The door swung open, and the large figure who lurched in blocked most of the light from entering alongside.
As Chief approached the front desk, the shadows around his face receded, showing a freshly split lip. He paused in front of the old woman. As she craned her neck to take him in, he fumbled with his left hand among his shirt pocket, finally pulling out a bloodied rag of paper. He looked over to the five arrivals, then back to the receptionist. He placed the paper on the table and began moving towards them.
Before he reachedng his seat he reaches down and picks up the waiting spittoon. After a quick motion a large glob of sickly red blood and mucus flew into the metal pot, landing with a dull thud. Placing the pot down, he resumed his walk over to the others, wiping his mouth with his right hand, the red from his mouth blending into the recently bloodied knuckles. After sitting down, he clenched his fists and unleashed a series of cracks and pops into the air.
He fixed his eyes on the door, waiting.
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People living through a golden age often don’t know. And it’s important that they do, because this golden age, as with all the ones that lie behind us, depends on patronage. If enough people lament the death of culture, culture will die, no matter how sophisticated our means of disseminating it.
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