Phase II: The glass sits empty like a crystalline void, a metaphor for everything that never was. Not even a single drop lingered at the rim. Had osmosis taken hold of its contents and filled the desk drawers beneath? Has some impossible science occurred or has the syrupy brown fluid become as endangered as the rosewood from which the desk was constructed? He can’t seem to remember where he was last night. Either way, the empty glass persists. A gentle voice interjects the gaze Dandy Chase has fixed upon the evacuated vessel. “…so that’s what brings me here.” “Parched?” “Excuse me?” “A drink… would you like a drink?” “A drink?” Chase finally averts his eyes, caught by a flickering ember and one of those real smelly moments that you can count the seconds by. The smoke clears and rested behind the burning cigarette, red lips and a discontent expression resembling a shark out of water. He can’t seem to remember where he was last night but he knows how to read a room. This is one of those moments where smell just won’t suffice, something had to be said. “Dave sent you?” “Well… sort of. It’s an easy job, one of those big numbers you see. All sixes and what. You’d like it. You’ll see.” Something is off, but the rent is past due. The phone rings in the waste bin. Dandy has that feeling in his gut that any good detective can trust in a bind. He could pawn his gun. He could get some canned goods from the pantry. Hell, he could pawn those too. It’s too early for this shit and something is off. “So, what will it be Mr. Chase?” The temptress in red leans over and extends an envelope stuffed with a decision. Chase’s eyes adhere to the offer and before he realizes it he’s clutching the parcel in sweaty palms and the deal is sealed. “You’ll see.” Through his periphery he notices a smile begin to part the red lips. Chase immediately straightens as he notices what seem to be writhing, elongated and fleshy things worming within the now exposed cavity of the temptress. Dandy frantically fumbles through the papers strewn across the rosewood desk. Eviction notices, past due bills, cases left unsolved, receipts for burgers and bottles. The smell of steel emerges from the paper mites and dust. Chase brandishes the unearthed letter opener as his office door shuts. His gaze moves back to the desktop as papers fall to the floor like a bureaucratic autumn. He redirects his weapon and slices free the contents of the envelope and a smell of uncertainty fills the room. It’s too early for this shit. Dandy Chase fills his glass. Fourth and Main. Intersect. Hogan Alley. For your consideration: The term direction can be a transcendent entity in modern vocabulary. An origin of moving in a straight line, order required and chaos not permitted. To suit this standard, a place can only be found through following direction, and directions can only be dictated by equipping oneself with the knowledge of where that direction may take the person who has been directed. So, to direct someone on where to go means that it is a place where someone must have been. A vicarious nature of travel, and you may find yourself moving in a vessel of the past in response to this sequence of events. Once you then know where said direction has token you, you can then extend that direction to a new traveler, finding yourself mobilized in a vessel of time yet to pass. Dandy Chase can’t seem to remember where he was last night but this place seemed familiar. He cracks his knuckles and peers down Hogan Alley. This is not a smell worth any sort of legal tender. Chase makes a last futile attempt to convince himself to turn back as he steps through the threshold into the backstreet. This place is damp and his wingtips splash about as he traverses the passageway. It’s darker than it should be, only lit by a flickering neon light at the termination of the path. Chase plots his steps carefully, the walls seem to breathe. He notices a discarded carcass of some rodent. Strange fleshy worms weave within the rib cage of the deceased vermin . Dandy remembers the woman in red before finding himself standing in front of a solid iron door canopied by the erratic neon sign. “the big squeeze” A Judas hole slowly slides open. Dandy Chase digs into the breast pocket of his overcoat. His fingers move passed the smooth metal of the letter opener in search of something more delicate. Out he pulls a scrap of French paper recovered from the envelope from the woman in red. It’s scented with rose oil and stamped with secret correspondence. A raspy snake of a voice seeps out from the porthole. “We ssshook our fissstsss at the punissshing rain…” “And we called upon the author to explain.” Dandy’s response read from the parchment is met with a creak as the door begins to open. Broken jazz penetrates the air and the dampness of the alleyway seems to have slithered its way inside. A stump of a man with polydactyly keeps winning at finger filet at the bar. Chase ensures he heads to a few stools down from the action to avoid any spurts of blood landing in his drink and hails the bartender. The barkeep convulses and jerks like an automaton with a few missing gears. His hand shakes an empty glass as the tapster exhales a mechanical rehearsal. “Hark! Weary traveler! I be the big squeeze, the big squeeze is where ye be! Rot and ruin, far flung reaches of seekers unknown! Parched impartial I impart upon ye a swill of sup to feel thine cup. So what will it be, Mr. Chase?” The big squeeze shakes the glass once more in calculated repetition and manufactures a makeshift smile across his oily grimace. Dandy remembers the lady in red. He can’t seem to remember where he was last night and doesn’t remember disclosing his name to the rickety barkeep but he knows how to read a room. The glass is empty and must be healed of such an affliction. “Rye.” “Oh Jenny’s a sweet poor body, Jenny’s seldom dry.” As the squeeze chants Chase’s attention is caught by a tormented yelp coming from the stump a few stools down. The man lifts his hand to his face as his auxiliary digit dangles from a thread of skin. Blood bubbles from the gore like a crimson spring. Before he is able to move his eyes back to the tapster it looks as if the grimace has mutated into a proboscis and heaved into the once empty glass. Dandy can’t be sure as now in full view the squeeze has returned to his machine-like state. The now filled glass sits in front of him. The temptation for one of those big smelly moments begins to grind away at the feeling in his gut that any good detective can trust in a bind. Dandy Chase lifts the glass to his lips and in a single motion empties it and slams the barren vessel back to the bar top. Something is off. Chase peers into the glass. There’s something flopping as if it’s gills are collapsing in what little is left of the drink. A fleshy cylinder of a creature slithering about the virulent syrup. Terror sets in and Chase rises from the barstool knocking his glass to the floor. His eyes move in horror to demand an answer to the affront to his dehydration. The grimace of the barkeep begins to contort and stretch. That same makeshift smile begins to elongate and transcend the border of the squeeze’s face. The cranium of the bartender cracks and splits and begins to rise like a freshly liberated top to a can of beans. Gurgles and burps escape from the now exposed gorge as an obsidian cocoon begins to surface. Chase gets dizzy and things begin to blur. He remembers the woman in red but can’t seem to remember where he was last night. His eyes are getting heavy and the cocoon begins to split. The glass sits empty once more.