Club Flamingo #3
Eddie smiles, picking up a pair of scissors from the shelf. “Catch!” he calls out, prompting one of the men to do just that.
The security guard gazes down at the large, sharp blades, confused by the implication.
Unfortunately, I already know where this is headed. “Wait!” I blurt. “Stop!”
“You two,” Eddie says, ignoring me as he lazily twirls a finger at the men. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re gonna have to kill each other. Get creative with it. When I get back, I better find something interesting.”
“No!” I shout, moving to intervene before Eddie cuts me off.
“Stop right there!” he bellows. “I should make you watch every second of this. Maybe then you’ll quit fucking around and get on board.”
The guards begin to wander, opening drawers and pulling out whatever tools they can find.
The one with the scissors seems satisfied with his choice, stabbing them through the air like a batter checking his swing at home plate.
The other man gets to work deconstructing the paper cutter, struggling to remove its razor-sharp handle from the rest of the device.
“They’re not gonna tell anyone!” I plead. “Please stop! They’re people!”
“When you’ve been around as long as I have, you start to understand what people really means,” Eddie replies. “There are a few beautiful, transcendent diamonds in the rough, but most folks don’t amount to much, sport. The least they can do is provide a little entertainment on the way out.”
There’s a metallic crack as the struggling guard finally manages to yank the bladed handle from his paper cutter, grinning excitedly as he brandishes this newfound weapon.
“You think this caveman is gonna be painting the Mona Lisa any time soon?” Eddie jokes. “Come on.”
“Please don’t,” I beg.
“Just wait here,” Eddie sighs. “I’ve got one little thing to take care of, then we’ll be on our way.”
“You can’t do this.”
“They’ll identify us in a lineup,” Eddie states, his steadfast confidence ripping my heart in half. None of this is up for debate. Eddie is too brutal to be swayed by emotional pleas and too methodical to consider outside logic.
These decisions were already made when we walked through the front door.
Next to us, one of the security guards places his hand flat on the desk, holding it in place while his companion raises the disconnected paper-cutter blade.
“Wait!” I shriek. “Just make it quick! Don’t let th—”
The blade comes down with a sickening thump, slicing halfway through the guard’s wrist and bouncing off the bone.
A thick ejection of dark red blood shoots across the wooden desk, then more starts pooling around his hand in steady pumps.
The man barely flinches. Instead, he starts offering pointers.
“Maybe if I got down a little bit more,” he says, kneeling next to the desk so that his arm stays flat and his companion can swing at a vertical angle.
“Alright, time out!” Eddie suddenly erupts. “Freeze! Everyone stop talking for a minute.”
The security guards halt in place, seconds away from another chop.
My eyes are trapped in a straightforward gaze as Eddie steps into position before me. I can see my face reflected back in the darkness of his bedazzled, heart-rimmed sunglasses.
“I didn’t wanna do this, because I’ve got more important things to focus on tonight, but I’ve just gotta say it,” Eddie begins, clearly frustrated.
“This right here is the problem with your generation. Do you think I became the world’s greatest entertainer by just getting it over with?
Live your life with a little fucking pizzazz, sport.
If these men are going to die, do you really think it’s fair for them to kick off in a way that’s boring?
To die a boring death is hell. It’s literal hell. ”
I can feel tears welling up, the emotional toll of this situation simply too much for my body to handle.
“When I was coming up, people understood the value of artistry. They appreciated quality entertainment,” Eddie continues. “Do you have any idea what it was like to take direction from the Bard himself, in the fucking round, and then live long enough to witness the rise of TikTok?!”
Despite my heightened emotions, I can’t help noticing the bizarre implications of this statement.
Eddie puts his hand to his forehead in an exaggerated gesture of fatigue, pretending he’s about to faint.
“There’s so much more to life than how many likes you can get,” he continues.
“Fame—real fame—is a gift exchange. It’s an artist trading with the audience.
It’s an experience swapped for precious time.
These days, nobody seems to care about the experience, they just expect everyone else’s time for doing absolutely fucking nothing. ”
Eddie places a cold hand on my shoulder, keeping it there for an unusually long beat. I imagine a single eye staring into mine from behind those dark shades.
“You may speak. Tell me if you understand,” he commands.
I can feel the stoplight flickering green on a previously blocked neural pathway, one open lane in a city of gridlock.
I’m in awe of Eddie’s control with this uncanny talent. Sometimes, the things he says will disrupt only a small piece of a previous instruction. Other times, he’ll erase the whole thing. With a little focus, he seems to be able to wield these results at will.
“I understand,” I confirm, my voice trembling.
It suddenly dawns on me that this could be the end of the road, the point at which my companion reveals my services are no longer needed. With the snap of his fingers, Eddie could turn this one-on-one security guard matchup into a free-for-all as young Poppy Stringer enters the fray.
I brace myself for some inevitable eruption of violence.
Eddie makes his move, stepping in close, but his body language surprises me. The undead singer opens his arms wide, embracing me with a powerful hug.
“Fine,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I reply, not quite sure what he wants me to say.
Eddie pulls back and nods. “Turn around and stare at the wall.”
My body is compelled to follow his instructions, rotating so that I’m facing away from the guards.