Author: Cooper Brumfield

Ok guys so I’m going to apologize in advance for how long this blog is going to be, to be honest I hope Dr. A approves it, but if she doesn’t, I’ll probably just cry until she says yes so hopefully that solves its own problem. Anway, here the finale to the story that I have been implementing into my blogs. 

Traversing around the front of the living room Otto found each of his breaths becoming faster and shallower.

“Shit, shit, shit” he murmured to himself as he turned the corner and paced the hall, dust erupting from the unswept ground. His eyes wandered from wall to wall. It was only when he made his fourth round back and forth did that thing make itself apparent. Standing at the end of the hall. Its long pale arms dragging across the floorboards.

“Wha-Whar are you” Otto stammered. 

“Wha-Whar are you? ” it repeated back to him in an almost perfect repetition of Otto’s voice.

Its elongated legs protrude from its torso in such a manner that any slight movement might cause it pain. It had no hair, its skin pasty and pale. Its facial features seemed minimal beyond comparison to that of a human. No nose, no mouth, just two small black indents in its face that were made to symbolize eyes.

Otto fell back, the floorboards, leaving a litter of  splinters across his forearms.

The creature’s arms dragged across the ground as it began its approach, towering above the top of each doorway. It had to bend its neck just to traverse the hall.

“How is it speaking to me without a mouth, what is going on?” Otto was thinking to himself as its long and sickly arms stretched out towards it with every elongated step that it took.

“No, no. Get Away from me, GET AWAY”

GET AWAY

John heard Otto’s scream echo throughout the lower floors, making its way to the attic quickly. Hurrying down the steep steps to the ground floor, his steps becoming louder and more apparent. His boots were now caked in dust and grime from the attic. 

“Otto, Otto this isn’t funny where are you?”

John searched throughout the first floor, his patience beginning to thin as minutes passed. But it was only when he reached the end of the hall did his feelings of irritation turn into an almost emotional paralysis. Blood painted along the walls and ceiling, dripping onto the floor, and as john put his finger to the wall did he realize that it was warm.

“John?!”

He heard Otto in what he believed to be the kitchen as he began sprinting towards it.Not just because he missed familiarity but because the end of that blood-soaked hallway left John in a continuous state of dread that wished to escape.

Turning the corner John finally caught sight of Otto, his wide and short figure sitting before him. His face sent a wave of comfort upon John as he was drowning in an ocean of uncertainty. 

“Jesus Otto where have you been? “John said, short of breath.

“In the basement taking a breaker,” Otto said, checking through cabinets.

“I-I heard you scream. “John said, attempting to explain himself.

“I don’t know what you heard hut it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

“I could have sworn I heard something” John said, in disbelief. 

“Well y-you didn’t” Otto said.

It was only when John finally sat down did his nerves begin to subside.

“Wha-what are you,” Otto murmured in an alarmed tone.

“What did you say?”

“What” Otto said, his voice now beginning to differ from how it sounded just seconds before.

Yet it was only when John heard the distortion in Otto’s voice did he hear the dripping. A dark crimson liquid began to drip on the ground from Otto’s shirt sleeve, his once calm act had now completely dissipated into a menacing glare. A rancid stench that had finally grown apparent began to envelop Otto.

“Uh Otto are you ok-”John was cut off.

“GET AWAY” Otto, or whatever that was screamed, blood beginning to flow from his mouth and eyes, deep black caverns beginning to emerge where his eyes once resided. That same feeling of panic returned to John as he fell from his chair, scrambling to his feet as he sprinted out of the kitchen, attempting to find a way out of the house. Turning the corner, he cascaded through the living room, as he began to reach the front door, he felt himself begin to lose his footing, slipping onto the dusty carpet floors. But when he stood up something was different, it was there, Otto, or whatever was pretending to be otto, now towered over the frame of the front exit. Its skin peeling off its body as if it was too large for it tp fit within the confines of the muscle tissue. John scrambled to his feet, now attempting to take refuge in one of the many bedrooms. However, he wasn’t running alone now, the sound of giant footsteps berated his ears, furniture crashing behind John as he ran. Screams began erupting behind him as turned into one of the many bedrooms in the house and locked the door.

