Nicholas Greyer, the Anti-Hero
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
The Pizza Joint Prophecy
The Pizza Joint was a ratty old building on the corner of Blackwood Street and Joiner Boulevard. The tan paint coating cement bricks had been permanently coated in spattered dirt from endless rain on the unpaved parking lot, and if you looked even further up the wall you’d find countless spider nests and hornet homes. Signs on the large storefront windows boasted ‘Real Chicago Style Pizza, $5.99 for two slices and a drink!’ The parking lot, aside from Holly’s 1995 Toyota Tercel and Manager’s battered Honda Accord, was empty.
Then, Nicholas pulled in. Holly was the cook until 4 p.m. and she was also Nicholas’ girlfriend. She was a lot of other things to a lot of other people, and Nicholas knew this, but didn’t care as long as he was the only one calling her ‘girlfriend.’
The rain had let up for a minute or two, but still Nicholas’ slip-proof work sneakers were coated in a layer of plastered on mud from the parking lot. Nicholas took his time walking inside, as Nicholas had a tendency to take his time in all things.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had forgotten something important. He woke to some strange things, but couldn’t recall how his bathroom mirror had steamed up, nor why his red towel was in the kitchen. He worried that he may need to sign up for a sleep study.
“Greyer,” Manager nodded as the door signaled a loud bell at its open.
“The grayest,” Nicholas replied.
Manager did not laugh, but Holly behind him let out a small chortle. She placed a hand on Manager’s shoulder, and told him to get a sense of humor. She smiled while looking up to Manager’s face a little too long for Nicholas’ taste.
Holly finally turned to Nicholas when Manager did not join her gaze. Manager was counting the cash drawer and pretending it was of utmost importance that he place all the fives in the same directions. Manager liked pretending he was important, at least Nicholas thought so. When he first applied for Pizza Joint, Manager told him to call him just that. Perhaps, it was because Manager’s name was Gillian Pickles, as he had discovered upon further inspection of the work schedule.
Nicholas decided that Manager just needed to feel like he was in charge, even though he most certainly wasn’t.
“Busy today?” Nicholas asked.
It was a mundane question, but he asked every day. It was a coworker question. He didn’t really care about the answers, but asked so people would think that he thought their opinions mattered to him.
“It’s a Tuesday,” Manager snorted. “Fucking Tuesdays. Might as well not even open.”
he said this, he spit into a red Solo cup. Nicholas still couldn’t understand the South’s obsession with chewing tobacco. It smelled like sweet piss, and looked like tar. But Manager left his Solo cups half full of spit everywhere, often knocking them all over freshly printed documents and cursing at the top of his lungs. Once, when Nicholas had only just started working at Pizza Joint, Holly had offered him a cup of what he thought was soda. She meant for him to throw it away, but Nicholas was smitten and downed half the tobacco-spit in a second. Holly found it hilarious and fucked him silly that night.
“It’ll pick up. Always does,” Nicholas replied.
And Nicholas was never wrong. He could nearly predict the type of person each pizza was for, just based on the toppings. Plain cheese for extremely picky adults or a family with multiple kids, anything with anchovies went to assholes or creeps, thin crust always went to old ladies or calorie counters.
Holly loved making a game of it, but Nicholas didn’t care much for it. It was boring when he was always right.
The business picked up around two p.m. when ten deliveries came in at once. Nicholas cursed his luck, knowing that all the deliveries would end up late which would short him tips.
Even worse, the rain picked up again, and Nicholas’ windshield wipers weren’t up to the task. As he carried the first five pizza bags, including three two liters, one of the three gentlemen in the lobby looked up from a fishing magazine. Nicholas recalled that he didn’t look the type to be reading a magazine about fishing as the man looked as if he had never worked a day in his life. He had pearly white hair, cut close to his head and a very clean cut and shaped beard. His eyes were a deep green, and he wore a long grey trench coat over a well-fitted black suit. What most stood out was the black walking stick with a dark red gem encrusted in the handle.
He had only taken a short glance at first, but then the man spoke.
“Best be careful out there,” the man warned, his British accent heavy. “It’s dangerous out there for you.”
Nicholas nodded politely, assuming it was some sort of British courtesy, and backed into the swinging door to open it for himself. The rain was heavier than it had been in the morning, yet it was still hot as it was still Florida. Nicholas walked even more slowly to his car, as he didn’t want to drop any pizzas, although this only caused the warming bags to get soggy.
Once he loaded the pizzas into his passenger seat, he buckled up and headed out. In his rearview mirror, he saw the British gentleman carrying out his pizza to—nowhere. The gentleman simply vanished. Or had he? Nicholas decided that the gentleman had simply stepped around the corner of the building, or that the rain was fogging up his windshield.
He glanced forward and stopped at the stoplight at the intersection of Main Street and Orange Road.
He turned left on Orange, and headed towards Eagle Point Apartments for his closest delivery.
