Hey guys! It's been a while since I've updated anything, major apologies with the 'A Man Devoured' sequel, chapter two is giving me some trouble and I've been extremely busy, but it is still happening! But in the between of everything I've been working on this little piece, which as most things has evolved, and I hope to keep it going. On that note it is extremely harmful, and includes several cases of drug and alcohol abuse, later attempted suicide, and just all around sad things. But later there shall be smut, and if you continue to read it's fairly obvious who it's between. Hope you enjoy!

~DotB

He's cleaning up the broken glass and thinking.

Break ups are often the hardest, there's always the anticipation of the end but no, not anymore, you've reached it. It's over and it's done and if you're in luck it won't come back. Even if you did or didn't truly like the person, all that matters is that there was a moment in time where you thought they were the one and that's what haunts you. So for days or weeks or months or maybe even a year they lay across your mind like a phantom pacing in every corridor and every nook of thinly wired brain; all those wrinkles and crows feet of your minds eye coupled with more frown than smile lines, they dance on the lines of those crevices. The memory is a scar in a way, the slippery water through your fingers, except the water is frozen and you've developed frostbite; a battle wound to remind you that your brain won in this treaty of Versailles because your heart is the loser. It usually is until it can somehow become a superpower with it's nuclear warfare, but that's entirely doubtable and won't happen anytime soon. And so the brain beats it over with it's cool logic and common sense and the heart can cry and scream and shout at the very top of it's lungs; but nothing will come of it. It can fight but like a tortured prisoner, submission is the only reality in this cold, cold cell; anyone it had ever tried to accept and let in and love will only hurt him more.

This is why General Kozmotis Pitchiner hated the world and appeared like clock work damn near every night, for the basic impractical gallon of vodka; because once upon a time he had tried to love the world and it broke his heart in a cold cell. He never talks about it of course, because that would be improper somehow, exposing a lick of his humanity, proving he was a human being. Because to show any side of that is weakness somehow, The Man in the Moon always 'mistook' it as strength.

That's what they call him, he's not just the man behind the bar. He was the man behind the counter, who stood in front of the bright bay bell neon sign shaped like the moon in it's crescent, like a clipped blue hang nail. Almost as useful as him, yet gravity rejected him and never let him fall. Insomnia made him far beyond different than everyone else, he felt the tick of the clock he heard the crush of bar food spread like bird seed and tasted the grease of hand prints left on packed tables and smelled twelve hour shifts off the one who just walked in but he saw all of them. All he saw was them from eight in the night to the birds song of seven, near the end you could give him a dollar and he'd lick the crusting paint on the wall; no one ever asked him to, but he would if they did. No hesitation no blinking no question he'd lick it like it was General Kozmotis Pitchiner's bare skinned body.

He misses the ground, something so often far away and he mourns the comfort of bed, where he lies in blankets and pulled curtains of a makeshift sanctuary. His body has grown heavy, not in real life weight but in his mind there are whales who weigh lighter than him. All he wants is to close his eyes one last time before sleep seduces him into blissed out unconsciousness, where he dreams of well crafted hands and bleeding lips and dances the tango on a lake. Sometimes he doesn't want to be him, sometimes all he wants is bed and he misses the quietness of night, when the real moon is out in it's splendor and every street holds a soft kindness and he can dance and lay on a road where there are no cars, and the stars are all he needs.

When he looks at them, his roused patrons, not many look back; but they all call him the Man in the Moon. Or a shorted MiM, which they murmured from drunken lips. Their eyes half dipped and smeared black underneath, lips red as Eve's apples, they pull him by the collar closer; he says something about the cow that jumped over the moon and they shove him away, insulted. Pitch sits in his dark cloud of a corner and broods into his tall glass of something that looks like water but everyone knows it isn't, and MiM could use a drink by now. He doesn't realize that he's walked over there until he has.

"Why do they always think a cow jumping over the moon is an insult?" Pitch looks more than confused and he couldn't agree more, he couldn't believe he came over here in the first place. The General has paused in mid sip, soon he tips it back and ends it, his gold gilded silver eyes painted to his in rapt surprised attention.

