar before four in the morning.

I watched in silence as Bronx picked up one container after another. He topped the concoction off with a splash of soda and an orange wedge. It didn’t look overly appealing.

“What’s in it?” I asked as I took it from the troll.

“Collection of stuff, though not all of it’s legal. It’ll clear your head and put some starch back in your knees.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what was in the drink and I didn’t know this guy. Dolan knew him and seemed to trust him, which was a plus. Of course, Dolan wasn’t a particularly upstanding guy . . . er, minotaur, which was a minus in the troll’s column. “You’re a bartender?” I was clearly stalling, hoping I could get my head to clear on its own.

“No. Tattoo artist.”

My eyes shot up to his face, making the room spin for a couple seconds. That was a plus, I hoped. “You know who I am?”

“Gage Powell, owner of Asylum Tattoo Parlor. I heard you’ve got an opening.”

He wasn’t trying to poison me. He was looking for a job. I smiled and toasted the troll before taking a drink. It tasted like rancid meat. I choked, barely keeping it down, as I rethought the poisoning idea.

“Suck on the orange slice. It’ll help keep it down,” Bronx suggested as he moved out from behind the bar to stand next to me.

“Tastes horrible,” I groaned before stuffing the orange into my mouth. The strong citrus overpowered the lingering taste of the drink, helping to quell my angry stomach and rebelling taste buds. Muscles relaxed and my thoughts grew more ordered.

“True, but your head’s much clearer now, right?”

Pulling the orange out of my mouth with my left hand, I extended my right to the troll. “Thanks for your help.”

The troll hesitated, staring at my hand. I wasn’t surprised. All the races had lived together, in a manner of speaking, for a long time, but there were still some prejudices that we hadn’t outgrown. The elves were willing to mingle with the other races, but never intermarried because everyone was simply beneath them. The pixies and faeries didn’t care for each other—mostly territorial disputes. Merpeople didn’t like anyone that wasn’t at least one-quarter fish. The trolls and ogres had learned to keep a distance from the humans because humans . . . Well, the list went on and on, but basically everyone hated the witches and warlocks who resided in the Ivory Towers.

A successful tattoo artist had only one prejudice. We didn’t like a customer who couldn’t pay. Money was the great equalizer.

The troll shook my hand, a smile slowly pulling at his large lips. “The name’s Bronx.”

“I can’t say that I’ve seen you around here. You friends with Dolan?” I took another sip of Bronx’s drink and then shoved it away with a shudder. My head was clear. I didn’t need any more. Luckily Dolan put an ice-cold bottle of water in front of me.

“I moved away a few years ago when I started working for Tattered Edge.”

“Kyle Wight’s shop?”

“Yes, but I stop by every once in a while to see some people I know in the area.”

“Why are you leaving?”

“Left already,” Bronx corrected, nodding to Dolan as he accepted a bottle of water as well. “Two weeks ago. Kyle’s a good man, but . . . I’m afraid that TAPSS is going to come down on the shop soon and I can’t afford to lose my license.”

All tattoo artists had to answer to TAPSS. The Tattoo Artists and Potion Stirrers Society policed us all, making sure not only that we were working in sterile conditions but that we were also properly stirring the potions we needed for our tattoos. They could very easily make it impossible for someone to earn a legitimate living as a tattoo artist.

“Complaints?” Unscrewing the lid, I drained half the bottle of water, trying to wash the taste of Bronx’s drink from my mouth.

“A couple, but I think it’s going to get worse. Kyle isn’t keeping up with the stores. Things are expiring and not being replaced in a timely fashion. It’s just . . . dangerous.”

I grunted, replacing the lid on my water. That was a problem. A big one. The ability to stir a potion for our clients was the majority of our draw and we had to keep up with our ingredients, or a tattoo had the potential to go south fast. With a little negligence, we could destroy a life or even kill. What’s more, once a parlor acquired a reputation for bad potions, it was nearly impossible to recover. “I understand.”

Bronx wasn’t so much gossiping about Kyle as he was trying to cover his own ass, which I could respect. Besides, the tattooing world was relatively small in the grand scheme of things. One way or another, we all heard little things about each other, particularly when we drank together at conventions.

“Why don’t you stop by the shop tomorrow night with some examples of your work and we’ll talk some more?” I offered as I slid off the stool. My legs held me with no problem and the spinning in my head was gone. I was ready to knock the shit out of my friend Parker once I found the bastard.

Bronx rose as well, shaking my hand. “Thanks. Do you need any help?”

“Huh?” The troll brought me up short with his question. I was expecting a “thanks” and then we’d go our separate ways. He got his interview by helping me not get killed by one of Dolan’s patrons. He was in the clear.

“I’m assuming you’re headed off to beat your friend senseless. I thought you could use a little help considering he’s already managed to drug you. It was either a joke or something else.”

I tilted my head and smirked at him. “Afraid I’m not going to be around tomorrow night? I promise Parker’s not going to hurt me. It’s not in his nature.”

The troll shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark green cargo pants and shrugged. “I’ve got no big plans for the night. I thought you could use the help.”

Grinning, I motioned with my head toward the door. “Let’s get going then. I’ll punch him and you can throw him in the nearest ladies’ room.”

Bronx’s grin spread across his large face, making him look less threatening. I had a feeling that having the troll around would keep me from actually losing my temper when I found my dear friend Parker.