The Man in Freedom Tattoo

Dancing at my finger tips, I idly tease a flame through my fingers. It bounces back and forth, hand to hand, I am as at ease with the fire as a juggler is to his knives. No gut pain this time, though. Just the slight... tugging. There's really no other way to describe the feeling. Figures. I've been using it often enough, and in a big way. Today is a good day. No assignments for a few months, at the very least. The city smells wet and clean after the torrential rains earlier, the smell tickling my nostrils as I sit by the open window. Still humid as hell though, this Summer's heat isn't gone yet. A burning smell permeates into my room. Smells like... linen? Honestly. Why is somebody burning linen? I know what you're thinking, but I make an effort not to set things on fire inside, especially in my place of residence. This is about standards, people. My thoughts move elsewhere, to the events of today. An interesting man. Who is-BEEP BEEP BEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Oh for fucks sake. The smoke detector. Extinguishing the small flame in my left hand, I storm over to it, clumsily fiddling in an effort to turn the damn thing off. BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEE-. I return to my thoughts, thinking I'll make an effort to be more mindful. Inadvertently, I'd managed to set it off. My skills are both a blessing and a curse.

Earlier in the day, I'd made an executive decision that my radio days were over. I was going to buy a record player. In my opinion, vinyl sounds much better. I'm old fashioned that way. It was one out of several errands I was making, in an effort to make my dingy little place more welcoming. Nothing over the top, of course. I tend to have to drop everything and leave it behind, in my line of work. The walk was rather uneventful. I stopped by "City Lights" bookshop, picking up some reading material. "City Lights". It hardly deserved the name, small and scarcely lit as it was. But it was still a bookstore, and that's what I needed. I went to the record store next, buying a player and several vinyls. Most of it jazz, of course. But as I was walking back to Maplewood Crest, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I stopped dead in my tracks, the satchel bag with my goods limp at my side. A quick glance to the left, and then to the right. My eyes lock with a man inside the tattoo parlor, noticeably not tattooed himself, save for his wrists. His eyes are piercing. My job is to be a ghost, a fleeting memory in most people's heads. These are eyes that notice things. Especially things out of the ordinary. I break off the eye contact, casually but briskly moving away. A man with that notices the unnoticeable, the unordinary, the unusual, things that are different. A smirk surfaces on my face, which turns into a macabre grin. I would know. Because I, Paul Turner, am most unmistakably unusual.