"It's usually a poor decision to compare a woman to livestock." MiM just stares at him like he is glass, but he is the most interesting glass he has ever seen. The glass a woman presses her lipstick against because it is the reddest red and she is gorgeous goddamn it, and someone needs to know it; so she writes hearts and gives kisses and she's beautiful. MiM has done this many times, he likes feeling pretty; he has a white pair of heels in his closet next to his skeletons to prove it.

"Forget the detail of livestock and it shows the willingness to jump for something impossible, reminding people to try, at least. People don't seem to do that anymore." He feels like a butterfly, dead and colorful and all laid out for dissection on a thin nice board, he lies in comfort that his interest will keep him safe.

"The willingness to jump for an impossible what exactly? Cliff? Are you telling those girls to jump off a cliff?" There's a crooked smile that seems too warm and just reminds him that Russian winters are cold and for a reason.

"No, the willingness to stay away from the bar and stop clinging to a pathetic tall glass of vodka almost every night, quit pretending they have strength when all they do is hate the world in a corner." The handsome man is shell-shocked and for once the pain is obvious, it's a nice change as MiM's hand slinks to grab the glass for a sip of his own.

"Thanks for the drink Kozzy." He is bitter like water that has found a way to go rotten, leaving the problematic man behind him as he walks to serve his other customers. He doesn't apologize, he won't. Because there are bars on his apartment windows and two chain latches on his door, and where he goes no one follows; and he can lock his door at night because he isn't expecting anyone. He lives in a place of barely two rooms and a bunch of pawned tin robots stolen in the falsified glory of his childhood, they had belonged to his father. His father had been a chain smoker of Marlboros. He remembers sitting out on the porch with his father. His father was already outside and he was sneaking down like the cat he often pretended to be. His father was sitting out there on the porch, and he probably should have left him alone but he didn't.

The moon was so bright in it's silver glow it gave them both shadows; he was still in his pajamas, his favorite ones with the rockets and astronaut monkeys and his father was still wearing his work uniform from the garage with the sleeves rolled up. His father and Kozzy would've gotten along like a charm, they were both veterans down to their hearts bleeding purple and pinned to their chests; his father used to drink too. MiM always figured it was just one of those war things, when you see something so bad it takes blinders to stop you from seeing anything at all. So that you don't feel the defeat of closing your eyes one too many times; he'd been deleted as a world's virus, a scatter toothed parasite who lived in the form of a war hero.

They sat there quietly together as his father patrolled the ghosts of a war MiM would never see no matter how hard he tried; the cigarette smoke billowing like the fog that will float down to the cemetery, where his father will be buried after a glass of orange juice and a cereal bowl of bullets poured fresh from a shot gun. His mother never cried in front of him because she was a lion; he wept like a songbird with a snapped wing and cried for weeks, until in years he came to a fish netted acceptance after sobbing an ocean. Because Daddy was gone and no matter how many times he checked the porch or bought him Marlboro's he wasn't coming back.

There's a woman sitting in the shadow of a child with bright, rebellious, near neon green hair. It's shredded with streaked yellow, tinged in tips of pink, and it is the ugliest damn thing he's ever seen, but she's the only one who can pull it off. He feels envy in that and shoves it back down in his belly. Because she can be colorful, she can be pretty, and she can show off how beautiful she actually is in heels and dresses and tight fitting jackets, and pack on as much make up as she damn well pleases and he can't. He'd hate her if she wasn't so nice and didn't tip so good.

