Immortal Anti-Hero

Prologue

“One Washington Apple, coming right up!” Cassie announced, with the smile of her face reaching her blue eyes.

I watched the not-so-subtle jiggles of her C-cup cleavage as she mixed my drink in the silver shaker, standing behind the bar of my favorite speakeasy wearing a light halter top and red leggings.

She was a fit girl, nicely cream colored skin with short blonde hair with swept bangs; a tomboy cut crossed with a pixie.

My bartender. Well, not my bartender, but the only one I bothered to talk to in my socially selective life.

And by selective, I mean I didn’t talk to anyone else.

I glanced at the television above her head. The news was on. Another story about a human altered by the Xenophage—Mutables, they called them—found dead.

But I knew something most didn’t.

The body blurred out on the footage was a darkened, shriveled mess, which meant it had been drained of its Ichor, a substance so coveted that corporations and governments would do anything for it.

And nobody had more of it than me.

“Here you go, Jax,” Cassie poured my red colored drink into a beer mug, eschewing the traditional cocktail glass this drink would normally go in.

“To my retirement,” I rasped, raising the mug by its handle, toasting to myself, wearing a long trench-coat.

Nothing too fancy, albeit an uncommon wardrobe in this part of town. A dingy urban dive bar with dark wooden paneling with old peeling lacquer and old neon signs adorning the walls.

“Retirement?” Cassie recoiled with a furrowed countenance. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“Better to be done at middle age than when I’m in diapers,” I said curtly, raising the glass to my lips and sipping it like hot tea.

“Wow. I didn’t know you were a rich bitch,” Cassie replied with a simpering smirk and crossed arms.

“I do ok,” I replied, glancing around at the neon-shaped bass guitar behind the bar, along with the cherry wood hues of our modest surroundings, then looking Cassie up and down. “That outfit is new. Looks like you’re doing okay, too.”

“That was slick, but, don’t change the subject,” Cassie protested as she rested on her elbows, leaning forward on the bar, it’s transparent surface revealing a massive collection of obscure bottle caps underneath.

“Come onnn. You come here all the time, we talk about all kinds of shit, but you never actually say what you do.”

“Human Resources.”

Cassie laughed. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I might be tipsy enough to spill my drink, but not enough to spill my secrets,” I retorted with a smile, taking out a money clip and retrieving a hundred dollar bill before slipping it toward her.

A pretty mulatto-skinned woman caught my attention over by the pool table. Couldn’t have been a day over twenty one.

Tightly coiled strands of dark curly hair wrapped in a long hanging ponytail, like she was trying to keep it out of her eyes.

She wore a white spaghetti strap top with gray sweatpants and sneakers too rich for this part of town, her ass bent in my direction as she played against two lumbering men with murder in their faces.

A silver case meant for a personal pool stick rested close by on a stool, except she hadn’t opened it since arriving; she’d been playing with the ones provided by the bar.

“I know drunk when I see it. You’re barely buzzed,” Cassie didn’t break eye contact as she pushed the money back toward me. “And it’s a tenner, not a Benjamin.”

“That could’ve been your tip,” I remarked, taking another swig.

“Tell me a good story and I’ll call it even.”

“Let’s just say, I keep what I kill,” I set the mug down loudly with a big gulp and a requisite exhalation. “Is this your way of figuring out how much money I make?”

Cassie frowned. “I’m after a good story.”

“You’re a bartender, I’m sure you’ve heard plenty.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t heard yours. Usually when a guy comes here alone, he’s either looking for a girl or crying about one—assuming he doesn’t flirt with me. But you don’t do any of that.”

“Waste of time,” I said of the latter. “You’re into women, not men—even though you dress to impress them.”

“Hey, a girl’s gotta make a living, right?” Cassie curled her fingers inward on the bar then pushed off to stand up straight, with one hand on her cocked hip. “You’re a closed book, but maybe you can help me write one.”

“You’re writing a book?” I wondered, raising my eyebrow along with my glass. “You never told me that.”

“You never asked!” She leaned toward me again. “I didn’t take this job for the tips, I took it so I could hear some fun stories; real experiences. You’ve got a strong worldly vibe, like you’ve seen things. Wisdom, ya know?”

“Here’s some wisdom for ya,” I joked as I lifted my glass. “Treat life like this drink. Cover up the nasty with enough sweetness, and you won’t notice it fucking you up.”

“Is that why you like girly drinks?”

“Girls make life worth living.”

“How come I never see you with one?”

I deflected her line of questioning back at her. “What’s your book called?”

Cassie lit up and stood up straight, gesturing emphatically with her hands. “It’s not finished, it’s gone through a lot of revisions—okay, a lot of revisions. It’s an action thriller with romance, although…”

“What?” I asked with genuine curiosity as I took another drink.

“I’ve been struggling with the romance part,” she confessed, looking askance.

“How come?”

She looked at me and sighed, leaning against the backlit bar shelving with her back arched. “I just haven’t been inspired lately. I’m kinda going through a… situation.”

“Care to share?” I asked, finishing my drink before setting it on top of the hundred dollar bill still on the bar.

“You don’t really care.”

“How would you know?” I countered. “You’re always playing the street therapist, put the shoe on the other foot for once.”

“Okay…” Cassie ran her fingers through her hair while staring ahead and slightly down. “Me and my girlfriend broke up.”

“Sorry to hear it,” I said, sliding my glass toward her.

