Lady Killer

A man on a hunt

It's a pleasure to hunt. 

At the bar, he sits, with a lazy eye, and a smirk on his lips, taking it in. Observing the sameness of it all. This little bar, just like all the rest. The worn oak floor, the finely stippled mirror behind the bottles of booze, the old cash register collecting dust and post it notes, all of it reeks of redundancy, of sameness, of insignificance. 

The price of doing business in this city sometimes turns his stomach. Even the faceless multitudes milling about the room, chatting, getting drunk, coming and going, they all disgust him. Filthy monkeys with car keys, this slobbering, farting, shifting homogenous horde that he reviles. 

But, he knows that every hunt has it's ups and downs, its distinct virtues, and specific vices. This one is no different.

The cost of admission.  

"Bartender," he says, "what's your best tequila?" 

"Depends on the style you prefer. We got silver, gold, anejo..."

"I prefer the best."

"Well that depends a lot on your tastes. Ask ten different guys what they think, and you're probably gonna get ten different answers."

"Then bring me the costliest."

"A lot of people don't think that's the best."

"Other people's opinions rarely sway mine."

"Well, why don't I bring you my favorite, it's right in the middle, but I can still charge you top price?"

"No, the authenticated option is always preferable."

"You telling me you want a beer instead?"

"No, I'm telling you to bring me a shot of your most expensive tequila, not the one you think should be, or could be, but actually is. Chilled if possible, no salt on the rim, lime on the side." 

The bartender shrugs and turns to fetch his order. He thinks how nice it might be to slice this man's throat wide open. That's a drink you could get top dollar for. A bloody one.

The man's name is Raul Cortez, but on nights like these, he goes by Ray. 

Ray, he likes the sound of that. Ray, the tall, thin stranger. Ray, the dark, brooding man at the end of the bar, with jet black hair and a pencil thin mustache. Too cool for school, with a peacock feather glued to the front of his black stetson cowboy hat. He's so goddamn handsome, he just can't stand it. So f*****g handsome his drinks taste better, his smokes less harmful, his taste in women never wrong. 

Never.

Yes, dressed to kill on a Saturday night in San Francisco. Fitting. He is, after all, a lady killer. 

The stench of stale beer, nicotine, and cheap perfume linger on his lips, in his nose. It's a fetid atmosphere, and he breathes in deeply, secretly relishing the fruity rot. Secrets, yes, those are his domain, those are what sustains him. Well, he corrects himself, secrets, and a baser, more carnal understanding. 

He opens his eyes and sees she is still talking, at him, he assures himself, not to him. This is good. The quarry he favors isn't the type to concern themselves with the trivialities of another person. The allure of this for him is paradoxical. More tempting is the bounty for which the hunt is unassured. When the beast is hungry, however, it is difficult to find solace in cliches. 

He smiles at her and nods, not hearing a word she's saying, staring at her lips, plump, red and moist. He chuckles on cue, and he can tell she appreciates how attentive, and engaged this fellow is. He has to stifle his laughter. He hasn't heard a damn thing she's said since she sat down across from him five minutes ago. Then again, he doesn't need to. 

He has become of master of reading a woman's non verbal cues, and can provide the appropriate gestures necessary to validate virtually any point a woman makes to him with her eyes, or the corners of her mouth, or the furrow of her brow. The words are really only window dressing for what the spirit is saying with the body. There is a vast language of emotions conveyed by this somatic alphabet. He is fluent, and can understand a woman better than she understands herself.  

Lust is never far away from becoming the rage that sustains him, and with every passing moment he feels the tightening in his gut, the demand to be fed. Perhaps, he needs to tune in. He takes a shallow breath, and exhales. As his shoulders slacken her voice now becomes audible to him. 

'So, you see, that's the only reason she agreed to come with me tonight, because of Mr. Man over there, doing his thing, spinning the bottles.'