Post 7 - Reminiscing

It's a depressing sunset from that East L.A. street bench. Mat gazes at his arm, freshly pierced by thick blood-sucking needles, ignoring the traffic, the busy people walking up and down. The cigarette smoke he inhales is his best chance at fighting that damn headache. He tries to think about something funny, like Dr. Tod's hilarious laughter and clumsy appearance. It doesn't work at improving his bad mood.

He's been thinking of Brittany ever since Hector mentioned her. She lived right next door from the last foster home he ever stayed at. They both were at that age and she was the only one who ever understood him.

New character addition: Dr. Theodor 'Tod' Vasiliev

Post 6 - Plastic surgeon (continued)

Dr. Tod Vasiliev, as his door sign clearly states, is a successful plastic surgeon, known for his relatively fine work on celebrities and upper class housewives. He writes articles in the gutter press and maintains a high profile in high society, frequently seen flamboyantly shaking hands and making smalltalk with politicians and powerful lobbyists. What doesn't fit in the whole picture is the fact that the good doctor works for the cartels, using his legitimate operations as cover for processing Mat's blood and God knows what else.

"Mat, my friend, come in, come in", says the expressive doctor with a charming Russian accent.

Post 5 - Plastic surgeon

'6:14 a.m.' states the cheap electronic watch. The bus is late again. The western part of the Tihuana slums seems peaceful when the day is young. The tranquil view of empty decadent streets and the dim promise of a better day force a smile on Mat's melancholic face. He keeps touching the envelope Hector gave him in the inner pocket of his coat. 

Post 4 - Acquaintances

Hector and Mat lock engaged in a stare-down, right there in that dark and degenerate gentlemen's club, in their own little battlefield amongst drunken lowlifes and dirty whores of all kinds.

New character addition: Charles Webber A.K.A. 'Hector El Cobra'

Post 3 - A gold tooth

The sun has already set by the time Mat makes it to the 'Carolina' gentlemen's club, a small establishment in a dark poor corner of a dark poor highway. Street lamps are either burnt or they flicker and buzz randomly. A heap of trash bags lies accumulated almost in front of the neon-baring red brick old club.

Inside the dark moist venue lies the perfect lowlife habitat. Rough-looking gangsters play poker or talk to hookers at around ten small round tables or the three-footer corner old-school bar, tended by a yet another bum. Chicano rap music in the background and lung-filling cigar smoke complete a picture of complete decadence and deviation.

"What the hell am I doing here?", Mat thinks to himself as he looks around to find anything familiar.

Post 2 - The injection and the voodoo doll

He's never been afraid of needles, even ones pouring slow poison in his veins.

"And that's is!", said the young doctor whose name keeps eluding Mat's memory.

Post 1 - Who is Mat Jacobson?

Mat loses himself in the hypnotic swirl of water running down the blue bathroom sink, endlessly spinning and spinning, endlessly as it seems. A drop of blood disrupts the tranquility of the clear water vortex which felt like pulling his soul down the drain swirl by swirl. He looks up into the cracked mirror. Another nosebleed.

He hates his face. A skinny tired face, mid thirties, not particularly good looking, although he could look better, if he cared enough to try. He always looks tired and definitely older than he is. Permanently unshaved and with two-colored eyes, one yellow and one grey, his long unattended black hair would look cool if he were this super famous rock star with an attitude and tons of money. But he's not. He's just another guy, named Mat Jacobson.

INTRODUCTION

The feel of dripping water cools his dry lips as he slowly awakens from what feels like a bad hangover. His eyes still feel too heavy to open but the sounds are getting very clear. Slow rhythmic screeches of rusty metal and the random eerie buzzing of fluorescent lamps almost cover the distant desperate screams of a woman. He still can't tell if she's crying or shouting out of fear, though it doesn't seem like she's in any immediate danger. She justs keeps screaming. It sounds like the word 'baby', but he can't be sure.

He opens his eyes to see the ceiling of a dark hospital room. The broken fluorescent lamp occasionally flashes to reveal a broken intravenous bottle dripping on top of his face. He yet has to regroup his thoughts and figure out how he got there.