K
Kushparkowski
Guest
Original poster
The day was as slow as they come and made twice as irritating as usual due to the insufferable heat. Old fan on the ceiling of his office was trying its best, but heart was the only thing this boxer had going on for him in this match and that was not anything close to being enough. The literal atmosphere in the room as not helped by the sour stench of cigarettes slowly dying in the oversized glass ashtray of brick-like properties, but John could not see himself stopping any time soon. Lung cancer was not an easy way to go out, but he was a man of singular determination.
His office could barely be considered to be one. Fifteen square metres of untidy space dominated by an oversized throne of an office chair (that was almost Epicurean in its comfort), ruling over a small file cabinet (its size directly related to the number of cases), anonymous table, wiggly wooden chair and a number of thoughtlessly placed bookshelves. The little dignity this place had was then further abused by a few artifacts and mementos John kept around, mostly due to being useful in one way or other.
There was a dusty oil painting of Romanian countryside (that looked boring to the point of suspiciousness) surrounded by a few other uncanny pieces of art, these more Boschian in their nature. Half of the books were written in Greek or Latin, while other looked old enough to precede those languages.
There was also a big sack of salt sitting in one of the cornerners for reasons most people would not understand. If you asked John, he would call this room "an ugly result of drunken one night stand money-lender's place had with an antiquity store". It was like a home to him, he fit in perfectly with the mismatched furniture.
John him was something above thirty , but age was one of the worse ways to describe him. Sometimes (rarely) he felt like twenty, but you could honestly guess him forty most of the time. He used to be quite a looker and his face was not hard to look at, but constant worries and an unhealthy lifestyle left they mark and bit deep. Bitter grin rarely left his expression and his eyes were awfully spiky things despite having a rather pretty shade of light brown. His dark hair was a bit too long, but definitely recieved more care than the rest of his body and went well with the short stubble, result of neglect rather than planning. Fortunately for him, he could pull off this more rugged look.
His attire, consisting of greyish shirt and brownish vest, looked more formal and professional-like, but that Impression was ruined by rolled-up sleeves that revealed a dense network of tattoos covering his hands from shoulders to fingertips. It was an eclectic mix of visuals, ranging from Latin in fine lettering and religious looking symbols to a wide variety of eye motifs. No technique, style and colour was used twice.
Some people told him that those eyes were watching them. John's ex claimed that his tattoos were blinking at her suggestively. He dismissed it as a nonsense, but started wearing more long sleeves after that. He felt too hot to care about comfort of those around him today. The fact that there was nobody around him also helped in his endeavour of not caring too much about that.
He sighed so heavily it almost threw him into a violent fit of cough, but he managed to keep his "composure" and lit another cigarette. The brand was disgusting, leaving a curiously mud-like aftertaste in his mouth, but the actual tobacco inside was a quality stuff. It felt like shotgun piercing his lungs.
He got a couple of packs for free from his Ukrainian neighbor in exchange for his assistance. Man's daughter had a problem with "gigantic rats" flooding her house. John took a look there and found no rats. That did not mean there was nothing to do though, quite the contrary. He almost lost his right leg there and that was his favourite one.
He stopped seeing his neighbor after that, but man still left a plastic bag full of awful russian cigarettes hanging on his doorknob every month. John considered it a win win situation.
As slow as it was, today was supposed to be a big day. He had a meeting with client, a proper client. One that could pay him with real money instead of Stalin's Candles. It made John nervous, or restless to be more accurate. He really needed a check that contained numbers and not sorry excuses, but John's line of business was not very trustworthy and he has never been the most successful when it came to convincing clients of his credibility. John was rather incredible in many respects. Letters on his doors read "John Methodius - Private Investigator / Occult Consultant / Wizard Extraordinaire". Neither of those tittles was sought out too often.
It was not because John's lack of competence, there were places where worth of his talents could be estimated in nothing less than blood, but that was a significant part of the problem. John preferred to live in a world ruled by more conventional currencies, like money or cheap cigarettes Life in poverty and boredom was a small price to pay for peace and enduring sanity.
