01. A Professional Job

"Hey, this is your stop right?" asks the driver. He turns around in his seat to look at the teen paying this gig, sitting alone in the back. His passenger looks up from his phone.

"Yeah, sorry." He hides his phone away in one of the many pockets of his coat, grabs his bag, and opens the door out of the cab. The driver glances back at the man through his rearview mirror, watching as he grabs his thing from the trunk of the taxi. I wonder how old he is. Must at least be in his mid twenties. Man, if I could look that young. The taxi driver thinks to himself.

Walking around to the driver's side, the man hands him the money before turning away. The driver looks down in his lap and then leans out the window to look at his already leaving passenger. "Hey, Sir!"

The man stops and turns around, waiting. "Um," says the driver, suddenly embarrassed. "You gave me extra." He holds up a twenty.

"Just keep it." replies the man, turning back to the sidewalk without looking back.

What a kind man.

The south side of Las Vegas, in 1972, was a terrifying place to be. With busy intersections and rows upon rows of cars flying by, hordes of people rushing to their predetermined destinations. The side roads, and the alleys between buildings were the meeting places for fights, criminals, people looking for drugs, or just someone to warm a bed. But out on the street, business people, who lived somewhat of a clean life; if you don't count tax evaders, or gambling, along with the occasional bribery to get good political gain, speed down the side walks: staring at their watch, or looking for a taxi.

He follows; more of being pushed, along the sidewalk. As he strolls, passers-by eye him weary, as the man adjusts his sleeves while he walks. Shaking his head, he continues into the intersection as bottlenecked jerks fly down the asphalt, mere inches from touching the hem of his suit jacket. Over the noise of cars, people could be heard with their uncontrolled road rage, and the honking of horns of impatient people.

However, the unfazed citizens of the city bustled about, with groups of women, who had their money's worth, pulled around their dogs in carriages, bantering aloud about their recent gambling endeavors, or about the latest failures: The most they complained about was the economy, and the riftrafts that swarmed the city. Their butlers, if they are lucky, follow in tow behind the rich woman.

The taxi had dropped him off too far from his destination, so the man had to walk quite a ways. And the farther down he got, the worse the situation became. Across the sidewalk people laid in various contraptions made to keep themselves warm. From cardboard castles to a torn sleeping bag covered in muck, the view before him was a sight for sore eyes.

This is the south side, alright. He says to himself. to the man, this was nothing new. He continued to leisurely make his way down the sidewalk, a rather spacious path clearing as his impeccable size made passersby nervous.

He sighs. Who can blame them?

Adjusting his black-tinted aviators, the man spots his destination down the way. A block and a half later, he stands in front of a rock in a hard place. It was an old club, somehow still smashed between a five-star hotel, and an old, but respectable law firm. It lay halfway snagged in the ground with its dingy, crumbling brick job and twenty-year dead old bush in the front terrace. The entire place reeks of its lack of potential and the man found his smudge reflection in one of the dimly-lit windows, glaring. Beside it, a worn neon sign that reads: Miss Regina's Club---Home to the best strippers and poker players on this side of Las Vegas. The man digs in his khaki dress pants pocket, and takes out a piece of paper. Looking down, he reads;

The interview will be XXXX on 67st, downtown Las Vegus, at 3:55.

I look forward to meeting you.

Mr Brookes.

P.S. This is a profetinal setting so please dress your best.

He realizes at that moment that if he'd not been looking for the red-lettered address blotched onto the paper in his hand, he would've never guessed that this was the destination. This place is most likely full of witches and trolls. The man thought, pausing outside the front door for a moment before letting himself inside.

The hallway to the front door had halfway, ripped off---unsurprisingly---with posters glued and later shredded to the point that he couldn't read most of them. Others were weather worn. One of which, however, named a portion of the local benefactors this side of the city. The man reaches for the flier, taking it down just to be forgotten in his pocket. What was it again that man said about this place? A professional setting; Please dress your best? That Mr. Brookes guy sure seemed to have lost a screw, or maybe a few marbles.

Sighing, he walks down the battered, wooden steps that crumbles and creaks of old age. The stairs lead down to a tunnel-like hallway and to an even more vintage looking door. What is it with these people? The man struggles with the door for a moment, failing to turn the rusted knob. He added more force until it jerks free and he falls through to the other side.

Instiently, the man gets hit in the face with the thick smell of cheap booze, and old alcohol. With watering eyes, he shuts the door, only after unhooking his dress coat off of a rusty nail that had caught onto him when he had stumbled through. He looks around, his blank face hiding his true feelings of distaste and repulsion at the room inside. Round tables surround the room, with an old wooden bar in the back. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling, lights, and floor, accompanied with spiders, and dead bugs. Three dance poles stood in a corner with a moldy round booth that gave off the stench of dead rats. A low snore caught the man's attention in the back corner. Another man was sleeping,and was submerged in bottles of empty beer. He had an old, musty trench coat, with a dirty hat, and shoes that possessed a sizable hole.

Behind the bar, The bartender was a Mexican, about medium height, and was also pretty skinny for his age; having flecks of gray hair in his black facial hair, and curly hair. He was in the middle of wiping out old and discolored glasses. As the man walked up to the bar, the Mexican was muttering to himself about something; when the bartender looked up from his rag wiping.

"How can I help you, senior?" He asks, with a thick Mexican accent. He places the glass down on the counter.

"I am here for a job interview with Mr.- '' with a quick glances at the paper, that he was still holding, ''Mr Brookes." replies the man.

"Your name?"

"Tori."

The bartender's eyes widen slightly, then he nods.

"Just a moment." The Mexican moves out from behind the bar, and trudges to a side door. With a creek then a slam, the bartender disappears behind it, leaving the interviewer to himself.

The man, who called himself Tori, sits down, taking his sunglasses off for a moment. After deciding his aviators needed a good cleaning, he pulled a cloth out from the sideide of his dress coat, and rubbed dust off his glasses. He goes to place his arms on the counter, but quickly removes his arms; as there's dried blood, and pieces of a broken bottle, from what looks like a bar fight. Then there's a loud snore that makes Tori glance upward and to the back of the room. It came from the dirty man, sleeping in the back.

Oh yes, real professionals here.

A creaking of a door snaps Tori out of his thoughts. The bartender, who had left, came hobbling back. He stops only a few steps away. His eyes had eye bags underneath, and he looked even more drained

"Follow me." he says with a tired voice.

"Alright"

Getting up, the disgruntled, future worker follows the man to the side door. There was a faint sound of music, as Tori went up to it.

"He's in there." the bartender goes back to his bar, then stares at the sleeping man.

Tori hesitates, then opens the door: which leads to more stairs. Only more broken than the ones outside. He walked down, each step, creaking, bending, moving, as he transfers his weight from one to the other. The music gets louder with each step, and when he reaches the bottom of the ragged staircase, he could clearly hear the words of the music that was playing, which happens to be "Never gonna give you up" by Rick Astley. Cringing, Tori reaches for the rotten door knob, then thinks better of it. He pulls his hand back, then knocks on that old, vintage, wooden slat of a door, thinking, I swear if this is a Rick Roll.