It felt like Freddy was in Vice for all of ten minutes before someone had the bright idea to slap him into a sleeveless t-shirt and make him stand on a street corner undercover. It was good for the numbers, easy pickings with an almost guaranteed conviction, and good for morale amongst the girls who until the introduction of Freddy had been threatening revolt or possible sexual harassment suits for unfair allotment of duty. Freddy didn’t mind it so much. He liked playing at being another person, liked the harsh system of flirtation between the johns and his character, and he really liked the part at the end where he got to pull his badge and tell some pervert he was busted.

He wasn’t allowed to smoke, which he understood intellectually, but biochemically it made him antsy and irritated after a few hours in the cold, especially when business was slow. This night had been one of those slow, cold, boring nights, with only one bite who kept his distance for a long time, peering out at Freddy from inside his car. They did that, the johns, lingering at the opposite corner and staring at Freddy until they made up their minds.

“Do you need a ride?” the guy asked when he finally pulled up. They did that too, pretending to be good Samaritans or confused tourists.

“I need a cigarette,” Freddy said reflexively, then smiled. The guy was good-looking, in an older tough guy way, sorta like a gangster in a movie from the seventies. His shirt was open at the collar and his hair was combed back from his face. Freddy approached the car slowly, looking inside and then nonchalantly checking over his shoulder at the car with his back up in it. “Do you have a cigarette?”

The guy fumbled in his shirt pocket and then produced one.

“What’s your name?” Freddy asked, rocking a little back and forth like he didn’t want to trust him. He took the cigarette though and accepted the offered light, leaning down into the car to the man’s Zippo.

The man paused significantly, then lied, “Mr. White.”

Freddy laughed, leaning back and taking a long drag from the cigarette. He put his arm along the top of the car which put his stomach in front of the open window. The man looked, shutting his Zippo with a loud click. “That’s funny.” Freddy said. “Cause my name’s Mr. Black. No, Mr. Black with Two Sugars. Wait, Black with Two Sugars and Eggs and Orange Juice.”

The guy took the ribbing good naturedly. “Alright Mr. Motherfucking Orange Juice. You want in the car or not?”

Freddy got in the car. It was only marginally warmer inside but the radio was playing a song Freddy hadn’t heard in a long time and the cigarette in his mouth was flooding nicotine into his brain.

“Where we going?” the man asked.

“Wherever you want,” Freddy said, “But most guys go to this alley two streets over.” A well-lit alley with only one entrance, and good visibility from the corner.

“Two streets over,” the guy said, a little dully, like he was trying not to think about the decision too hard.

Freddy pointed the way and threw his cigarette out the window half finished, watching it skitter away in the darkness. They crawled along the night streets and behind them somewhere the backup was crawling along too, even slower. The man pulled the car into the alley way and parked it beneath one of the huge, halogen spotlights designed to deter crime and create the illusion of safety. He turned off the car. The radio died.

Mr. White took him to a dive, the kind that had a kitchen and didn’t check IDs, and he ordered Freddy a burger so thick and rare it was bloody in the middle, with steak fries and onion rings and Coca-cola in a big, tall glass with a straw. He didn’t order Freddy a beer and Freddy didn’t ask for one, but he got himself a scotch and soda to sip on while he watched Freddy eat.

Freddy wasn’t sure if they’d slipped the back up or not, wasn’t sure if he’d broken the rules by picking up the burger and shoveling into the food. He just knew that looking up and seeing the expression on this guy’s face made this feel more like a first date than an undercover job.

Someone in the back, by the pool tables, was having a party and it was loud and excited sounding, letting out occasional belly laughs and roars. White leaned across the table and took one of Freddy’s onion rings, popping it into his own mouth.

“Hey,” Freddy said. “Get your own.”

“Excuse me?” White said.

The crowd in the back roared again. Freddy put down the burger and took a long drink of the Coke, with White looking at him with this cocked eye the whole time. Freddy put down the Coke, opened his mouth and willed himself to say anything, anything at all.

“You know what the trouble with Romero movies are?” he ended up saying.

“What?”

“Zombie flicks, you know, like that one in the mall.”

White smiled a little. “No, I know who Romero is. I mean, what’s the problem with them?”

“They’re self defeating.” Freddy picked up the burger again and took a bite. “They’re all about, like, fear of people in large groups. Fear of people being stupid because their all together. Fear of the mob and popular opinions.”

“So?”

“So, if they’re good, if they get popular and everybody likes them, what are they criticizing anymore? They can’t be talking about popular opinion if they fucking are popular opinion. If they become, like, a fucking trend they can’t be talking about what they’re talking about anymore. They have to stay small and despised, or they lose they’re meaning. That’s a bad plan for a genre.”

“I guess so,” White said. He was listening politely and watching Freddy’s face like he might actually be interested. Freddy stopped eating, his stomach suddenly churning.

“Besides,” he said, “they can never be as scary as the individual. Because then you’re not scared of what other people are doing, you’re scared of what you’re doing. Like, if a big group of people does a terrible thing, like a riot or a genocide or something, you can go, well, me, I only did this little part of it. I threw one hundredth of a riot. I did one thousandth of a genocide, which is really just killing a guy.“

“Spoken like a kid who never killed nobody.”

Freddy briefly considered that statement.

“I still don’t think they’re as scary as other monsters,” he said after a moment, picking up the Coke again. “Like vampires and shit. That’s personal. That’s up in your face, one person doing something to one person.” Freddy drained the glass with a loud slurping sound. “It’s like…” he searched for the word. “It’s like intimate, you know? Intimate is scary.”

White smiled, nodding gently. “That’s pretty fucking smart,” he said.

Freddy bit down on his upper lip to keep from flashing a huge smile. “Or werewolves,” he went on. “The Wolf Man and shit. One dude just tearing some broad to pieces because he fucking can. That’s way scarier.”

Larry took a sip of his drink. “I always figured The Wolf Man was about this guy being queer and not being able to tell anyone he’s queer and its eating him up inside until he kills himself.”

That made more sense than Freddy’s theory and made him feel a little embarrassed for reasons he didn’t properly understand. “I’ve never actually seen The Wolf Man,” he lied.

Mr. White laughed. “I’d have been surprised if you had. That’s an old movie, before my time even.”

“Yeah,” Freddy agreed and stirred his ice with his straw.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! That ending! That was a sucker punch, anon!

Great story, the voice is spot-on and the identity struggle perfect. Love it!

(If this comment double posts, sorry, LJ is being crap right now.)

MINDBLOWING! This is so awesome. Thanks

Super clever, super cool. Really enjoyed reading this :)