What a shit hole

He opens the door with a wrinkled thick fingered hand and a sneer crawling up from his chiseled jaw to his flaring left nostril. Cold lifeless orbs give the place the once over before he looks back high over his shoulder without releasing the door or moving further in or out.

"You're shitting me, ain't you? Ha ha, let's all have some fun at old Silas' expense... " The under breath mutterings sound like gravel pouring from a dump truck onto hot asphalt.

Looking back into the shop, he smoothes a navy blazer that fights to contain his torso while the stitching visibly strains in the sleeves and shoulders. He then adjusts a surprisingly neat knot on his red tie and the pinpoint collar that barely wraps around his tree trunk chorded neck, before looking for the proprietor or someone that doesn't scream tourist.

Of all the things that Saturday screams, 'Tourist' isn't exactly among that list.

The store front is a maze of tourist items, plastic and probably made in China somewhere. Nothing says 'I went somewhere in America' like buying Chinese. The other side of the store smells strongly of fighting spices, incense, herbs, and old things. Patent pending. There are a few items of note. A super old portion of a totem pole. A mummy. And some jackass wearing a purple suit and top hat sitting behind the counter. Most of his face is obscured behind a newspaper of some sort, but a thick plume of smoke can be seen rising lazily above the paper.

He casts a glance at the trinkets up front as he moves deeper into the gimmicky store, actually stopping at one of those spinning wire racks and idly spinning it about. Stopping it, he lifts one of those 'I hate my'...' Voodoo doll toy kits which seems to bring him a momentary smile. He lets it drop back on its wire stick post when he catches the smell of smoke, a bit before actually seeing the newspaper capped off with a tophat. Seriously? His shoulders slump, but with an audible popping he cracks his neck and stoically approaches the counter. Hoping its the owner and not some punk college boy smoking on his coffee break and at the same time dreading it actually IS the owner.

Clearing his throat rather louder than would be normally polite, Silas clearly addresses the Disney wannabe caricature. In his mind he says Good evening and asks simply if the other man is the owner, what comes out is a bit different.

"You know the damn politicians banned smoking inside public places, shouldn't you be taking it outside?" Nice Silas, bet that's just what the guy in the clown get up wants to hear.

"Outside de store," the answer begins without the paper moving. "It read 'Saturday's Shop'. Front o de store it say private property. De fact I be so kind as ta welcome strangers into me home dun mean no govern't man tell me what I ken an kent do in my home."

The newspaper folds down neatly with a 'pop', revealing the store owner. It must be a trick of the lighting, because for a second it seems like there are two mummies behind the counter. But no... this fellow is lively and even marginally handsome. Odd.

The gentleman smoking a fine cigar looks the stranger up and down slowly for a moment.

"Ya look like forty miles o rough road. Lemme guess... love potion?"

Silas blinks his eyes, then brings a couple of his sausages up to rub them as though something had created an irritation when for a split second he saw two mummies instead of one. While he rubs and blinks a few more times he can't help but bark out a short and rather pleasant laugh at the love potion comment.

"That's rich, not many fellas get a real laugh outta me so quickly." he drops his hands back to his sides, but they look uncomfortable just sitting there.

Angling his face slightly toward the left, he unconsciously moves the mass of scars on his face slightly off center. There is no embarrassment in the movement, more likely a reflex of habit.

"Been a sight more then forty miles since this mug was catching looks of lust from pretty ladies." he pauses then and looks up toward the other man. "Nah, that's not completely true, was this little bit in Berkley a few years back that got all wet and bothered every time she saw it... Then again, she was a bit of freak iffin you catch my meaning." the last is offered with a wink.

"So what's with the circus costume?" Yep, blurted right out. Tab A: foot, insert into Tab B: mouth.

Saturday smiles, smoke leaking from the corners of his mouth in a rather serpentine gesture.

"Purple be de Baron's color. An I always missed de tails on jackets."

He lifts his foot into view, showing knee high swamp boots of all things.

"An sometimes de practicality o tings ring true."

He chuckles at a quiet, private joke.

"Ya got no eye fer de snowglobes. No want fer de ladies. Look o violence to ya, but dun seem interested in de dolls."

He thinks quietly for a moment.

"How ken I help ya, mon ami?"

"Fer clarity's sake, if nothing else... I ain't got a clue why yer trying to sell snow globes in May, but then agin people on vacation buy all kinds of stupid stuff they never think twice about the other fifty weeks of the year. So more power to you."

He unbuttons the the jacket in a very slow and deliberate manner as he continues speaking. "An I don't say I have no use Fer the ladies, just know that infatuations usually end badly in time. Better to keep those things a bit more honest, easy enough to get stupid bout someone without outside juju or whatever yer peddling. But the dolls? There you be wrong. I know a kid that would love one to play with, an I kin think of a boatload of people I'd have no qualms about sticking a needle into..." his eyes come alive as he says the last, giving him a very menacing not nice guy appearance.

"Hell, I don't think you have enough in your warehouse actually for the kind of violence I'd be liking to rain own iffin they was real..." catching himself, Silas'eyes grow cold once more as his hand reaches very ominously into the inside coat pocket.

"But I'm here on business. Some friends of mine told me I should look you up... Something about payback from the restless dead."

With the last words, he pulls out, well not a gun. But a rather anticlimactic three page resume on cream stationary, double spaced and neatly typed.

Saturday chuckles.

"De dolls do de trick, mon ami. Not de floor models, but de special stock anyway."

He shrugs slightly, looking the fellow over.

"De 'b' in subtle ta be sure. Restless dead, huh?" he rubs a finger along his chin, weighing the fellow before extending his hand with a grin. "De call me Saturday. At yer service..."

