Hypeman

Mr. Rodriguez watched the tiny hype man yell into the mike. He did that most nights, introducing musicians and bands onto the stage. The space they both worked at was smokey and smelled like leftover flavored vodka sometimes, but overall, it paid decently. It paid Mr. Rodriguez enough to afford a dive apartment by himself in this city and that was all that he wanted at this point in his life. He had lost a good decade of it to that town in the desert and who knows how much else to the beings that abducted him out of his home one evening.

He rarely talked about those things, tried to make excuses for the marks all over his body and the distinctive rings burned into his arm. The probe was gone, he had it taken out years ago, but the ghosts of its movements under his skin and into his flesh still woke him up in cold sweats at night. He would stare into the cracked bathroom mirror, dark circles under his eyes and try to convince himself that they were not coming back to get him. They had said so and while he wouldn’t believe things such as that, the children he had encountered them with had been the ones that convinced the devices removal in the first place. He had seen some of those kids again in passing since Serenity Flats, but he had always kept his distance. He didn’t want to be some sort of protector even though that’s all he was really good for in the end. Mr. Rodriguez was a bouncer at the club now. Being the muscle for people was all he was ever good at.

He was seven feet tall. In his youth, he was built like steel. He could break a man with his bare hands and had been paid to do so many times over. Now, he was pushing forty, and he had gone out of the rigid standards of practice that he had once held himself to. Now he was grey hairs in his beard, a burgeoning waistline, and massive hands cracked from years of use and abuse. He had scars on his nose and body. Mr. Rodriguez knew he was worn and worn out. When he moved to this city he had found himself someone who he could talk to and he went once every two weeks. Mr. Rodriguez couldn’t quite tell yet if it was working or not, but he didn’t want to stop. He knew nightmares were bad for him, and he didn’t wish to be so tired all the time.

So he watched the hype man scream into the mike from the back of the club. He was young and he was dark and had mismatched eyes. He had dyed his hair white. Mr. Rodriguez leaned up against the back wall, mostly doing his job of watching and making sure things didn’t get out of hand, but also looking at the way the wiry, small young man moved. The way he waved his arms, the way he and the equally short DJ girl bounced to the thrumming of the music. Sometimes, the DJ would have him say something and she would then work her magic with his voice. Sometimes he would do the words himself. They must have practiced somewhere.

He might talk to that hype man one day.