The Pact



Muted trumpets whined, saxophones blared, and drums tapped out rhythms, filling the smoky room with jumpy, joyful music. Laughter and happiness spread from party to party, but came to a painful halt at one table, the mood shifting from jovial and innocent to cold, somber and pensive. Eyes locked, trembling, sweaty hands shook, glasses chimed and bitter alcohol trickled down parched throats like rainwater down a storm drain. A newly formed pact between two men clad in dark expensive suits would change everything, their appearance making it blatantly obvious to any who were sober or cared enough to notice. The one on the right let his eyes bounce feverishly about the room like he was searching for some invisible entity. The other loosened his necktie with tired, aging hands that had just tied the noose around his neck rather than release it as he had done with the other man’s claw-like hand. Under the table, his loafer-clad heels were welded to the soiled floor, extending from long spidery legs that hadn’t seen daylight in seven years. The man remained silently still, his icy green stare concentrated on the bottle of Remy Martin in front of him. With an ancient but powerful arm he reached for the bottle, sighing.
“Well,” he thought, “if I’m going to die tonight, what does it matter?” A thin, weak smile took shape on his elderly pink lips.

Michael Adler
17 September 2003