"IF YOU STARE INTO THE ABYSS LONG ENOUGH, THE ABYSS STARES BACK AT YOU."
The music blares in the dimly lit space, filling my sensitive ears and making it impossible to hear the man's words beside me.
Something about needing to pee.
I don't know, man. If you need to go so bad, find a restroom or a jar. Do you need me holding your penis too?
I turned to the drunk man next to me, shooting glaciers from my eyes. This would have been the perfect time for looks to kill.
And where the actual fuck is Omari?
...
Three days ago.
After Omari and I had prepared the torture room for our next victim, we both began digging into the applicants.
Omari had managed to hack into their system for a few seconds to extract the information of all the applicants to make our hunt way easier.
We scanned through profiles, searching for a damned soul. Or at least someone who looked like one. Someone we could kill and send straight to hell.
No mistakes. We couldn't afford one.
"Are we allowed to do this? Send in a soul who is unrelated to the mission?" Omari had asked as we went through profiles.
I paused for a minute. I wasn't sure if we could. It wasn't in the job description. But Lucifer didn't say we couldn't either so...
Fuck it.
"Let's find out," I said, my eyes settling on one particular profile.
Bingo.
"Omari, stop," I said, halting him on the profile of applicant No. 17. "This is our guy."
Omari glanced at me, then to the screen. The profile of a man in his late sixties displayed on the monitor.
"This old fart?" he asked, cocking his brow. "Vel, I'm beginning to think you have a thing for torturing older men."
"And?" I asked in a shrug.
"You don't think that's weird? You didn't spare the other applicants a second glance, no matter how many times I showed you their profiles and information. But we haven't even opened this one yet and you already think he's our guy?"
I chuckled at his words. I didn't have a thing for killing older men. I just had a thing for killing.
That's it.
And there was something about this man that just screamed, 'kill me.'
Don't mind if I do.
"Quit whining and do some research on the wrinklebag. I want everything—from where he sleeps, wakes, and shits, to who he meets and fucks. If he can still fuck, that is. He looks awful for his age," I said.
"Can we not do something else except kill him? I mean, I could break his ankles or something—"
"No." I cut in. "Don't you dare grow soft on me, Omari. Do your fucking job," I said, relaxing into the couch.
I didn't know why, but I had a feeling I was going to enjoy this particular kill.
...
Present day.
"Why don't I buy you a drink, cupcake?" the drunk man sitting close to me whispered in my ear. The awful stench of alcohol mixed with his already terrible breath filled my nostrils.
Oh, fuck me.
"Why don't I pull out your teeth and shove them down your throat, huh?" I asked, my aura turning cold. One more bullshit from this pig and I might vent all my frustrations on him.
The man shrunk in fear and I shifted my gaze back to where it initially was.
Omari and I had been stalking the filthy old husk for days now. We were yet to find anything dirty enough to send him out on the bus to damnation.
At first, he appeared like the sweet old grandpa, spending time with kids and being overly nice with his neighbors. Omari had flashed a hundred "I told you so" looks in my face, but I refused to give up.
My intuition told me something wasn't right with this man. And I knew I wasn't wrong.
Or maybe I just refused to be wrong. Either way, we stuck with the man until we followed him into a gambling house.
I had rejoiced at first, finally glad to see the old prune wasn't as angelic as he seemed.
"Big whoop," Omari chipped amidst my victory dance. "Gambling might be wrong, but it isn't enough to kill an old man, Velly. Dude's got grandkids. We've followed the poor man around enough. We're lucky Yosemite postponed the interview. We wouldn't have had enough time for all of this since you insist on going after an old man for no reason."
I remained silent, eyes on the door the man had just walked into. "Don't you think it's weird? Why would such an old man want to apply for such a position? I mean, he has the qualifications, alright, but of all jobs, the administrative assistant of a huge company like Yosemite?"
Omari looked at me thoughtfully for a while before answering. "Perhaps he feels he is still mentally strong enough to work. Perhaps due to the gambling, he's in debt. Perhaps he applied as a joke and surprisingly got selected. There are 19 younger people on the list. He's not going to get the job anyway."
Omari was right. I knew he was. But my mind was made.
"So what do you say? Let's find another applicant to kill?"
I looked at Omari, then back at the door.
"No. I want this one," I said with finality.
We waited the entire day for the man to come out of the building. He stepped out with another older gentleman and they both drove off in the old man's car.
And then we followed them here, to this club where the music is so loud and the air is thick with alcohol and sweat. Even in my past life, I had never been a fan of clubs. I considered it unnecessary vanity. Though clubs then weren't as rowdy as they are now.
The old man and his friend just sat by the corner sipping on whiskey and looking around with expectant eyes. They were waiting for someone. Or something.
I wasn't sure.
But I have been seated here for the past hour with this fool beside me breathing down my neck as I watched them.
Omari has deserted me, probably thinking I'm crazy for spying on two old men having the time of their lives drowning in alcohol and watching youngsters make out on the dance floor and then sneak off to get their genitals wet.
I probably am crazy. And stubborn. And it's about time I accepted defeat and admitted how wrong I was for thinking the old man was more than an average everyday sinner.
The interview was tomorrow, and I had wasted the entire time chasing shadows.
I stood up, bringing my phone out of my back pocket to text Omari when a hand grabbed my arm, pulling me close. It was that drunk bastard.
"You think you can threaten me and get away with it, huh?" the man spat, his bad breath almost giving me a concussion. "Just because you have a killer body doesn't make you worth shit. You're just a low-class hoe," he yelled, trying to make his voice audible through the loudspeakers.
I swear to fucking god I will kill this man.
Anger from my failed hunt boiled in me, and I delivered the entire frustration in one blow to his nose, causing him to fall backward, instantly passed out.
He didn't even put up a fight. What a waste.
Other people glanced at us before looking away like this was a normal occurrence.
I squatted down toward the man, shaking my head with a tsk. A lowlife like him didn't deserve my punch.
"Be grateful this is all you get. On a good day, I would have fed you your dick," I said before standing up.
But just as I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of the old man's seat before jolting my head back to take a proper look.
They were gone.
Shit.