2 The Ghetto Prince (1)

"You, come here" As they seated on their chairs, he took the initiative to speak up, shouting to. A 50-odd year man, whom wrinkles and blemishes showed the passing of age. Body adorned black, a suit made only of the shade black, giving a sense of taste. But the most noticeable aspect of the man would be his eyes.

Those sharp gazes he made. It was as though he could see through everything with just a simple glance. Like that of an eagle, but somehow, even more terrifying. It didn't seem like some sort of natural talent, but some sort of accumulation throughout his many years of experience. In a span of fifty years, let alone a child, one could do very many things.

The man wasn't as ordinary as he seemed, he thought.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

"Y... Yes, sir!" While thinking so, he also responded. Holding onto his steel tray, he could only grit his teeth as he served these people. Every day he would think that, as long as he did this for a couple of more years, he would be free from the chains of debt. Yet, he has been doing this for years, uncounted.

Not knowing how long he has done this, repetitively, he could only take his serving notes up, and his pen swatted.

"Get me cups for two, and a bottle of white" The old man with eagle eyes responded again. Although his eyes spoke of experience, his tone spoke of contemptuous scorn. Glaring for no reason, at the lackey in simple clothes, the old man did.

"Yes, sir!... err... what about you, madam?" Even though it was only two orders, hurriedly, he took them down in his notes. As he wrote it down, he also asked the lady standing at opposite of the man. Not wanting to make the same mistake again, he kept writing like a fool. Heck, he didn't even know how to write. It was mere gibberish, simply wasting paper.

To make it seem like he wrote it down? Completely amateur.

"Your life..." She mumbled. Playing with her black nails, the woman murmured her order, giving a real hard time for the one writing. Not being able to hear her order, he had to wrack his head, repeating the words of that wretched woman, over and over again.

She wore this sort of, black mantle. Creating this really mysterious and rather, unusual sensation around her. You want to know what she looked like, yet, you couldn't really. Not with that man accompanying her.

"R... Righty! Please let me confirm your orders... sir would like a bottle of white wine, while..." In distress, the lackey kept talking. He had already grown accustomed to writing gibberish while wracking his head and speaking formally. Well, that last part needed some fix, but it was fine.

"Yes... yes... don't need confirmation. Just go..." Impatiently, the man shooed the waiter. Not even bothering to give him a glance, he simply glared the woman. His gaze as he did so, far different than the one he gave the lackey.

"O... Ok..." The lackey forced a bitter smile, as he quickly shut his serving notes closed. So quickly, he ran towards the kitchen to give those notes. He didn't want to stay here any longer than anyone did, which he was certainly sure, that no one would feel comfortable when they were being stared at, especially with eagle eyes.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

"Now then, let us resume where we left off last..." The woman's tone suddenly changed, abruptly. Her voice behind the mantle, that sweet feminine voice earlier, into that of a deep and dark male's. She spoke emotionless, monotonous, all that while keeping her self, motionless.

"Your neighbors, your friends, your comrades, your daughter, your wife..." She continued further, further developing the mysteriousness of herself. The situation as well fell sharply. The air around her seemed to also have dropped a couple of degrees, making it cold and chilly.

"Their lives... yours..." She spoke louder this time. While still playing with her nails, she scratched the table slowly, as though depicting something to the man.

"How much do you think... they are worth?..." She whispered.

△▼△

Swish! Swish!

"Stupid thugs... stupid people... stupid debts..." As he cleaned the table with a rag at hand. Although it was clean, his manager kept telling him to clean it anyways. A better tavern would have better customers, he always said.

Those sort of bunch in this sickening tavern, are making it even worse. It took him hours to figure out why the other customers had left so soon. That old man with sharp eyes, the woman wearing that odd-looking black mantle.

Probably left because of them, he thought.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

"Hmph..." Picking up the two steel cups on the table, he walked to the kitchen at a leisurely pace. It was already around midnight, meaning, this tavern is closing up. His manager had already went, leaving him alone in cleaning the tables.

Swing! Thud!

Opening the push door with his back, he entered the kitchen. Even though he didn't know why they needed a kitchen in the first place, when what they usually sold was only alcohol, he didn't really pay much attention to it.

Moving his head around, he made sure that everything was in place. The old furnace, leaning up against the wall. The cheap, yet large wooden table on the center. Those dusty kitchen tools in the cabinets above, which he made sure of by opening them one-by-one.

And that bucket of water sitting around the corner, with its pet sponge by its side.

The reason he did this, was of two reasons. Firstly, it was because his manager told him to do so. Secondly, it was because the room was only dim lighted by an oil lamp, making it harder to see. Hence, one had to check them individually.

That man was him, just in case you were wondering.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Walking to that very corner, he settled himself. Suddenly remembering of a small wooden stool, he sat comfortably before picking up the dirty brown sponge and dipping it inside the water bucket. Then, of course, he squeezed some of the water out before cleaning the cups for later use.

Shaka! Shaka! Shaka!