posted on Nov, 3 2014 @ 10:19 AM
Anterograde Part#1 - The Man That Might Kill
The man that might kill Frank Tuller was onto his second cup of coffee; New Orleans Chicory bathing in two espresso shots. Always the same. Frank was
oblivious, but he knew about the suitcase and the blood. This was a problem.
The warm sound of passing cars breezed past the diner, splashing against the dozy ear drums of Mister Tuller. They reminded him of lazy beach days
from a time when tables seemed tall and adults trustworthy. He had overcome the tables at around 12 years old, the adults were an on going project. It
was the horn that woke him from his slumber. The horn and the waitress with the leopard print under cut.
“You need another hour or you wanna order something?”
“I-…” It wasn’t where he expected to be. It wasn’t a lazy beach day, it wasn’t the place behind the cracked mirror, and it wasn’t a
Eyes scanning the room. Everything so plastic and clean, but dirty in subtle ways that implied use or potential health safety violations. Daily
regulars mill the room in the miserable brightness, sitting where they would be expected to sit, drinking what one might expect them to drink. Coffee,
donuts, flannel, and dirty baseball caps and ... someone familiar. The man that might kill Frank Tuller.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Frank is suddenly in the present.
“This isn’t where I expected to be.”
“Rough night?” She smirks.
“Uhhh … No I- … No,” if there was one think Frank is sure of at this moment, he was well rested.
“Doesn’t smell like it,” the waitress with the leopard print under cut scrunches up her nose. Now that she mentioned it, Frank is aware he
smells faintly of beer. Beer and something else. “Come on trooper, lets get you squared up and home to the wife. Whatcha want?” She was patient.
Keen even, but that's not what catches Frank off guard.
“I have a wife…?” Frank says, checking his hand.
The waitresses mood dulls, “too early in the morning for that crap. I’ll just put- … a regular latte, and a choc chip muffin.”
Frank stares at her, rubbing the white band around his wedding finger as if it was a fresh wound. It seemed impolite to have a break down in the
middle of diner, and he didn’t know any of those people. Apart from-…
“I’ll make it a large,” the waitress mutters ruefully.
The newspaper flopped in front him was little solace, more of a distraction. The date on it meant little. The stories were interesting, but not
informative. Still, perhaps it had been a rough night. Perhaps he did kind of belong here. It wasn’t completely above him to work all night and pass
The man that might kill Frank Tuller is almost done with his coffee, but he’s in no rush. He watches from a plastic cubicle, sipping from a plastic
cup, and talks to plastic friend.
“What do you think?”
“Seems to be working,” his plastic friend responds.
“Give another couple of minutes?”
“You still have coffee, yeah?”
“That I do.”
A hand reaches into a jacket, snapping the safety on a government issue pistol. He’s still in no rush, but boy scouts prepare ahead of time. He
checks his cuff links with a longing sigh, looking to the door that only he can see. It was around then that Frank noticed the man that might kill
“What’s he sitting on?”
“A chair,” the waitress responds.
“He’s a regular?”
“Don’t care,” she slices the muffin into even quarters, and places a square mint next to the ordinary looking ceramic cup. The attention to
detail seemed unusual to Frank. “You often worry about what people are sitting on? Or is that just a today thing?”
“I- … guess it’s a today thing?” Frank smiles. It’s the first smile, the first sign.
“Remembered your wife yet?”
Frank sighs, “am still working on that. I’m not normally like this.”
She gives him an amused smile, the lack of sarcasm or disbelief the elephant in the room, but it was an elephant that might get in the way of comfort
and latte. Latte seemed especially inviting to Frank right now. The intrusion, not so much.
A brief case slams on a nearby counter. Frank can’t help but stare. The buttery leather flesh, the gold clasps, the numbers spinning beneath worn
thumbs … something so familiar. The man who might kill Frank Tuller peers over a tense suited shoulder, tightening a square jaw. Frank knows this is
“You’re off?” The waitress smiles.
“I think so.”
“Good. You disturb the customers.”
“That’s my job,” cool blue eyes and a smile. Frank finds himself shaking the man’s hand as he speaks, “Julian Klass, department of consumer
“Frank Tuller. I’m uhhh … between jobs. I think.”
“Nice to meet you, Frank,” Julian Klass turns. A hand slips into a suit jacket. “You ever feel like you work under ground, Frank?”
The throw away question hangs in the air. Klass purses his lips. This is the part he has never got used to. There was no real rhyme or reason to it.
It could have been him at one stage. It could still be him. The man that might kill Frank Tuller doesn't want to go through with it.
“Ummm … No?” Frank slurps some coffee. “I don’t think this place is that bad.”
The quiet relief of a safety catch snapping back into place. Klass dismissively fixes his suit. “Good! Then one of us is crazy.”
The man that might kill Frank Tuller evaporates … for now. Julian Klass stands or, more accurately, walks relieved but uncomfortable in his place.
Tuller watches as the suited stranger exits the diner, pondering the buttery looking suit case. A part of him might be walking out with Mister Klass,
but he thinks it’s worth it for a mug of coffee and the company could be worse.
“Don’t mind him,” the waitress mutters, hands pressed on her hips. “He likes to make my job difficult.”
“So he was a regular then?” Frank asks cheerfully, amused at his own keen perceptions.
“Just like you!” She smiles, “refill?”