Unlimited Breakfast: Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The city is a place of murderers, prostitutes, businessmen, pidgeons, and other birds in fruit laden foliage, hanging unpicked, eventually falling, and melting back into to the ground. This is the circle of life. And all beings here hang in the noisy nether zone somewhere between life and death. When you live here you have to accept that your death is certain, life a dying process gone grey by way of lain down tarmac. You eke out a life somewhere halfway in purgatory, shuffling along a relentless conveyer belt you until you hand in your shopping; carried away in black plastic like the bottles of some nefarious drink you use to drown out the sound of sirens past your window at night.

And once in a while everyone crosses the road, across the line, into footfallen, rubberworn alleys where no one can save you- no gods, no mothers, no father figures, no Freudian slips to lighten the mood- the random fancies of copper coins that glint devilishly on the floor scream at you to flip them.  Coins you’ve already had spent as soon as you’re dragged out screaming into the cold uncaring world, eyes wide and bloodshot, your gumless screams stifled by scratchy blankets covering your new nude body, trailing umbilical all over the shop until the doctor finally comes and decides if you’re an innie or an outie- sealed- until the fat lady at the fruit machine sings with triple bananas.

And as time goes by you have to ferment. You dodge cars, and the people who flyer for causes, surprise and double take await you past every curved corner already cut by the almighty architects of the city.  And so you’re stuck here, tall brick and concrete monoliths stand bearing down on you, keeping your eyes low, and your spirits lower until you find the dark settles down on the ground. And that’s why I come and go. My name at the time was McFlanaghan. Detective Chief Inspector McFlanaghan. Chaos and I play a fickle game, we make our moves one after the other, never winning, both playing, forever.

I was born and raised in the city by my father, my mother died before I was born. Her name was Lilah, the softness of her name hung tenderly in my memory, I only knew her from my father’s pictures. His name was Benedict. Like the eggs. And we had a saying in our tiny two-man family: don’t keep all your eggs in one basket. We loved egg based phrases, we really did. But then my father died in an omelet fire. And the firefighters were baffled as to how the fire started in the first place. I can barely remember now if the coroner decided that the cause of death was house fire or lust for breakfast. But that was my dad through and through. He loved breakfast. And he loved making it. He always made a habit of encouraging me to go out and make my own. His words still ring in my ears, tempered words that shone through the grimace borne of the gentle searing splatter of bacon grease onto his hairy arms. “Make your own damn breakfast!” he used to say, whilst waving his shiny, melted plastic spatula up and down like a wizard’s wand, shoulders twitching minutely at every tiny jumping drop of grease. And I took those words to heart. Because it turns out that breakfast isn't just the most important meal of the day, breakfast is life. He used to make an omelet every single morning for fourty-four years since he could reach the hob. He taught me to twist and push until you hear the cracking fires emerge. Twist and push and tear the knob right off to keep the flames firing the frying pan of destiny. And then crack your eggs. There were times when it seemed like he was telling me old news- ideas I already knew- but as soon as he was gone it was because I never knew his story. I never realized the struggle that gave weight behind his words. I never realized why he was telling me these things. He was full of wisdom, laughter, and breakfast.  But I never cooked my own. I could never find it within me. And then I was the one with egg on my face, some kind of yolk I could never wipe off.

So I had to find my own purpose in life. It just so happened my purpose found me first. It was chaos itself. I found my way to see through the charred, steaming hulk of our little burnt eggbasket. When our dream burnt down, I caught a glimpse into the writhing underworld of hatred. And so I remembered the ethos my father gave me before his pancakes were flipped. It was for me an ethos unexplored, where the night could set it ablaze at any moment. And so I packed my bags full of determination, hate, fear, eggs, turned them into weapons, against those who ride on the coattails of chaos. Against those who set the night ablaze. And all in all, in the deepest, darkest nights of your life Fate rides a flaming chariot through the sky, careening his reined charges through the snow that drifts so calmly in the air, and he enters your quiet life like a master cat-burglar. He delicately lays down the law of the universe right next to your sleeping face until you bolt upright and realize you’re right in the shit. I always hated Christmas. And so I am but a ghost in the footsteps of dusk, trying finding my path. I often find myself looking up, trying to see past the sodium orange lamplight that eats into my soul like moths to a stained rug. To me the sky is forever a colander; the stars pitted gaps in a bowl of black, the night seeps in.