He was passing The Pit Stop, the cheapest gas station in town, when he saw something peculiar. A bright white flash, not anything like headlights, filled the windshield with a glare, and then it exploded, blasting glass all inside of the front seats. The passenger’s seat was dotted with glass as if they were small bullets, and Nicholas tried slamming on brakes, but somehow the car continued lurching forward.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck, fucccck—”
His eyes were blinded by both the light and the blood pouring from the multiple lacerations on his forehead. The car was spinning, now, and Nicholas could only tell because he was feeling even sicker to his stomach than he had been before. The steering wheel vibrated heavily under his hands, as he hit what he assumed was the grass on the side of the road. He braced for impact, while still pressing the brakes as many times as he could before he came to a sudden, painful stop. Upon impact, all the side windows shattered, the front of the car made a very definite aluminum crunch, but the light did not disappear.
Once he was sure the car stopped moving, Nick let himself have a minor panic attack. He wiped the blood from his eyes, and broke out in a cold sweat. He tried glancing out of the glassless windshield, but the white light continued. All around him was the car's system pinging, as if the doors were open or someone had forgotten a seatbelt. All he could smell was burnt rubber and anchovies.
After a minute he calmed, and gathered his surroundings. Every pizza bag had fallen on the passenger floorboard, the sodas must have burst out of the windshield when they crashed, and the dashboard was covered in tiny glass particles and blood spatter. Nicholas knew he had small particles of glass in his eyes, and it made it very hard to think straight. His body ached, but it was also filled with a surge of energy. His airbags didn't deploy, but then he did buy a pretty sketchy car.
“Shit,” he muttered, struggling with his seatbelt. He rushed to open the door, but got distracted by the fading light. He glanced ahead, and saw the white light dissipating. It faded and faded until it was only a tiny twinkle in the most peculiar of places—on the forehead of a large, muscular man wearing long silver cloaks. Nicholas shook his head, trying to erase his nonsensical thoughts, but when he glanced back up, the man as still there, and grinning in the most frightening way. He stepped closedr, and Nicholas knew only that he needed to escape.
He tried the door, then tried the passenger door. Then with sudden clarity, he jumped out of the window, and made a run for it. Except, he only realized he had broken a leg when he fell out of the window without a foot to balance on. He cried in pain, and the man advanced on him.
The dark skin of the man’s forehead split to reveal the white light again. His grin was not sadistic, it was jolly. That only made it more frightening to Nicholas, who was deciding quickly whether he had any other choice than to die.
That’s when it happened.
A bright red light appeared and smashed into the towering man in silver. Nicholas looked back over his shoulder to see the man from the Pizza Joint, and, strangely, Mr. Mittens the cat.
The Pizza Joint Prophecy
The Pizza Joint was a ratty old building on the corner of Blackwood Street and Joiner Boulevard. The tan paint coating cement bricks had been permanently coated in spattered dirt from endless rain on the unpaved parking lot, and if you looked even further up the wall you’d find countless spider nests and hornet homes. Signs on the large storefront windows boasted ‘Real Chicago Style Pizza, $5.99 for two slices and a drink!’ The parking lot, aside from Holly’s 1995 Toyota Tercel and Manager’s battered Honda Accord, was empty.
Then, Nicholas pulled in. Holly was the cook until 4 p.m. and she was also Nicholas’ girlfriend. She was a lot of other things to a lot of other people, and Nicholas knew this, but didn’t care as long as he was the only one calling her ‘girlfriend.’
The rain had let up for a minute or two, but still Nicholas’ slip-proof work sneakers were coated in a layer of plastered on mud from the parking lot. Nicholas took his time walking inside, as Nicholas had a tendency to take his time in all things.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had forgotten something important. He woke to some strange things, but couldn’t recall how his bathroom mirror had steamed up, nor why his red towel was in the kitchen. He worried that he may need to sign up for a sleep study.
“Greyer,” Manager nodded as the door signaled a loud bell at its open.
“The grayest,” Nicholas replied.
Manager did not laugh, but Holly behind him let out a small chortle. She placed a hand on Manager’s shoulder, and told him to get a sense of humor. She smiled while looking up to Manager’s face a little too long for Nicholas’ taste.
Holly finally turned to Nicholas when Manager did not join her gaze. Manager was counting the cash drawer and pretending it was of utmost importance that he place all the fives in the same directions. Manager liked pretending he was important, at least Nicholas thought so. When he first applied for Pizza Joint, Manager told him to call him just that. Perhaps, it was because Manager’s name was Gillian Pickles, as he had discovered upon further inspection of the work schedule.
Nicholas decided that Manager just needed to feel like he was in charge, even though he most certainly wasn’t.
“Busy today?” Nicholas asked.
It was a mundane question, but he asked every day. It was a coworker question. He didn’t really care about the answers, but asked so people would think that he thought their opinions mattered to him.
