Post by Deleted on Aug 6, 2015 15:57:56 GMT -5
Basch scrunched his nose in a intentionally noticeable display of revulsion at the two men leaning against the railing some ten paces away from him, laughing out rotten billows of smoke. Cigarettes were disgusting: the smell of acrid, smoldering chemicals; the way it stained the paint on the walls and tooth enamel a sickly yellow-brown; and the way it made any food or drink in proximity taste like the bitter, smoky menthol.
The most obnoxious aspect of smoking was the fact that it was just out of Basch’s reach.
It’s dirty and unhealthy, he would often preach to those who questioned his opinions on the matter. In more recent decades, he preferred the argument, If I intended to give myself cancer, I’d sell my body to science to study the effects of wavelengths of radiation. At least then I would make scientific advances. And money.
He was like that with all sins - drinking, smoking, drugs, gambling, brothels. He knew of the sweet release they offered for many. He knew how nice it would feel to slip into the embrace of inebriation or to indulge in the pleasures of some illicit herb just long enough to forget the stressors of the day.
But he couldn’t. Whether to uphold his reputation, to set a good example for the young lady at home, or perhaps because to let his guard down would simply be far too foolish in these times of trial and tribulation, Basch could not and would not give in to temptation.
So he turned from the two jolly men with their cigarettes and headed for the second time that night into the den of vice behind him: an innocuous brick building, its exterior having seen much more weathering than the modernized fixtures within, whose softly glowing neon sign advertised Beer On Tap and Live Music in a language similar enough to his own that Basch could almost make it out. It was the atmosphere he came for, although the last live band seemed to have packed up their bags for the winter some weeks prior, and not the brew. At one time, he would have partaken; drinking had not always been an off-limits taboo. Though not one for drunkenness, the blonde did have an appetite for a nice, heady dark ale every now and then. The problem was knowing when to quit, however, and more than once, he’d found himself with a nagging headache and queasy stomach the next day, realizing that intoxication had crept up on him more strongly than he’d realized.
Having almost passed through the front doors, the fates intervened, and the door swung open without the need for Basch’s assistance. Deftly stepping aside to avoid being smacked in the face in a most unseemly manner, he waited for the patron to exit and hoped they’d freed up a good seat in a corner booth so that he wouldn’t have to wedge himself between the rowdy party of four that he’d encountered before.
But this patron, despite the marring of the nighttime hour and the altered coloration provided by the red-and-blue neon, caught his attention far more than did the glimpse of the vacant table for one he’d caught.
“Norway?”
Sure enough, Basch would have recognized that odd little curl anywhere, and the glint of the night lights off that signature hair clip only reinforced his identification.
“Nils,” he corrected himself without haste. He realized that the chances anyone important would be listening in to their conversation were slim-to-none, but thought that it would be best to use human names unless otherwise instructed. “You were at the meeting earlier,” he pointed out.
Well obviously, we all were.
Small talk evading him more than usual after having been caught off-guard, he made a few low murmurs that were swallowed up by the racket spilling out from the bar and stammered a weak, “How are things at your place?”
The most obnoxious aspect of smoking was the fact that it was just out of Basch’s reach.
It’s dirty and unhealthy, he would often preach to those who questioned his opinions on the matter. In more recent decades, he preferred the argument, If I intended to give myself cancer, I’d sell my body to science to study the effects of wavelengths of radiation. At least then I would make scientific advances. And money.
He was like that with all sins - drinking, smoking, drugs, gambling, brothels. He knew of the sweet release they offered for many. He knew how nice it would feel to slip into the embrace of inebriation or to indulge in the pleasures of some illicit herb just long enough to forget the stressors of the day.
But he couldn’t. Whether to uphold his reputation, to set a good example for the young lady at home, or perhaps because to let his guard down would simply be far too foolish in these times of trial and tribulation, Basch could not and would not give in to temptation.
So he turned from the two jolly men with their cigarettes and headed for the second time that night into the den of vice behind him: an innocuous brick building, its exterior having seen much more weathering than the modernized fixtures within, whose softly glowing neon sign advertised Beer On Tap and Live Music in a language similar enough to his own that Basch could almost make it out. It was the atmosphere he came for, although the last live band seemed to have packed up their bags for the winter some weeks prior, and not the brew. At one time, he would have partaken; drinking had not always been an off-limits taboo. Though not one for drunkenness, the blonde did have an appetite for a nice, heady dark ale every now and then. The problem was knowing when to quit, however, and more than once, he’d found himself with a nagging headache and queasy stomach the next day, realizing that intoxication had crept up on him more strongly than he’d realized.
Having almost passed through the front doors, the fates intervened, and the door swung open without the need for Basch’s assistance. Deftly stepping aside to avoid being smacked in the face in a most unseemly manner, he waited for the patron to exit and hoped they’d freed up a good seat in a corner booth so that he wouldn’t have to wedge himself between the rowdy party of four that he’d encountered before.
But this patron, despite the marring of the nighttime hour and the altered coloration provided by the red-and-blue neon, caught his attention far more than did the glimpse of the vacant table for one he’d caught.
“Norway?”
Sure enough, Basch would have recognized that odd little curl anywhere, and the glint of the night lights off that signature hair clip only reinforced his identification.
“Nils,” he corrected himself without haste. He realized that the chances anyone important would be listening in to their conversation were slim-to-none, but thought that it would be best to use human names unless otherwise instructed. “You were at the meeting earlier,” he pointed out.
Well obviously, we all were.
Small talk evading him more than usual after having been caught off-guard, he made a few low murmurs that were swallowed up by the racket spilling out from the bar and stammered a weak, “How are things at your place?”