Play Your Hand

Locke meandered into the kitchen, jacket lazily slung over his shoulders like some sort of makeshift cape. He had a lit cigarette tightly pressed between his lips, minuscule embers flicking into the air and burning up, a smoky trail following him like an angry ghost.

Sitting at the table was Channel, idly scrolling through its phone. Without even turning its head to Locke, it sneered, “Thought those weren’ allowed in ‘ere.”

“And which cunt is gonna tell ‘em, you?” Locke laughed cruelly, walking past it to get to the fridge, “You tell more lies then truths.”

Channel didn’t respond, clearly upset that it didn’t phase Locke with the mindless, implied threat. Locke grabbed his daily can of coke, absentmindedly opening it as he peered over Channel’s shoulder, looking at what it was on its phone.

“What you lookin’ at?”

Locke smiled, taking the cigarette into his fingers, “Ah, it’s nothin’ really,” he spoke, smushing the cigarette into a spare mug left on the table, “Jus’ seein’ what ya actually do all day, y’know, since you don’t help ‘round the house.”

“What do you know ‘bout help!” Channel snapped, slamming one of its large hands into the table.

“Ask yourself who’s got a job ‘ere, and it ain’t you, scrap heap.”

In a second, Channel had stood up and had grabbed Locke by the neck of his shirt. He put his hands up, much like he was getting arrested, and cackled.

“I don’t fuckin’ need a job, you bitch!”

“You should be a bit more grateful, or your ass would be on the fuckin’ streets like the bum you are.”

Channel’s screen started glitching, pinker than a newborn rat squirming around. Locke smiled, and showed rows of sharp, pointy teeth. He laughed, but it sure wasn’t Locke’s laugh.

“Flare, you fuckin’ cunt! Come an’ face me yourself instead of acting like that waste of space!”

In the blink of an eye, Channel was now holding the very familiar Flare by the shirt, Locke’s jacket still draped over their shoulders, “Oops, you caught me!”

“You fuckin’ bitch!—“

“How was my Locke impression? Pretty good, innit?”

“Fuck you! I fuckin’ hate livin’ with you!”

Channel finally let go of Flare, making a strange whirring noise before storming off back to their shared room. Flare wondered if Channel remembered the two shared a room, but it didn’t matter right now.

Locke — the real Locke this time — slowly walked in, smile on his face, “You do it?”

Flare puffed out their chest proudly, putting their hand on it, “When don’t I!”

Locke laughed, rummaging around in his trouser pockets for a second before pulling out two, incredibly crumpled, twenty dollar notes. Flare opened up their hand, smiling smugly, “You know, it’s dangerous to deal with the devil.”

“You? Dangerous?” Locke laughed, putting the two twenties into their hand, but keeping his there for a few seconds, “Yeah, right. Thanks for the damage.”

“This doesn’t make us friends, you know.” Flare cooed.

Locke now placed his hand onto their shoulder, “Thank god, I could not put up with ya shit for longer than thirty seconds.”

He pulled his coat from their shoulders, slinging it over one of his like he was a very bad fireman, turning to leave, “But I hate Channel so much more.”