Satanic stories, black magic & love

He was a regular. Always ordered a whiskey sour and a large lagger chaser and sat at the bar and stared blankly at his drink before each sip. His shoes' soles were worn out and his shirt was often wrinkled. He would often unbutton the top of his shirt as if he wanted to let a bit of his angst out, but it never did. His sunken eyes and dry lips always reminded me of my grandfather before he passed. But he was young, or at least that's what I always thought. Late 20's with a heavy burden. His lips would come back to life every time he swallowed his drink. His pupils would fill with light, or perhaps his eyes would catch a gleam of the mirror behind the bar as he tipped his head to down his spirit. I had learned to not bother him and to pour him a drink as soon as he had emptied his glass. He wasn't much of a talker. He sometimes sat there and disappeared among the other customers and the noise from the bar. He was a chameleon, blending in with the scene. And every t...

They say that hell is not hot. And my first night in Rio de Janeiro proved to be a scorching one. I had everything packed and ready to go. I glanced one last time at my open suitcase before closing it. My gun, my passports, a bunch of cash and an extra pair of torn-up jeans, everything was in its place. "It's my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder", I sighed. Everything, right where it belongs. I made my way out of the hotel room, where my perfectly made bed awaited to be violently unmade by the next guests. There are two kinds of hotel room users. One type is the one, like me, that after binging on whiskey and beer chasers, has to crash and recover from all the self-inflicted wounds, everlasting scars of memorable past stories.  The tear-stained face that has been running away from their fate. The second kind is the one that has decided to hide under the bedsheets and escape their boring everyday life in the company of their partner in crime. A guest that i...