“Go-Goddamnit it otto”

“Wha-what are you.” 

Statements spoken only an hour before being regurgitated through the gargling screams of whatever sat behind that door. 

“There are no other doors, there’s no windows, what do I do? John thought to himself. He was stuck. Stuck not only behind the grand frame of this oak door but stuck behind the ever-growing sense of panic that washed over him.

“Something, there has to be something” John thought to himself, a spark of hope paired with a sense of urgency jumped into his mind. Crawling quietly to the closet the carpet squished underneath him, wet from years of mildew. However the state of the carpet would be borderline incomparable by the time that he opened the closet doors. A mound of muscle and flash poured out of the closet. A tsunami of bones, organs, and bones, all of  it now laying on top of John. The only thing that did not come from the innards of the body was a small white name tag that laid adjacent to John “Osborne Connors” 

“Otto” he thought to himself.

John let out a scream so loud he left his own ears ringing. His once well-esteemed coworker now laid before him in a decrepit pile of flesh that John was no longer familiar with.

“No, no, no, no, no ” John muttered to himself as he crumbled against the wall. The now blood-soaked carpet begins to stain John’s Khaki pant legs. His short and stifled breaths became even less frequent when the knocking began.

The first knock caught him off guard, at first he thought he might have been imagining it. That was until he heard the second, and then the third.

“Stop this please, I’m begging you” he screamed. Yet to no avail the knocking continued, now every thirty seconds or so, the knocking even began to change positions, not just behind the door but below the floor, and above the ceiling.It became louder and faster, and louder and faster. The frequency of the knocking is now going beyond any speed capable by a human.

“Please I’m begging you”

John graspeed the cross around his neck with such strength that blood began to flow from the palms of his hands. Its sharp corners seeped into his flesh.

“Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come-”

The knocking suddenly dragged to a halt.

“HalLOweD bE ThY NaMe”

Only blood samples were found of Osborne Connors and Johnathon Patten.

Here is part 4 to the project that I am working, I currently have another blog in the works but due to just the insane amount of assignments I have this week I have decided to put in my fourth installation of this story that I have been writing for my blog. (Adding a note here, if y’all want me to keep adding to this pls tell me, I already have a few more installations ready) 

“Where the hell is everyone?” Otto uttered.

“What, there should be someone here” John muttered to himself

“I don’t know what’s going on but I’m sure as hell not going in there,” Otto said.

While their confused demeanor was one of a great extent it was not one that lasted very long, for as soon as they sat back, awaiting further instruction while simultaneously attempting to forget what had happened just minutes earlier, they heard a scream let out from inside the house.

“Someone please, help me.”  

These screams of distraught were low and raspy, yet the voices somehow boomed throughout the confines of the ambulance. An eerily similar voice to that of the one over the transmitter, even the static was still apparent, not from the radio but from the voice coming from the house.

“We have to go in, cmon” John stated abruptly, already climbing out of the ambulance 

“John I’m not going in ther-”

“GOD DAMMIT OTTO” John finally screamed. His exclamation left silence throughout the front seat. It was one of the few times that Otto had heard John raise his voice.

Neither spoke as they climbed out of the seats, swiftly closing the doors. Otto had never experienced such silence, the rain had suddenly and abruptly subsided sometime throughout that altercation , thunder had developed into nothing but a distant memory.

The steps of the porch had rotted, moss enveloped the corners of each rotten floorboard.

The remains of what seemed to be a rocking chair rested upon the porch, almost unrecognizable. The outside of the home was similar to that in that aspect. It was as if they had stepped on a carcass, a shell of what this home might have used to be.’

