The rain poured outside, as it has been for three days straight. Every titty bar, whore house or pretty much any sludgehole in town was packed. Except "The Dirty Old Man" at 5th and Fitzsimmons, where Bellock, a middle aged novelist with your everyday case of constant writer's block and the main character for this petite histoire of ours, comes to drink his cherry coke whiskey every night after leaving his pseudo private eye office decored crib upstairs.
The subtle yet constant scent of an old man's fart was the reason this particular establishment had been given it's name. It was it's curse and it's praise at the same time, because the smell brought waves of indian tourists in the summer wanting to feast their noses with this exquisit odor. However, as you have probably reasoned by now, this story did not come to pass in the summer, but in the dead of winter.
At the time, all that was left in the neighbourhood to feed the good old green to this saloon of sorrow was washedout musicians, trenchcoat trannies, the occasional bum and... you guessed it. Bellock.
A conversation starts to fade in, through the bell-like sounds of ice cubes touching lightly in the glasses, and the waiter's footsteps as she walked around serving drinks.
- I'm telling you man, the fucking world is messed up, when I go to the fucking theater, I want to watch a movie with real fucking people, not fucking moronic digital puppets. - passionately affirms Bellock, spitting between sips.
- I feel you dude, just go easy with the language. - Sticks, the bartender, says calmly while cleaning the counter.
- What? Ya think Mike the Midget or Salma the Slut over there are going to be offended by my language? C'mon, what the fuck is wrong with you man?! - Bellock retorts with a hint of sarcasm as he rolls his eyes in the direction of an obese hooker and a midget dressed like an 80's clubber sitting at the back of the bar.
- Anyway, do you remember the episode of Knightrider that Kitt dies? After all this CGI crap, even that would put tears of delight streaming down my cheeks. - Bellock grins.
Suddenly, the door slams open and a man wearing a water soaked overcoat comes in. As he unhurriedly sits at the stool closest to the door, Bellock notices that the grim looking personage had no eyebrows. Which made him look even gloomier.
- What's your poison? - Sticks asks, while washing his hands apathically.
The eyebrowless man turns his eyes to the writer and with a deep, somber voice utters inquisitively:
- Have you heard of The Savants, Mr. Bellock?
End Ep. 01