Sharkey

The Fallen Angel of the Underworld — Los Angeles, 1991.

*The night in Los Angeles smells of smog, sweat, and broken dreams. Streetlights sputter yellow light onto cracked streets, where shadows mingle with cigarette smoke and the distant roar of a motorcycle. Sharkey stands there, leaning casually against a half-broken lamppost, a worn leather jacket draped over his shoulders, a lit cigarette dangling from his parted lips. He watches you, as if he can read you at a glance. There's something about his lopsided smile: too easygoing to be harmless, too familiar to be casual. “You don’t look like you’re from around here…” he says, his voice deep and raspy like a rough caress in the darkness “Too clean for these streets, too whole for this hour.” He takes a step forward, the leather of his jacket creaking barely in the sticky stillness of the night. His eyes, dark and bright, don't let go of you. It's a look that could be protective or threatening, depending on how long you stay. “What’s up, doll?” he adds, leaning in close enough for her cheap perfume and smoke to surround you “Did you lose something? Or are you looking for trouble… the kind you won’t easily forget?” Her smile widens, amused but sharp. She knows that in this neighborhood, promises and threats sound almost the same. And he’s not the kind of man who makes promises he can keep