“How are we supposed to even get into here?” Otto whispered as they approached the chipped wooden door. However the moment that John pressed his hand against the rusted copper doorknob the front door creaked ajar. 

“No wonder someone got in here” otto muttered to himself. John swiftly nudged his elbow into Otto’s ribs, effectively silencing him.

Peeling, peeling, everything in the home was peeling, the dated floral wallpaper stained a deep yellow with brownish undertones. A once stoute leather armchair sat in the middle of the living room. It was left crumbling, The synthetic brown leather peeling from the arms and back of the padded giant. It was padded like the very floors that it sat on, the floors enveloped with a moldy cream colored carpet that spanned from wall to wall. It was as if stenches could pile.

“GO-GODDAMN IT OTTO” 

Otto turned to John abruptly, startled, “What the hell man?”

John was too startled to speak. His thoughts began to speak to him again.

“It sounded like me, it sounded exactly like me. What I just said, what the hell.”

“It wasn’t me” John said shakily 

The voice was not just similar, it was verbatim, neither of them spoke for a moment. Until it began to call out to the men again. 

“I’m not going in there” it called out.

“The attic” John said, quickly traversing to the second floor.

“Hell no the attic,” Otto replied

“Whatever” John said, finally tired of Otto’s unwillingness to do his job John finally climbed the final set of stairs.

The attic was cramped, dozens of boxes, stacked to the top of the low ceilings. John searched with caution, someone in such a small confined space would not be hard to find. Yet there was no one there.

Quick Disclaimer, I’m currently suffering with covid in my bed so here is part three to a story blog that I wrote a few months ago. 

“JOHN” Otto screamed as John stomped the bottom of his worn out leather working boots upon the brake pedal. Weather from the puddle-ridden highway erupting into the air as the ambulance’s tires screeched to a halt. Now skidding across the asphalt, John’s once calm and collective demeanor now littered with thoughts of alarm and panic as they attempted not to hit the figure that stood in the road.

“What was that? Who was that? Why can’t I move? Why won’t I move”

However his inner dialogue was cut short almost immediately by Otto’s apparent audible reaction.

“Wha-What was that, why did it look like that. Its eyes, Jesus John it’s eyes. Do we go back for it, does it need help? John for the love of God say something.”

“Otto shut up, give me a minute” John interrupts, his mind racing.

They were plagued with silence, not because neither of them wanted to talk, but because neither of them found it within themselves to do so. All John could do was grasp the metal cross that hung from his neck and rested upon his collarbone. 

John and Otto both knew that neither of them had time for this, however they couldn’t move, a feeling of dread washed over both of them in the same manner that rainwater now washed over the ambulance. It was the type of dread that towered over them far more than the idea of any impending consequences that they might have received, and so they sat there. Seconds turned into a minute a minute turned into ten, their silence speaking louder than any scream that they possibly could have let out. It was almost as if they found themselves in a collective trance, whether it was one of their own making or not was not something that either of them were at liberty to say.

“Alright, we have to go,” John said as he turned the keys into submission.

The ride was tense, thoughts of both panic and confusion berated the minds of the EMT’s as they arrived.

“This is the place they said, right?” Otto asked, finally breaking the silence.

“On the dot,” John replied.

The house was deserted, not just by any possible residents but by any authority as well. Not a policeman or fireman in sight.

So for this week’s blog, I was racking my brain trying to think of what I wanted to talk about. And while it first it was stressing me out a little bit, not just because of the fact that I couldn’t think of what I wanted to talk about, but because I had an entire christmas break to think and I was still coming up blank. However when I had that thought, the words Christmas break popped up into my head, so suddenly I found myself trying to recall the whole break to find something notable and blog worthy. And while I was thinking about that I also began to think of old topics for blogs that I had previously spoken about, and that of course brought me to one of my favorite blogs, which was my first blog. In this specific blog I spoke about the rise and the establishment of A24 production studios, however one thing I did not really get the chance to speak on, and what I had hoped to speak on in another blog. Is some of the movies from that studio. This movie is a new dramatic release that came out in December of 2023 titled, The Iron Claw.

