3 Samson Broadwell

Samson woke up one morning, sprawled out across his bed. His blanket had been thrown onto the floor, probably due to the tossing and turning during his sleep throughout the night.

He sat up slowly, his eyes only half open and yawned. He stretched his arms upward as he did so, arching his back until an audible pop sounded.

He flung his legs over the side of the bed,gingerly bringing his feet to rest upon the wood floor, only to immediately retract them due to the cold. He shivered. He did this every morning. And every morning it was the same response. One would thing he would've learned by now, but he hadn't. Maybe it was because he was still half asleep. Maybe it was because he was an idiot. No one knew. He surely didn't have an answer. But that was beside the point. He had an appointment to attend, so he had to just deal with the cold.

With a light bounce, he hopped out of bed and stood up. At a good 183cm tall, there weren't too many people who stood taller than him. There were a couple exceptions, one of which he would be meeting today.

Samson ran through his morning routine of stretches, daily work out, shower, followed by a light breakfast. He had grown accustomed to this procedure ever since he started getting into shape. Because of his decision, he had a lean figure, one that was also muscular. Thanks to his muscles, he was slightly larger than other men with the same lean body, but he wasn't overly bulky, like many body builders he knew. He kept his muscles and body size in proportion to one another. He was proud of his body's condition.

After his morning routine was complete, he dressed. He wore a plain black t-shirt with a pair of black pants, white ankle socks, with a pair of black-and-white tennis shoes. After that, he grabbed and pulled on a white, sleeveless hoodie, pulling the hood over his head.

He checked his appearance in his closet mirror, adjusting anything as needed. Once satisfied, he turned and made his way out, making sure to grab his wallet and keys by the door.

As he shut his door, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He could feel a presence behind him, staring at him with dark eyes. There was only one person who gave him that feeling.

His expression falling and his eyes becoming sullen, he turned around.

'Damn it.'

Before him stood a woman. Not any woman, mind you. This woman happened to be the landlords wife. She was in her late forties. Sadly, the years hadn't been kind to her. Her face had started to wrinkle. She had crows feet next to her eyes. The same eyes that looked at him like he was prey waiting to be devoured. The corner of her lips were turned slightly upward - or at least, that's what it was supposed to be. After years of botox injections, it was hard to tell anymore. Her high cheeks were beginning to sag, though those weren't the only things gravity was affecting.

She wore too much make up and practically bathed in perfume. It was damn near suffocating. She looked like a clown that had fallen from grace, and that was a hard thing to do.

She wasn't skinny, but neither was she fat. However, she wasn't plump in the right areas. Her clothing was too tight, so it hugged those curves. She was trying to look younger and more appealing, but to Samson, she just looked appalling.

'I should've looked through the peep hole before leaving, damn it!' he berated himself for his mistake.

"Oh, Mr. Broadwell! Fancy running into you here!" she said, giving him a smile. He guessed it was supposed to be a flirtatious one, but it just looked lopsided to him.

'Yeah, right! I bet you were standing outside my door, waiting!' He thought.

"Indeed, landlady," he replied with a forced smile and respective tone. She may irk him, but she was still his landlords wife, so if he made her angry, she could make his living situation hell. "I'm sorry, I have an appointment right now, so if you'll excuse me."

Before he could step away from her, she caught and grabbed his arm. She squeezed it and ran her hand along it. As she did this, she stepped forward, too close for comfort in his opinion. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. What was she planning. Her lips parted slightly, and he could feel her breath on his face. He could smell the cigarette she had been smoking, as well as... 'Alcohol? This early? Really?'

She began to inch her face closer to his, slowly. The seconds ticked by slowly. His mind raced for a solution to his dilemma. He couldn't back up because he was already against his door. He couldn't move to the side because he had a corner apartment so there was no room to move to.

He gulped.

'Someone, save me!'

As if hearing his mental scream, a door suddenly opened and a man stepped out. He yawned and did a small stretch in the hallway. He looked around and found the two standing there. He looked between them, taking note of their positions.

He smiled.

Without a word, he walked back into his apartment and closed the door.

'Damn you, Mr. Jung! I'll remember that!' Samson thought.

"Um, landlady, I really need to-"

Suddenly, Mr. Jung's door swung open again and he came running out, a slightly worried look on his face.

"Mrs. Landlady, Mrs. Landlady! I have a problem!" he had made sure to enunciate Mrs. because he knew it irritated her. And it worked. Her sultry expression turned sour and a flash of anger cut across her face.

"What is it, Mr. Jung?"

Without answering, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away from Samson. He began to nudge her toward his apartment, all the while she protested and asked him to tell her what was wrong.

"You just have to see it!" was all he would say. He glanced over his shoulder at Samson, giving him a wry smile.

Samson was stunned. He thought Mr. Jung had forsaken him, but he was wrong. Mouthing a thank you to the old man, he did a light jog toward the stairs and headed down. He had spent too much time with the landlady, so he was behind schedule. If he didn't hurry, he would be late.