“This one’s on the house,” she reached beneath the bar and took out two shot glasses, pinching them together between her thumb and fingers before setting it between us and pouring some brown whiskey into each.

She took hers, I took mine, we clinked, and then threw them back in mutual libations.

“So what happened?” I asked, looking at the dimmed crystal chandelier dangling above our heads.

“We hadn’t touched each other in over a year—shit, we were living together, then she just said she wasn’t feeling it anymore. No warning; no explanation.”

“Damn…” I said. “And you’re living together?”

“We were,” Cassie replied. “Rent’s too high in this city for a bartender to live alone, so we shacked up. But I can’t go back there, so I’m… figuring things out.”

“Back with family?”

“What family? I moved across the country after they disowned me.”

“Friends?”

“The usual story. They’d love to help, but can’t,” Cassie groused. “I’ve got a hotel room for a couple days. After that… I dunno.”

Ah, shit. Instant dilemma.

I had the space, the problem was my lifestyle.

But Cassie was good people; the closest thing to a friend I had in this city. Sure, I probably could’ve given her a giant tip to support her a while longer, but then I would’ve felt like a sucker.

So I decided to try something else.

“Well, I’m just a strange man in a bar but…” I tapped my shot glass, prompting her to refill it. “If you need a place to figure things out, you can crash at my place. I’m barely there as it is.”

“Seriously?” Cassie chirped with hopeful eyes.

“Yeah…” I said begrudgingly, taking my shot before slamming it back down. “It’s a bit of a hot mess, but I haven’t lived with anyone in a while so, don’t judge when you see it.”

“Can I bring my cat?” she cajoled.

“As long as you scoop the litter box every day, mi casa su casa.”

“Thank you, Jax!” Cassie enthused as she tipped herself over the bar to hug me. “And don’t worry about a thing. I’ll clean up after myself, do the dishes, take out the trash, whatever you need. I can pay you at least—“

“Don’t worry about rent. I’m just helping you get on your feet,” I said with a preemptively raised palm of de-escalation.

“Fuck…” Cassie looked genuinely taken aback, then she shook her head with a frown. “You’ve gotta let me help you with something. I bet I can help you with your lady problem, too.”

“What lady problem?” I asked with a mutually teasing face.

She grinned. “A guy like you shouldn’t be single, and I know people. There’s this girl who’s maybe slightly thirsty, but she’s really nice once you get over her… eccentricities.”

“You’re not gonna try and set me up, are you?”

Cassie leaned her face close to me and put her mouth next to my ear. “Watch me.”

“You’re a real shitster, you know that?” I quipped.

“Yup!” Cassie wiggled her head in mischievous pride. “You’re already letting me take advantage of you, so I might as well get you laid. God knows I could use it…”

I chuckled. “Alright. You wing for me, I wing for you. Capiche?”

“Oh, it’ll be the most pussy you’ve had in your life.”

“Heh. Appreciate it,” I replied, then turned back to the pool game with the light-skinned black woman, tilting my head toward her. “Who’s she?”

Cassie looked over then smiled. “That’s Monica, or Mo Money Monica as she likes to call herself—used to be Monay. I call her Momo. She pretends to hate it, but she loves me.”

“What’s the scoop on her? I haven’t seen her before.”

“The owner’s paying her to work the delivery truck, but it’s not enough to make end’s meet, so, she plays pool,” Cassie narrowed her eyes with a teasing grin. “Why, are you into her? I could talk to her.”

“I have a feeling we’re about to,” I noted as her billiards opponent walked toward the silver case, then set it on the pool table to the clattering of the cue ball, opened it up, and then spoke with a blaring voice.

“What the hell is this, bitch?” he vociferated.

“My winnings, asshole!” Monica retorted before turning to glare at Cassie. “You see this guy? He’s tryin’ to get at my loot!”

Cassie immediately reacted, pointing her finger at the offender. “Hey, hey! Get the fuck out!”

The portly bouncer got up from his stool, only for his goon to pull a gun, prompting a whimpering panic from the remaining patrons in the bar.

“Go ahead, fat boy. Try it,” the gun-brandisher warned.

The bouncer froze.

Nobody was going to call the cops in this neighborhood.

“Whoa, okay, slow your roll,” Monica spoke steadily while slowly raising her palms. “It’s just a game.”

The man she’d been playing against, a man of slavic descent with awkwardly assembled cornrows and try-hard urban gear, reached into the case and picked up a stack of crumpled money.

He shook it in front of her face. “This bitch is tryin’ to hustle me!”

Monica lowered her hands with a face of outrage. “I’m not the one who whiffed the eight-ball!”

“What did you say?” he pulled his own gun after that, training his gun on Monica. “I ain’t leaving empty handed. You’re gonna give me something, believe that.”

“Just take the money and leave.”

He looked her up and down. “How about that sweet little ass?”

So much for secrecy. There was no way I could let this fly.

“Well, shit,” I said as I clasped the edge of the bar and got up from my stool and casually walked toward Monica and her opponents.

The leftmost goon aimed his piece at me. “Where you goin’, old head? You better sit your ass down before you get shot down.”

Monica turned her head to see, to which I noted her exotic attractiveness in the back of my head. The girl was, in a word, fine.

“Jax? What are you doing?” Cassie panicked in a loud whisper. “Don’t be a hero!”

“I’m not a hero,” I closed my eyes, and when I re-opened them, a golden hue had filled my vision as I turned to look at Cassie. “Time to go to work…”