The scene is everything.


Somewhere between Heaven and Hell sits the Flamingo Motel.

There is Us, and there is Them. We rally forces and dwell here.

While it isn't much to look at with the rusty signage, skeevy biological trash hazards, and the walking-dead all-night concierge service; The Flamingo is a safe-haven from the fantastical nonsense. Ridiculousnesses such as bars full of fairies where bubble tea and whiskey being served by the same bartender, and unicorn-haired girls in tutus hiding all of their 'meangirl shade' in plain sight. Not that Eddie O'Connor would ever be inclined to judge a person based on their preferences, but his personal brand of selfishness has never included fantasy's of glitter nail polish, pillow fights, or twiggy tweens in pink wigs who wobble on tip-toe in clear-plastic stiletto heels practicing how to be agent provocateurs. And, honestly, while his Demonic heritage has never been an unanswered question, he does not comply with the common stereotype of chaotic stupidity reigning supreme. Being blond and gentle on the eyes is one of two birthrights he can claim without having to give an 'i told you so' speech. Those good looks and the being born into a nine-to-five kind of personal hell, wherein he hunts and gathers Stygian coins for the Customs and Acquisitions Department of the Civil Union Underworld. Usually, the droll of monotony ends up leaving him surly and hard to be around. Given free will, he'd prefer to be left to his own devices. Alone in bittersweet neutrality to do what he wants, when he wants to do it, vaingloriously. For now, let's say, this desire is still a pipedream he simply cannot afford to actualize.

The Flamingo sits in the middle of nowhere, along a stretch of dark desert highway. On his weekends off, he deigns to dwell in the back unit beside the laundromat, which is really just an old washer and dryer with rusty drums that endlessly squeaks in protest. His brother, Kurt, lives in the larger central unit near the ice-maker that never has ice, with his crazy-ass estrogen-raging girlfriend. Eddie avoids that telenovela, at all costs. In the unit upstairs, the beautiful Poetess that Eddie stole, literally, from a castle resides while she endeavors to learn all about her new normal. Beside her, also on the second-floor lives, no shit, a real Goddess of love and jealousy. Eddie is no longer fond of shared living spaces. All the cloak and dagger has him keeping the frosted glass jalousie windows of his room buckled up tight with the hope of maintaining a modicum of privacy. The walls of the rooms are as thin as cardboard though, and everyone ends up knowing everyone else's business. On nights with a full moon, Eddie's apartment has been known to light up like Las Vegas on Elvis's birthday. The fixtures and the appliances behind the yellowed tweed curtains continue to fire off, even when the circuit breaker blows. Usually, that monthly shitstorm brings everyone outside so they can have long unresolved diatribes about what an inconsiderate prick, he is which always leaves him to ask, "How the fuck is this my fault?"

Tonight, however, all seems peacefully and eerily quiet. Too quiet if you were to ask him, as quiet nights usually mean bigger fucking trouble than having to be woman-splained and sneered at until the wee hours of the morning against your will.

He is leaning casually against the trunk of his Chevy Impala parked in front of the soda machine. The car still has the original midnight blue paint, hand-waxed to a high shine, reflecting him in surreal muscle car imagery from the waning moon. There is bluish incandescence glowing up under his chin, emanating from the data device on which he is texting furiously. Each time his thumbs tap, the cigarette at the corner of his mouth gives a little grateful bob for the spellchecker. Though he finds himself making more mistakes than he might admit if asked - because it never catches the correction when he writes head instead of 'read' or sex instead of 'sec'. Thanks, Galaxy Infinitum, for all your technological advances.

He takes a moment to look up after sending one of those exact kind of mistakes, flicking ashes outward into a gust of cool wind. Tumbleweeds blow across the asphalt entrance to the Motel. Fawn-colored eyes lilt Eastward where two headlights appear, slowly closing the distance from There to Here.

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The writer of Eddie likes to make things up and write them down.

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