He let out a huge puff of smoke. His client should come soon. She was rather scarce on the details, but John could remember her talking about jewellery of some sorts. It had to be something she really treasured, she would not ask for his services otherwise. That should make finding it easier. Simple human sentiment could be a surprisingly useful tool. Hopefully, he will manage to convince her of his abilities.
His office could barely be considered to be one. Fifteen square metres of untidy space dominated by an oversized throne of an office chair (that was almost Epicurean in its comfort), ruling over a small file cabinet (its size directly related to the number of cases), anonymous table, wiggly wooden chair and a number of thoughtlessly placed bookshelves. The little dignity this place had was then further abused by a few artifacts and mementos John kept around, mostly due to being useful in one way or other.
There was a dusty oil painting of Romanian countryside (that looked boring to the point of suspiciousness) surrounded by a few other uncanny pieces of art, these more Boschian in their nature. Half of the books were written in Greek or Latin, while other looked old enough to precede those languages.
There was also a big sack of salt sitting in one of the cornerners for reasons most people would not understand. If you asked John, he would call this room "an ugly result of drunken one night stand money-lender's place had with an antiquity store". It was like a home to him, he fit in perfectly with the mismatched furniture.
John him was something above thirty , but age was one of the worse ways to describe him. Sometimes (rarely) he felt like twenty, but you could honestly guess him forty most of the time. He used to be quite a looker and his face was not hard to look at, but constant worries and an unhealthy lifestyle left they mark and bit deep. Bitter grin rarely left his expression and his eyes were awfully spiky things despite having a rather pretty shade of light brown. His dark hair was a bit too long, but definitely recieved more care than the rest of his body and went well with the short stubble, result of neglect rather than planning. Fortunately for him, he could pull off this more rugged look.
His attire, consisting of greyish shirt and brownish vest, looked more formal and professional-like, but that Impression was ruined by rolled-up sleeves that revealed a dense network of tattoos covering his hands from shoulders to fingertips. It was an eclectic mix of visuals, ranging from Latin in fine lettering and religious looking symbols to a wide variety of eye motifs. No technique, style and colour was used twice.
Some people told him that those eyes were watching them. John's ex claimed that his tattoos were blinking at her suggestively. He dismissed it as a nonsense, but started wearing more long sleeves after that. He felt too hot to care about comfort of those around him today. The fact that there was nobody around him also helped in his endeavour of not caring too much about that.
He sighed so heavily it almost threw him into a violent fit of cough, but he managed to keep his "composure" and lit another cigarette. The brand was disgusting, leaving a curiously mud-like aftertaste in his mouth, but the actual tobacco inside was a quality stuff. It felt like shotgun piercing his lungs.
He got a couple of packs for free from his Ukrainian neighbor in exchange for his assistance. Man's daughter had a problem with "gigantic rats" flooding her house. John took a look there and found no rats. That did not mean there was nothing to do though, quite the contrary. He almost lost his right leg there and that was his favourite one.
He stopped seeing his neighbor after that, but man still left a plastic bag full of awful russian cigarettes hanging on his doorknob every month. John considered it a win win situation.
As slow as it was, today was supposed to be a big day. He had a meeting with client, a proper client. One that could pay him with real money instead of Stalin's Candles. It made John nervous, or restless to be more accurate. He really needed a check that contained numbers and not sorry excuses, but John's line of business was not very trustworthy and he has never been the most successful when it came to convincing clients of his credibility. John was rather incredible in many respects. Letters on his doors read "John Methodius - Private Investigator / Occult Consultant / Wizard Extraordinaire". Neither of those tittles was sought out too often.
It was not because John's lack of competence, there were places where worth of his talents could be estimated in nothing less than blood, but that was a significant part of the problem. John preferred to live in a world ruled by more conventional currencies, like money or cheap cigarettes Life in poverty and boredom was a small price to pay for peace and enduring sanity.
He let out a huge puff of smoke. His client should come soon. She was rather scarce on the details, but John could remember her talking about jewellery of some sorts. It had to be something she really treasured, she would not ask for his services otherwise. That should make finding it easier. Simple human sentiment could be a surprisingly useful tool. Hopefully, he will manage to convince her of his abilities.