And while I think that this is not just an incredible film, but an incredible piece of art, I think that my description would not do it the true justice that it deserves. Another factor that contributes to my decision of not giving too detailed of a description is that I do not want to spoil too much of the movie itself, so I have chosen instead to speak on the underlying messages it provides, while also giving a vague description along the way. The Iron Claw is a drama based on the true story of the prowrestling family, the von erichs. And goes through their life, capturing every agonizing, triumphant, and every other moment in between. This, personally, is what I would call the greatest sports movie of all time, maybe it is because I am a pretentious art student and this movie really isn’t even about sports, more the psychological effects of family trauma, masculinity, and death, I would say that  wrestling still plays a very large part in the movie. In conclusion, I would say that if you’re in the mood for something different, something that on the outside might seem like just a testosterone filled fever dream of a film, but proves to be much more, then I would highly recommend this movie.

ALSO- I am thinking I am either going to be touching on the film Saltburn for my next blog post, or the movie dream scenario, both movies coming out in 2023 that I found very interesting, if you would like to see one more than the other then please, I beg, tell me what you want to read about.

So for this week’s blog I was struggling with a topic that I had felt passionate about for a while, and while I have a few things in the works I think that I will most likely save them for future dates, so for today I decided I wanted to sample a bit of my novel and if you don’t mind I would love feedback on my introduction on anyone willing to give it. Thanks!!! :)))

“So, what does it mean.”

Jude hated this question. “What does it mean,” as if his words would give light to the beauties within the elaborate winding halls of Washington DC’s National Gallery of Art. It was as if the reflection of the large marble pillars across the museum had reflected poorly into the eyes of these tourists and left them unable to think straight. “What does it mean?” Jude scoffed under his breath as he walked past Abir, his coworker giving a tour. Jude had never been one to have a high tolerance for people who asked arbitrary questions like that, at least when it came to art. Maybe it was because he was pretentious, or maybe it was because of those late nights where he would wake up and go to the bathroom and look at himself, looking for something. He was looking for a part of himself that he could not find, not because he lost it or he was lacking that specific attribute, it was because it was here in this museum. In the paintings, in the slick, washed, hardwood floors, in the white collared shirt, black suit, and golden name tag that he was required to wear everyday when he came into work. Every time he walked among the art he knew that he had felt more complete than he had in his entire life, and some people had the audacity to ask what it meant.

As 5pm finally struck and the nightly Janitors came in, Jude, finally grabbing his long wool overcoat and taking his black earmuffs out of his bag, began to traverse down the concrete stairs in the front of the building. 59 steps. There were 59 steps going down the museum staircase, and Jude lightly rested his polished black loafers on every single one. A routine that he had picked up a few months ago. This wasn’t the extent of the small details that he had discovered about the museum in the four years that he had worked there however. The number of benches on every floor, the steps it took to get from one exhibit to another, these details kept Jude’s mind occupied during the times that he found the museum barren and all the tasks that he had been assigned completed. 

The path back home was long, not because he had to walk two blocks to the subway station and take two trains, but because he had left his copy of the Piquit Papers next to his bedside that morning so the extent of his entertainment on the ride home was now bound to whatever he could hear the people on the subway talking about. He owned a cell phone, however that was only because of his mother, who insisted if he was going to leave Chicago that he was to at least have a mode of communication with her. 

“I don’t know Amy, it’s not like I don’t understand what she’s saying she’s just being too much, ya know?”  The women sitting adjacent to Jude on the train that afternoon said into her cell phone, 

“Exactly, it’s like she’s making me out to be the bad guy.”

Jude always found himself with a lower tolerance of people that he considered loud, while a part of it was because of an annoyance accompanied with a slight headache, another part of it seemed to be a sense of envy. Envy that there were people out there who did not feel bound to the ever strickening confines of their own anxiety. 