“It’s a Tuesday,” Manager snorted. “Fucking Tuesdays. Might as well not even open.”
he said this, he spit into a red Solo cup. Nicholas still couldn’t understand the South’s obsession with chewing tobacco. It smelled like sweet piss, and looked like tar. But Manager left his Solo cups half full of spit everywhere, often knocking them all over freshly printed documents and cursing at the top of his lungs. Once, when Nicholas had only just started working at Pizza Joint, Holly had offered him a cup of what he thought was soda. She meant for him to throw it away, but Nicholas was smitten and downed half the tobacco-spit in a second. Holly found it hilarious and fucked him silly that night.
“It’ll pick up. Always does,” Nicholas replied.
And Nicholas was never wrong. He could nearly predict the type of person each pizza was for, just based on the toppings. Plain cheese for extremely picky adults or a family with multiple kids, anything with anchovies went to assholes or creeps, thin crust always went to old ladies or calorie counters.
Holly loved making a game of it, but Nicholas didn’t care much for it. It was boring when he was always right.
The business picked up around two p.m. when ten deliveries came in at once. Nicholas cursed his luck, knowing that all the deliveries would end up late which would short him tips.
Even worse, the rain picked up again, and Nicholas’ windshield wipers weren’t up to the task. As he carried the first five pizza bags, including three two liters, one of the three gentlemen in the lobby looked up from a fishing magazine. Nicholas recalled that he didn’t look the type to be reading a magazine about fishing as the man looked as if he had never worked a day in his life. He had pearly white hair, cut close to his head and a very clean cut and shaped beard. His eyes were a deep green, and he wore a long grey trench coat over a well-fitted black suit. What most stood out was the black walking stick with a dark red gem encrusted in the handle.
He had only taken a short glance at first, but then the man spoke.
“Best be careful out there,” the man warned, his British accent heavy. “It’s dangerous out there for you.”
Nicholas nodded politely, assuming it was some sort of British courtesy, and backed into the swinging door to open it for himself. The rain was heavier than it had been in the morning, yet it was still hot as it was still Florida. Nicholas walked even more slowly to his car, as he didn’t want to drop any pizzas, although this only caused the warming bags to get soggy.
Once he loaded the pizzas into his passenger seat, he buckled up and headed out. In his rearview mirror, he saw the British gentleman carrying out his pizza to—nowhere. The gentleman simply vanished. Or had he? Nicholas decided that the gentleman had simply stepped around the corner of the building, or that the rain was fogging up his windshield.
He glanced forward and stopped at the stoplight at the intersection of Main Street and Orange Road.
He turned left on Orange, and headed towards Eagle Point Apartments for his closest delivery.
He was passing The Pit Stop, the cheapest gas station in town, when he saw something peculiar. A bright white flash, not anything like headlights, filled the windshield with a glare, and then it exploded, blasting glass all inside of the front seats. The passenger’s seat was dotted with glass as if they were small bullets, and Nicholas tried slamming on brakes, but somehow the car continued lurching forward.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck, fucccck—”
His eyes were blinded by both the light and the blood pouring from the multiple lacerations on his forehead. The car was spinning, now, and Nicholas could only tell because he was feeling even sicker to his stomach than he had been before. The steering wheel vibrated heavily under his hands, as he hit what he assumed was the grass on the side of the road. He braced for impact, while still pressing the brakes as many times as he could before he came to a sudden, painful stop. Upon impact, all the side windows shattered, the front of the car made a very definite aluminum crunch, but the light did not disappear.
Once he was sure the car stopped moving, Nick let himself have a minor panic attack. He wiped the blood from his eyes, and broke out in a cold sweat. He tried glancing out of the glassless windshield, but the white light continued. All around him was the car's system pinging, as if the doors were open or someone had forgotten a seatbelt. All he could smell was burnt rubber and anchovies.
After a minute he calmed, and gathered his surroundings. Every pizza bag had fallen on the passenger floorboard, the sodas must have burst out of the windshield when they crashed, and the dashboard was covered in tiny glass particles and blood spatter. Nicholas knew he had small particles of glass in his eyes, and it made it very hard to think straight. His body ached, but it was also filled with a surge of energy. His airbags didn't deploy, but then he did buy a pretty sketchy car.
“Shit,” he muttered, struggling with his seatbelt. He rushed to open the door, but got distracted by the fading light. He glanced ahead, and saw the white light dissipating. It faded and faded until it was only a tiny twinkle in the most peculiar of places—on the forehead of a large, muscular man wearing long silver cloaks. Nicholas shook his head, trying to erase his nonsensical thoughts, but when he glanced back up, the man as still there, and grinning in the most frightening way. He stepped closedr, and Nicholas knew only that he needed to escape.
He tried the door, then tried the passenger door. Then with sudden clarity, he jumped out of the window, and made a run for it. Except, he only realized he had broken a leg when he fell out of the window without a foot to balance on. He cried in pain, and the man advanced on him.
The dark skin of the man’s forehead split to reveal the white light again. His grin was not sadistic, it was jolly. That only made it more frightening to Nicholas, who was deciding quickly whether he had any other choice than to die.
That’s when it happened.
A bright red light appeared and smashed into the towering man in silver. Nicholas looked back over his shoulder to see the man from the Pizza Joint, and, strangely, Mr. Mittens the cat.