He offers a half smile while extending a ham hock around the other man's spidery fingers. "Silas Gaunt... I should tell you up front, I have a.., medical condition that makers getting into work before sunset a real bitch."

Saturday nods slightly. "I knew der be someting off about ya, mon ami. Never was much fer sunbathin' myself."

"Off?" his expression suggests the man in the purple suit, tophat and swamp boots may want to look in the mirror. "I been called worse."

Taking his hand back he rebuttons the jacket in a familiar manner.

"So, Saturday, what kind of work might you have for me?"

Saturday chuckles quietly.

"Dis an dat. Might be de spirits have need o' tings. Or local magistrate have need o tings. You shy off from wet work?"

Silas rolls his teeth while holding his jaw closed, it didn't sound like he was being interviewed as a stock clerk or even a custodian. Then again...

"I don't shy away from using a bucket and mop, but I ain't crazy about fixing toilets. Especially other peoples'. That being said I know how to use a monkey wrench, pipe snake and blow torch."

He puts his hands palm down on the counter, the knuckles are scarred and flattenened and suggest an intimate knowledge of dark alleys and other peoples flesh and bone.

"There are a few things I won't do, but maybe you should lay out an example or two, cuz iffin you be asking what I think you are, then we are definitely not talking minimum wage anymore."

Saturday takes a puff on his cigar before gesturing to the stool on the other side of the counter.

"Lots o tings need doin'. It just a matter o findin' de situation an seein' what need ta be done."

From the inner breast pocket of his dark purple jacket, he produces a cigar pouch of worked leather and silver trim. He produces a thin length of rolled paradise, offering it to Gaunt.

"Tell me boot yaself Mr. Gaunt."

He takes the offered cigar, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Damn that smells good."

Flipping it around he passes it back to Saturday. "Wife made me give them up years ago, but appreciate the offer."

Moving around the counter he sits in the offered seat. His posture upright and only semi relaxed.

"What you wanna know Saturday?"

The cigar disappears in a flourish and shrug.

"Start in de beginning. When you start hearin' de udder side?"

He scrunched up his mug and wipes his thick fingers up his prominent chin, over his face and through his hair. "Not really the beginning, not sure when it went from feelings and inklings to voices. But they be a whole lot louder and more insistent since I... Since I developed my medical condition."

Raising one leg from the floor and placing the heel of his shoe on the stool cross brace while dropping his hand to his knee in some reflexive gesture he rolls his neck with an audible pop before continuing.

"Other side? Nah it ain't like that Fer me. I don't talk to any of the dearly departed in heaven. Got no insight into God or a phone line to the Holy Ghost or Allah or whatever you fancy to call him. I don't do none of that mumbo jumbo seance crap either iffin that's what you be thinking? "

He pauses, not wholy comfortable with the subject matter. Silas then looks at Saturday, not certain of what reaction he'll get, but half expecting a smirk of ridicule or derision or worst, condescending sympathy.

"Dun knock seances till you see em at work, mon ami."

His smile seems genuine enough.

"I got mah doubts on a big god. But, I seen de little ones. De loa. Diff'runt skill set ta talk ta dem. Rarely natural."

He takes a draw on his cigar and crosses his own leg casually.

"De voices; de ask you fer tings? Ya want em ta get loudah an clearer? Or quietly leave ya be?"

He arches a brow, but cuts short a smartass quip. Then shrugs his big shoulders.

"Liitle gods huh? Makes as much sense as anything else, I guess. Though the ones that talk to me seem more like normal types that got stuck on their way to," He waves his hand in the air toward the ceiling.

"Wherever. And yeah, they ask Fer things from time to time, but they also tell me stuff and most of em ain't bad company. Never much thought about the other stuff. Didn't think it was an option ya know? Figured, antipsychotics was a more likely solution."

He grins a little at the last thought.

Saturday nods.

"A modern view, ta be sure. But if ya dun mind de restless ones, I wont cut ya off. Psychopomps be rare; de gods work. Heavy burden."

He tips his hat.

Oddly Silas seems a bit at a loss in dealing with Saturday's reaction. "Some of them said you be different,"

He offers a smirk, but his eyes are still rather lifeless. "Now don't go thinking its all nicey nice. Hell most of them be needy self centered pricks just like every other asshole walkin the streets and wasting air. But I'm pretty good at tuning out Peckerheads, seeing as the world be full of them."

His hand goes to the back of his neck and rubs it before rolling his head and cracking it once more.

"So, Mr. Saturday, what's your interest in them, iffin you don't mind me asking?"

"Havin' friends dat ken walk true walls got der perks. 'Sides, de udder side ain't exactly pleasant. No need ta make life fer em worse. De do me favors, I do dem favors. "

He looks up at Saturday with an expression of interest, and perhaps something else? Something, needier.

"What kind of favors are you capable of doing for them Saturday?"

"Oh, all sort of tings. Depends what dey need. Sometime de need messaged delivered, or family taken care of money wise. Sometime de need ta have their murderers kill'd or justice done. Udder times dey didn't know someting, so de need people wit bodies ta look em up. Everyone diff'runt. Everyone got diff'runt needs. Walk down de street, see twenty people wit a hundred needs. Same as does on de udder side."

He just starts nodding in agreement to most of Saturday's examples, then he shakes his head while staring at his thick fingers interlaced and kneading one another nervously. He looks up from what he had been doing a bit sheepishly and offers a fractured grin to the other man while wiping his palms on his thighs.

"Ya know, iffin I get nothing else from you, at least you got me believing I ain't just imagining all this shit."