The smell in the hallway was a mixture of fried bologna and feet. The threadbare carpet and stained walls told their own story, and it was not a jaunty beach read. The people behind these doors had fallen as low as a person could get and still have a door. As José pulled his gun from its holster, he did so with the knowledge that it was definitely not the first--or even the hundredth--gun to be pulled in this place.
#318 was at the end of the corridor, which gave José plenty of time to regret taking this case as he cautiously moved toward it. Somewhere over the last twenty years, he'd lost his hard, cynical edge, only to see it turn soft and gummy. He was like a nice crisp bran flake that turns soggy because you left it in the milk too long.
So, when some poor sap comes along and tells him that they found the face of Elvis in their Jello Salad, and now it's been stolen, naturally, Beigey was going to take the case. Five years ago, José would've laughed this putz right out of his office, and then tossed a water balloon at him out his window for good measure. Five-years-ago José would've laughed derisively at current him. Current him sighed and continued down the hall.
As he edged closer to #318, the smell in the air shifted. It went from a greasy umami haze to a sickeningly sweet chemical fog. It was overpowering. José felt like he was being suffocated with Willy Wonka's handkerchief. He slowly reached out and carefully pushed the door, which, shockingly, opened.
José took a deep breath and swung into the doorway. The smell was even worse inside the apartment. Trying to suppress a gag reflex that was demanding to have its way, he groped for a light switch, found it and immediately wished he hadn't.
The walls of the apartment were covered in bloody handprints and words scrawled in blood. The writing appeared to be Elvis lyrics. They were mostly spelled incorrectly and the punctuation was lacking. "'Blue swayed shoes'?" José was appalled.
Something else seemed to be off. José got up close to one of the bloody handprints. It didn't look right. And it smelled...like...raspberry? This dipshit, José realized, was writing his crazy-words in jello.
He headed into the kitchen. This was clearly the guy who had stolen his client's Jello Salad Elvis. And if he'd gone to the trouble of stealing it, he probably wanted it preserved. So a quick look in the fridge was in order. The kitchen was even more appalling than the rest of the place. A leaning tower of pizza boxes took up most of one counter. The sink had a stack of dishes that must've dated back to the Eisenhower administration.
José, a man who had looked death in the face and called it a whiney little bitch, was actually a bit afraid to look in the fridge. But if that's where the pilfered Gelatin King was, he needed to see it. He threw open the door.
Nothing. It was as empty as the My Great Ideas list that Donald Trump keeps on his bedside table. There was a jar of high-end mustard, but that was it. If the King of Ambrosia wasn't here, where was it?
A phone rang in the living room. Normally, José screened his calls. But when you've broken into the lair of a madman, you might as well risk having to speak to a telemarketer. He picked up the receiver.
"Go for Beigey."
The voice on the other end was high-pitched and giggly. "I figured you were coming over, Mr. Amador. So I took Elvis and we left the building."
"That's not your jello salad, creep."
"Tee-hee! Of course it's not, Mr. Amador. It's not my jello salad. It's my GOD! And my god demands that I KILL! KILL! KILL!"
"I think your god needs to ease up on the meth."
"First, Elvis has told me to kill your client, who is a false prophet and not worthy. And then he's told me to kill yooooooou."
The line went dead.
José didn't feel that much dread. People much more competent than this asshole had tried to kill him. But he was a little pissed that this case kept dragging on.
Happy Birthday, Beigey!
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