“She just keeps doing it and to be honest Amy it’s getting on my nerves”

“Jesus,” Jude thought to himself, turning his headphones on as he connected it to his phone, classical jazz beginning to erupt into his ears.

“God that’s so much better,” Jude said to himself. A blend of brass and piano beginning to drown out the honking of horns, the screeching of the train on the tracks to a halt, the opening of the doors. If it wasn’t for the sudden movement throughout the metro car then Jude would have missed his stop completely. But as he finally found himself stepping upon the platform and the cold  November air of DC entrapping the exposed skin on his face. 

So for this week’s blog there were a couple things that I wanted to talk about. Trying to think of just one had always been something that had proved difficult for me. I could go a more grounded route and talk about how stressed I am about the ACT, or the easier decision of talking about horror games. But I think I have been focusing so much on things that make me negatively anxious, I would say that it is about time to talk about something that made me anxious in a good way. Horror games, or more specifically, one specific creator of horror games, that being puppet combo. So I’m thinking (or at least hoping) that a few of you know what puppet combo games are, but if not I am going to give a short summary. So puppet combo is an indie horror video game creator/producer who has come out with a number of various games in the past year. However, there is something special about this company that puts them apart from others. That being their modern adaptation to a relatively retro style of graphics.

Examples of the graphics:

These graphics are from only three of the various games that puppet combo has come out with.

The first being from their game “bloodwash” the second from a game called “feed me Billy” and finally from a game titled “Murder House” these aren’t just three random games; however, these are among their most popular and successful games. These graphics that are shown aren’t a result of a poor budget or a lackluster producing/coding team, but an intentional choice on the developers’ behalf. This retro and minimalistic style of graphics are meant to induce feelings of not only nostalgia but feelings of fear as well. But what really makes this game so scary is their incredible sound design and use of volume in the games themselves, having not only just loud noises, but an assortment of different terrifying tracks that have been created by developers. And while this is an indie game developing company, this has seen a large amount if success as well as traction, not just from the general audience, but from other small game developers as well, as a result these smaller companies have created a number of different games, one of my favorite games are actually a part of that category. That being a series called fears to fathom.

Images from different additions to the game:

What makes this game unique is that the stories are not created by writers or developers but found off of old subreddits and chat boards on reddit where the user explains their scary experience and developers reach out to them, wishing to turn it into a game. I think that these types of games are so incredible because it proves that you do not need much to create a horrifying environment, and a good horror game.

So, for this week’s blog I thought that maybe I would just turn it into an establishment of my own psyche so I can try to learn a new concept better on my own. I really wanted to touch on the different strategies that are used to integrate abstract ideas into finite concepts and works. This is not because I feel like I am someone who is at the liberty to explain this in the slightest, but someone that needs to write it for himself. The idea that possibly having it written down might help me to do it better in the future is the only thing keeping me going.

So, I realized that there are numerous ways to achieve this concept the more that I took the time to look into it, however there are only a few ways that stood out to me when I attempted to align them with my own process. First off, I enjoy stating my ideas audibly to see if the idea itself is even a fathomable concept. There have been many instances in which I repeat ideas out to myself and find that I cannot even attempt to put the idea into words, let alone write. I say let alone even though a lot of ideas are easier for me to write than to say out loud. 

The second strategy that I use whenever I am trying to adapt these abstract ideas is to use finite concrete metaphors to compare them to. Like trying to compare these ideas to something that I might be able to better touch or interact with. For example, trying to use the idea of pelting hail to portray the feeling of being overwhelmed or emotionally barraged. However now that I find myself with only two other strategies in which I am no stranger to have emerged. That of course being, writing down concepts and ideas that I have the moment that I have them and hoping to god that they make sense later on, and if I am being honest, I’m lucky if it is a 50/50.Sometimes I wake up with ideas and have to try to climb down from the top bunk of my bed and sketch them down on whatever piece of paper that I can find in my dark dorm at 3 in the morning.  While it is not nearly as efficient or easy as the other two it has been what has worked for me, making sure that I can achieve thoughts that I have within myself is one of my main goals as a writer and I think that that is one of the main aspects of my improvement that I have achieved thus far. 