It feels like the familiar punch in the face when the back alley boys notice the trace black of eye liner, the darkness of his lashes, the blue hue of eye shadow, and the pink on his lips that didn't wash off, and ask if he likes being a girl so much why doesn't he show them? Not answering gets the dull scrape of dry knuckles and cracked nails digging into his arms when they hold him back; it never gets too bad, but once he spit out a tooth with a sink dyed red and a mouthful of cracked bitten chalk dust in a ridge of sawed pain. He accidentally gets high off the pain meds he takes that night and dances on music notes and pretends he's waiting for someone and that he's not sleeping alone. That someone has a place to sleep on the other side of his bed, who has a toothbrush next to his, and a drawer full of the clothes he wears. When he wakes up he feels like crying but he doesn't, because he's a bird who lost his song a long time ago; unlike the girl who's trying to get his attention, he ignores her for a little longer. He'll get there eventually but seeing her squirm in the edge of his vision makes him feel better.

The other gentleman he sees and decides to grace with his presence is a usual as well; his hair is almost entirely grey save for the feeble strands of black mixed in. He's an Aussie by his accent and tanned Out Back skin. Once a year he'd visit and a good portion of his family would be with him; the kids running around in bunny ears and hopping like rabbits while the adults entertained the fluffy ears as well. Instead of visiting he lives here now, and in place of family he has a couple of rough new scars from an accident he wants to talk about, but won't. He wears jean vests and cowboy hats and big belts with huge buckles and big leather boots and sometimes smokes cigars in breaks of sitting there at his stool and drinking. He likes whiskey and eats all the peanuts from the dish in front of him. After his fifth round he starts complaining about how this bar doesn't serve eggs and he can't get any damned eggs that taste good and that all the American eggs are just over processed over priced chicken shit painted white and he likes MiM because he agrees with him. The eggs are shit and it makes the Aussie smile that he isn't the only one who thinks that, that he's not alone. It makes MiM feel nice to be needed, even if it's just a little bit. Sometimes the man stares at nothing with tears in his eyes and that's when MiM quietly informs him that all of his drinks are on the house tonight. That's how he usually spends his paychecks, on the customers he pities: his favorites, his regulars. Because unlike the man a thousand times hurt who lives in the dark corner there is a part of him that still craves love and wants to look for it in any poor soul who wonders brokenly in front of his path.

That's what it's like with the mute; the short ginger with a handful of freckles and amber rocks for eyes, who probably got his head broken or something and doesn't talk to anyone just because. He hasn't been a mute for long, because he either doesn't know sign language or never bothered trying to learn it. Whenever he wants something he just writes it down in the hands of a child first learning how to draw the alphabet on a napkin. After his third appearance MiM gets him a notepad with a little pencil he can hide in the wire binding of the thing. It has astronauts on it and comets and stars and rocket ships and it makes him smile a little bit every time the little man takes it out to write. The man is a tempered soul and his whole humble existence just makes MiM smile despite himself, and finds it in himself that he likes making the little man happy; that's how the gift giving exchange gets started.

Because something bad happened to the little man, like what happened to the Aussie; where everything about him isn't the same as when it used to be, and he's taking time to adjust and that happens to take place in a bar. Because a bar is where people go to subconsciously heal the battle scars this world has left on them. This is why he wants to help heal the little man who writes his name as 'Sandy'; because something tells him that Sandy doesn't truly know what he's doing anymore. So in a way that's not insulting he starts buying him writing books to practice his letters, something a child would use; and picture books, because of the drawings and simple words and easy reading and the good morals on their pages. Books by Shel Silverstein and Dr. Suess and Mem Fox and AA Milne and at least six books on tape by Neil Gailman and the entire seven books on tape for JK Rowling's Harry Potter because if he doesn't help Sandy no one will.

One of the reasons he keeps going with this charade is the expressions of joy it brings in the little man, the inexplicable happiness and utter gratitude so openly displayed and only for him. Sandy is one of the only reasons he ever smiles at work, except of course, for the rabbit man. He serves Sandy an orange smoothie, no alcohol, and a plate of fries. For the rabbit man he pulls out some deviled eggs he bought before coming to work and kept cold in the fridge, towards the second part of the night he gives it to him and his smile is nice and for once it meets his eyes.

It's only after he's developed this feeble friendship does the Russian show up.

