Dennis Smykowski
Satchel

SATCHEL

It’s night again.

I’m home, sitting with my laptop, watching random videos. Why sleep if you’re enjoying life and you’ve already wrecked your schedule anyway? What even happened today? There’s never enough time for anything real. I got distracted tracking an online order – that’s it.

Alright, look. I’ve got one life. Just one. There’s not gonna be another. And yeah, I don’t sleep at night. Ever. I’ll answer all the people who judge me later.

In the dark, a crack shows up on the ceiling. Another one. Repairs should’ve been done twenty years ago. I crank the volume up and head to the sink to wash dishes that have been sitting there for a week. Once a week is fine. It’s boring. I’m zoning out. I really need sleep. I go back, turn the music even louder.

A second later, a dull metallic sound crawls through the old radiator, eaten alive by rust.

“Charlie! You wanna see your ears floating in a bowl of soup in a bloody sink? Turn that crap off and let me sleep!”

The sound fades into knocking – an angry, rusty pipe talking back.

I’m out of food. Completely. I need to hit the 24-hour market around the corner. I’ll just lie down for a minute, close my eyes, let my brain reboot. Then I’ll face life again, all shiny and dramatic.

I throw on my bomber jacket, grab my wallet. The old door groans as it opens. Water drips from the ceiling. Rain, I hope. Those pipes aren’t pipes anymore – they’re corpses.

The hallway stretches on. Some lights work, some don’t. By one apartment, a gray moth keeps smashing itself against a bulb. Apartment 464 opens and shuts like a metronome. A bald face – male or female, hard to tell – keeps popping out, smiling with a single surviving tooth.

“Hre-hre-hre! Charlie! It’s coming! Hre-hre-hre! Charlie! It’s coming!”

Over and over.

Near apartment 476, a fresh issue of The Daily Life Gazette lies on the floor:

POLITICIAN. FAMILY MAN. LIBERTINE!?

WHO ARE YOU REALLY, SEN. KINGSLEY…

Behind the door, a woman moans. It cracks open. She’s alone inside.

Yeah – I’m talking about love.

Love for alcohol.

She’s trying to open a bottle of vodka with a knife. No luck. Three sheets to the wind. Helping someone like that isn’t a great idea. She might thank you… aggressively. I’m not drinking that much tonight.

Outside, the street is empty and cold. Tree tops sway like they’re tired of standing. A chill slides under my jacket. Out of the darkness steps a familiar silhouette – brown felt hat, long coat, Cuban cigar glowing between his teeth.

Inspector Philipp Wishniewski.

“Evening, Charlie. Can’t sleep again?”

We stop under a flickering streetlamp.

“Inspector! How you doing? Yeah, fridge is dead. I’m heading to the market. You checking the block personally?”

“Hard times. Somebody’s still trying to plant a bomb somewhere. We’re short on people. Everyone wants business, nobody wants a badge.

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