Just a small disclaimer today I’m logging a part two to a story that I wrote two weeks ago so just keep that in mind.  :)))

“I hate winter, it’s 6pm and we’re going to have to patrol in pitch black night. Driving through this goddamn storm is going to be hard enough.” Otto was known for these rants, surprisingly it did not improve upon the quality of their patrols together. 

“It’ll be fine.” John said.

“Your voice of reason is more aggravating than anything that could come out of my mouth. You know that right?”

It was only when Otto finished his mindless rant did either of them begin to hear the static. It was a sound that both men had become all-too familiar with. It represented not just a call to action but also an escape from bliss for the two EMT’s. It was a sound that seemed to reside in the back of their heads, whether it be when they’re returning home or just starting their patrol. However, there was something different about this transmission. 

“Wh- -co -t, wash-t-” it staggered.

“Repeat that please.” 

“-t code two o- 7th o- Washington-”

“Roger”

The small percentage of the voice that was decipherable was not one that either man was familiar with. It was a low and raspy voice, one that did not align with the voice of their usual dispatch. Otto, begrudgingly walked out of the door with a look of frustration plastered across his face, leaving Jolly’s with his stomach as empty as it was when he entered. John followed behind him, however it was an expression of confusion that was left on his smooth dark complexion.   

The pouring rain hadn’t subsided as they attempted to speed to the ambulance. Water splashing up from puddles up to their waste as they ran. While it was only a code two the feeling of urgency never left the confines of their minds, even in situations not formally categorized as urgent both men felt as if they owed it to themselves to act with urgency. Their ankles trudged through the partially flooded parking lot as they finally climbed into the front seat. If it wasn’t for the underlying feeling of underlying sense of urgency that plagued their mind then it would have been an interesting view to take in, the torrential downpour upon a sea of empty asphalt. However, they could not see very far, for the extent of their vision didn’t expand beyond the light that was emitted from the restaurant’s window. It was an odd sight, their once casual demeanor almost unrecognizable. A once informal and playful relationship now seemed to be nothing but pure, unaltering, professionalism. Only Otto’s shifted expression was able to pull John out of his entranced-like state of focus.

“What? “He finally said.

“I remember that address John. The one on Washington, remember? The abandoned one on the corner. The one that looks like it’s on its last leg.”

“Oh yea, the one that looks like the roof is about to cave in.”John chimed in, remembering the address that more vividly now.

“Maybe it finally did,” Otto said. “I bet some dumb kids just snuck in at the wrong time.”

“It’s fine, Cops will give us a rundown.”

The rain continued to pick up, what was once just a heavy rainstorm had now morphed into anything that either man had ever seen. It was as if water was being manually poured upon the windshield of the ambulance. Otto turned to John, watching his hand grip the steering wheel. The deep gray color of the highway with its faded white lines did not alter, mile after mile they rode. However, there was suddenly, without warning, a drastic shift in the road. Not in the way that it was painted, or the direction that the highway was going, but a thing, this thing standing there, a figure in a downpour of not just rain, but fear.

So, following the ideology of just “Letting ideas come to me,” I started to get nervous about whether or not I was going to have something to write about this week. That was until yesterday when fourth period let out. So, for a bit of pretty crucial context, I think it would help a good bit to give everyone a little update on my life. 