After he's given in and goes over to collect the colorful girl's order of a virgin Pina Colada. In the back of his vision while she nervously speaks in a light tongue of someone who both wants to be ignored and seen, he sees the heavy barrel man settle in the right bend of the bar. Her twenty first birthday is in a week and it explains why she's been watching this place, she's casing it so her and all of her friends who dress exactly like her can celebrate it; what it doesn't explain is why she's telling him this. She's a sad creature, and he can recognize loneliness shaking from her person. She wears her heart open on her chest and it makes him uncomfortable because he doesn't want to like her; but he can feel the beginning waves of pity rolling inside. But then of course the Russian calls him over before he can even start mixing her drink.

He orders vodka and jokes that it's the only thing strongest to tempt him in most American bars, but that's exactly what he's not supposed to do because vodka is Pitch's drink, and it's all skewed now. MiM already hates the Russian so that means he can start liking the rebel without a cause-but-a-Pina-Colada. He makes her drink first to make the Russian wait longer and takes his time; making it extra juicy and going the extra mile by adding pieces of pineapple, which she largely compliments and he knew he had a reason for liking her. His problem was that she was a pure and honest good person, so what business had she doing here? He knew about her birthday party, but she'd been visiting longer than three weeks now, which meant she had baggage like the rest of them. Maybe some fruit salad from the local grocery would make her feel better; but there was only one way to find out, and that was through experimentation. If he kept the fruit going in her drinks, maybe she'd like the salad, or it would just be too much fruit. But even if it was he tried and that was all that mattered and the Russian was trying to talk to him again damn it all to hell why on earth would he try and do something like that? it makes no sense to him.

He doesn't hear what the Russian is saying all he knows is that he's talking, so he must be one of those customers; the ones who are here to make friends or alliances or someone to give them an alibi should the time come when they need one. And by the looks of this man, it's the latter. He's got muscles all over despite his age and tattoos strewn on either arm in bold, hiding most of his skin and a long white beard. MiM knows a guy on probation when he sees one, and this guy just got out for whatever reason and is probably packing something or another under his sleeve. He looks like a motorcycle kind of guy, so he might be a leech from one of those groups or a different gang or even a toughened scatter group of the mafias out from Russia on away business. He could technically be here for a kill, or a nice drink after one.

He wants nothing to do with the man so he asks him to pardon his poor English, and to please quiet down he's disturbing the other patrons. He gets that look of dejection clear on his face with his painfully expressive blue eyes, and slumps down a bit in his skinned leather jacket with the wool red sweater underneath. As MiM turns away to clean some glasses in the sink he listens in as the Aussie swivels to strike up a conversation with the convict. It makes his gut shift as though he's swallowed a snake and it's rolling in slides and it makes him cringe and it's hard to hide.

Pitch's eyes are on him now; he knows their familiar sweep of his person as his grey eyes try to decode meaning in the tenseness of his shoulder blades, the strain on his back. Maybe he'll find an obvious answer, maybe he won't, MiM doesn't care at this point. Because none of them know the man in the chair like he does and he knows him well, he's just a grown up version of the boys who beat him up in the alley ways on early walks home or late night grocery shopping. Or most times he leaves his apartment complex and doesn't take the 'scenic', if a city could be scenic, route that takes him almost an hour to get anywhere at all; so because he doesn't often have time to waste they get to waste him. To be fair they don't always beat him up with their hands, because vocal punches carry just as much pain, so he doesn't want this at work too, he doesn't know what he'd do if it started happening at work as well.

Then another new guy appears and it's just too many new people for him to pay attention to for today; so he elects to ignore the white haired boy sitting under the air conditioner where it's practically freezing. The boy tries to call him over and get MiM's attention but he just acts like he can't hear the boy, although it's a miracle he's not growing a thin paint of frost under that old air conditioner, the thing practically spits snow at anyone under it. But the boy just hunkers down in his blue stringed sweatshirt and waits after he's done calling out like a lost child, waiting 'patiently' now.

And still Pitch is, as always, watching it all from his throne in the corner.