Manny Again.

I have ideas. They’re… I’m not even sure how to describe them. Like burrs? Like double sided tape? Like the lint rollers with sticky sheets that collect hair and dust whenever you put them down, so it’s effectively two sheets of effort if you ever want to use it?

Manny comes back to me like those dusty lint roller sheets, waiting for his story to earn my attention. It’s never too far from my mind, his story with the cleaning gig that turns into supernatural horror, and I like to imagine it’s just waiting for the mood to strike me.

A bit of alcohol never hurts.

When I drink, Manny is loud and fiesty. He’s serenading Emily Cooper from the garden, shouting lyrics to songs he heard in his mother’s kitchen. His hair is getting long, the curls are teasing the tips of his ears. Emily is humming under her breath, in a nightgown of sheer satin, a painfully pale silhouette captured in the moonlight. There’s blood dried at the corners of her lips, waiting to be noticed.

Her father isn’t home. Her fiance is working in the city. Her mother is insane.

I’ll store this here for now. Manny will get his chance.

Cheers, Kat

MANNY

When hair burned, it had this sort of acrid and pungent smell that lingered in the air long after whatever fire had been put out was long gone. It just hung there, and it was awful, and try as he might, Manny couldn't seem to get rid of the smell. It was on his clothes, his skin, even in his own unruly locks. Cursing, he drew back from the room; retreated to regroup.

What was he supposed to do with this body?

Better yet, who was he supposed to blame for the body? The victim wasn't his. They never were. It was just some up-and-comer, with dreams too big for their pockets, and wide brown eyes that currently stared lifelessly at the stucco ceiling. His body was charred and blistered over available skin, indistinguishable at points where clothing meshed against ruined flesh. Manny thought of summer barbecues, and the occasional steak left on the grill too long. Manny couldn't even tell if the body had actually been male, but it wasn't his place to start picking at pieces for details of the corpse's previous life.

He didn't get paid to pry.

Manny plucked at the thick plastic gloves covering his hands, checking the elasticity to ensure they wouldn't tear at any point in the process. A bucket of bleach water sat nearby, as well as new sponges and towels and a spray bottle with an ammonia cocktail for blood splatter. The boys hadn't just torched the poor bastard, but they had dug their claws in deep. Deep enough to gut the guy. There had been entrails pulped at the stomach, skin split before fire was brought into the picture, and now Manny couldn't help thinking of thick strings of Italian Sausages from Cuzimano's down on fifth.

He cursed again, wishing he had eaten before he showed up. Then, after a string of expletives, he was glad he hadn't. The last thing he needed was a pile of his puke at the crime scene.

“Whatever...” He breathed before stalking off to get his tools. “Don't think about it.”

-—

Emmanuel Parker sat with his face cupped in his hands, elbows propped against the cold polish of his dining room table. His mother was prattling on about the neighbor's daughter. Alexis or Alice. Something. “-But they keep askin', Manny. They want you to meet her, an' they say they'll make you both dinner. Isn't that worth givin' it a shot? A free dinner with a pretty girl?”

“Nah.” Manny admitted quietly as his body shifted, his legs crossing while he leaned back in his chair. “They probably don't know what they're doin' in a kitchen.” His head shook, sending his unkempt curls into disarray. “Look, Ma, I ain't interested. I got other shit I gotta deal with, and I don't got time for dinners and hookups and whatever else ya got planned.”

Her retort was priceless; a half growl, half whine of frustration. “Manny, you're too young to be too busy for a date.”

“Tell me about it.” He said as a hand instinctively rose to point out the scattered grey hairs caught in the mess of brunette. “Too young for grey hair, too, but I got 'em.”

“I don't know what's got you so stressed, hon. Working for a nice young couple, cleaning their house a few times a week- that isn't the worst job to have at your age. When I was twenty-four, I was workin' for that hard assed jamaican woman I told you about. Sheila? Yeah, I was workin' for her, cleaning close to ten houses a day. And your father was stuck with Ralph at the plant, puttin' up with the worst conditions, and working like 70 hours a week for less than minimum wage. They hated us then, and they hate us now. There's never been any love for immigrants in New York city.”

Manny held his tongue because anything he said might make his mother cry. He didn't want her to get caught up on his father, who died in '93, but had settled as a ghost in her consciousness for the entirety of Manny's life. A pipe had ruptured, and the water had scaled his father so badly, they said he died in less than a minute. Despite his mother coming away with more money than she would have ever seen with his father alive, she continued to live as though it were still the early nineties, with her thoughts on hard work and diligence and how New York City didn't give a damn about their family or their struggles.

Sucking her teeth after the silence of her previous statement seemed to smother their kitchen, Manny's mother shrugged from her place at the sink, a rinsed plate still in hand. “All I'm saying is you need to live like you're still young, Manny. I know you wanna be responsible, and you always wanted to make your own way, but this? This is just stress you don't need. Tell those Cooper's you can't get caught up in their business. I know you think I don't know what it's like, but I did it, too. I know that when you're working around those sort of types, it's easy to get caught up in their business. We ain't like them though, Manny.”

“No, I got that much. Believe me.” He scratched behind his ear before standing up, and with a lazy step, he gave his much shorter mother a hug from behind. “I'll try an' ease up, okay? Just don't worry about me so much, eh? I'm fine. Gettin' paid well, too. I just stress myself out, always have.”

“You're all I got, Manny. Just don't make your poor mother cry, alright?”

Laughing, he pulled away and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair before pushing it in. “Never. Never gonna make you cry.”

Not if he didn't fuck up, he wouldn't.

EMILY COOPER

“Daddy,” Emily cooed quietly from where she lay, Egyptian cotton sheets framing her slender torso like petals around the stigma of a flower. The room was done in rose accents, with a cherry finish to the