I really wanted to have something in my life that I carried over here when I started here, and for me at least, that was tennis. Throughout my life I never really enjoyed sports. It never really made me feel happy in the same way it did other people, but either way my parents wanted me to play a sport. Therefore, I ended up playing tennis, and I didn’t stop. So now I find myself at MSA with over thirteen years of tennis under my belt. So, I decided that I was going to play tennis for BHS, and the one rule when it comes to that is that I have to be a student there, which I guess is reasonable. However, this meant I was going to have to take a class at, which of course I wasn’t excited about. Though I am still figuring out why. Maybe it is because the trip there takes longer than I’d like, maybe it’s the school, maybe it’s the stares that I get when I am there. But that’s not what I want to talk about, what I want to talk about is a feeling that I forgot about. Walking out yesterday I found myself sitting alone, surrounded by people, unfortunately I mean that in more of the literal sense than the metaphorical sense. And while I was waiting it gave me an odd sense of Deja vu. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I needed to wait for a ride to get home from school, almost 6 months but in that time, it had felt like years, and it also made me think about after that. Think about that after this I won’t ever feel that feeling again, that feeling where I wonder what my mom packed me for lunch or if we actually had a pep rally today. I always hated pep rallies, but the idea of never going to one again is odd. I guess that is how it is for a lot of things, even if you hate something it’s hard to wrap your head around the idea that you might not be able to do it anymore. Maybe, I’m selfish, maybe I wanted the option.

Like most weeks, going through any possible options I might have for my blog I was stuck with not much to talk about. I keep finding that I never have the right things happen to me for this, or I guess “bloggable” things. Everything that has been happening with me lately has either been too personal to blog about, or not interesting enough. I can never find that good balance between the two, it can feel like such a chore sometimes so for this week I decided to share a small excerpt from a project that I am working on.

Grease plagued the nostrils of the two EMT workers when they entered Jolly’s that evening. It was a staple of Bennings, one of the only fast food places that they had. Having a minute population of just over four-thousand people, Bennings was invisible in the eyes of big corporations, and they were aware of it. 

“Alright sir that will be $11.94,” the teenage cashier stammered, attempting to speak in a chipper tone. 

“Bullshit $11.94, it was $7.50 when I came into this dump last week.” the EMT sputtered.

“Sir, with all due respect I am seventeen years old. I barely have any control in my own job, let alone what your two burgers cost you. You can take it or leave it, I really couldn’t care less.”

“You-” the EMT swiftly being interrupted by his coworker.

“We don’t have time for this Otto”

“John I swear to god if you don’t-”

“I’ll pay,” John said, pulling out a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his jacket pocket.This wasn’t the first time that John had to stop one of Otto’s confrontations from progressing. However John with a towering stature of 6 ‘3 and wide muscular build it wouldn’t have been a very grueling task to break up and situation that might’ve progressed.  

“Would you like to sign up for our awards program, or round up to help contribute to Saint Patricks Children’s Hospita-” He was interrupted by a now apparent scowl that sat on Otto’s face. The wrinkles on his forehead speaking words louder than anything that left the confines of his lips.

The ringing of the cash register echoed throughout the empty establishment, Jolly’s was what John would categorize as a “graveyard restaurant.” An establishment littered with black and white photos of Jolly’s from decades prior as an attempt to hold on to its former glory. Now just a shell of itself.  

If it wasn’t for the constant humming of rain upon the tin roof the restaurant would have been plagued with silence. “Hey Joe can I get two number fives ple-.” The cashier, interrupted with a sudden boom of thunder, fell back. It was as if the thunder had cascaded down from the clouds and behind the counter. It was an odd type of thunder, it wasn’t the kind of thunder that one would hear at the start of a storm, but the kind that one might hear at its climax. 

“Anything new and exciting going on?” John asked casually as he began to flip through his phone. Its small black stature sitting insignificantly within the confines of John’s large palm. However all that this statement was met with was a dismissive chuckle on Otto’s behalf.

The storm continued to roar outside as both men awkwardly scooted into the red and white synthetic leather booth. Jolly’s windows began to vibrate, water cascading down its unwashed exterior, the clouds that were once a light gray now became to stain a deep ashen gray. The sun had begun its descent as they waited impatiently for their food to arrive.