Here’s a bit of something I’m working on…  It’s so new it’s still soft to the touch and will collapse if I don’t let it set a bit.

“God damn it!” the vagrant yelled as he threw the bottle.  It shattered against the wall spraying cheap whiskey over the cracked paint and cigarette-reeking drapes.

Paul watched as the translucent brown liquid dripped to the floor in long, quiet streams.  It fascinated him, and he wondered if the man’s blood would look the same should it be wasted in an unfortunate incident.  Part of him wanted to try it, but he denied the impulse and said, “Mister—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Hugo,” the man offered defiantly.

“Ah, Hugo…  So it is then.  Or at least so it was, but let’s use that name anyway.  There’s no reason to spilt hairs, is there?”

The man stared at Paul without responding.  His face pulled taut in a challenging grimace.  Paul noticed his eyes were bloodshot, rivers of red streaming in all directions in haphazard fashion, tributaries of crimson that started nowhere and ended nowhere.  If a pattern could be found in the inflamed capillaries, it remained invisible even to the predator.  But he could see the vagabond’s leathery skin punctuated with lines and wrinkles busier than a New York City map.  And it all had been drawn on skin too brown to be genetic.  He had been in the sun too often for too many years, Paul knew, and melanoma would be his friend quite soon—if he survived the night, and that was unlikely.  Despite the stench of mold and stale cigarette smoke, the air tasted of death.

With barely enough volume to be heard over the black-and-white television screaming from the corner of the room, Paul asked, “Did we not have an agreement, Hugo?  What’s the problem?”

“Fuck you!” he spit belligerently.

“While I appreciate the offer, that’s not really why we’re here.  Perhaps if you’d caught me under different circumstances…”

“Shut up!”

“I can certainly do that.  You should keep in mind it would hasten the conclusion of our deal.”  Paul slowly licked his lips to drive home the point.  Though intended for Hugo’s benefit, he could taste the man’s flesh in the air and hungered for the warmth of his life to flow like honey between his fingers and down his throat.  The thought of it nearly made him leap across the room.  He wanted his prize, the promised gift from a simpleton.  He needed to keep his cool.

The man crossed his arms and hugged himself tightly.  Anyone could recognize it as a defensive posture.