Looking back over my shoulder at the never ending line of streetlamps, my gloved hands flipped up the collar on my modest beige duster. Then I reached into its folds, my quarry the crumpled pack of French blues. I pulled one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply. I shuddered. A cloud of smoke fell up past my head. And it was a cold evening, no doubt Emerson, my partner, would be feeling it too, back in our wheels for this whole operation. Necessity had found us an old ice cream van. We called her Laquisha. She ran like a beaut, and we’d modified her original ice cream truck siren to be piercingly loud. We careened around in her, and as long as she continued to pump out 99’s, we would continue to pump out .44s, right out of her ample side window at whatever bastard needed one. One after another, in whatever form, we served righteous brainfreeze to this tangled cerebral mess of a town. I was glad Emerson was keeping her company. I had asked him to save me a couple of flakes to stick into a mighty vanilla swirl for when I got back. I smiled to myself as I walked down this dustily lit road. I paused. Why was I here? And then I remembered.

I carried on smoking, walking, thinking through the cold. I flicked my cigarette down a side alley, watching its orange arc fly through the air until it stopped, sizzling, in small pool of blood on the floor. I jolted and swore. Mild fear rippled through my body as I thought through my next moves, a mild fear only felt on Wednesdays, a day for planning. But it was a Tuesday. Tuesdays need no planning. And I began to follow the trail along the course concrete until I laid eyes on a body. It had fallen clumsily. I swore again and closed my eyes. Poor girl. As I opened them I was numb. She had a stamp on her forehead, chaotic milky eyes looking up into the night sky. Her limbs were strewn about, her left porcelain hand clutched an open packed of custard creams, she was missing a shoe. She was clearly dressed for a night out, long flowing black dress, torn in places, and a black velvet choker cruelly highlighting the damage sustained to her neck and face. And I noticed that the packet of biscuits was left full. Not a single one taken. Her lipstick, deep red lipstick, was smudged across her cheek like scar. And she was punctuated by an obscene smattering of beige crumbs, they were scattered like fallen stardust across the flowing black fabric that covered her empty body, a delicate, obscene galaxy all the way down to her midriff. She had light brown hair, curly, but lacking volume and lustre, as if unconditioned for weeks. The light failed to bounce off, any bounce long since gone. And as I stared with dull silence echoing in my ears I noticed the finer details. Suddenly, I heard the sharp slap of feet rushing up behind me. I snapped round, drawing my '44 as fast as i could. The footsteps stopped. I squinted past my dim shadow into the fog of the city night, my barrel hovering, pointed delicately, and unknowingly in the briskness.
"…Show yourself!"
And from the deep dark at the end of the alleyway emerged a small thin man in an apron smeared with fingerstreaks of chocolate. He wore a tall white chef’s hat with a heavily mustached man giving both thumbs up, his eyes screaming happiness. He took a few steps forward, finishing the end of a waffle cone.
"It's only me, boss!" he called as crumbs spewed from his mouth in no apparent direction.
I paused, sighed, holstered my piece and zipped up my fly.

"Goddammit Emerson. You really fucking scared me there."

His eyes were always lit with the sparkle of a man who lives life for the sheer hell of it. That’s why he was with me. I followed hell, he followed suit, depending on the formality of the occasion. He was the yin to my yang, the bread to my butter side down. And there was undoubtedly a fire in his warm soul that never went out. But as those green orbs looked past me, his smile fell, the sparkle faltered. A single drop of vanilla ice cream fell from his bottom lip and hit the ground with a wet tap.

“Its… her” he said.

“Yes.” I sighed. “I know that.” We both turned around. Emerson turned around again to look in the same direction. I understood his shock. No amount of death is ever right after a waffle cone. But the time for ice cream had been and come and passed away.