4
Robin 
Natchez, Louisiana 
October 31st, 2014
Time: 6:00 AM 
____________________________

    LʼAmant de Nid was an all-time certified pig-stye, but – in honor of dead sons everywhere – it was exceptionally sh*tter for Robin when she walked into the Hellbenders bunker on the third floor. Sleazy was always Robinʼs style, dingy too, but ever since she had her youngest son – Trevor Prince, heir to the cordial Prince empire – her tastes had grown richer. More exorbitant, and more critical. So, as she stepped into her apartment complex, lurking above the motelʼs café, Robin soaked in the apartment and sighed. 

    Everything was a mess. 

     The vinyl curtains were greasy, ripped, stained in a yearʼs worth of nicotine, dust, and soil; the rugs slick with dried up c*m and alcohol stains, with cracked rock-ʼn-roll records kissing the floors. The kitchenette was all blackened from burnt breakfasts and Wilʼs horrible cooking. Posters canvassed the fading walls: from the Beatles at Carnegie Hall to the Rolling Stones at the Olympia Stadium in Detroit, to Kiss playing a venue in San Antonio. Old p*nties were sprawled all along on the floors – whether they were hers or one of Wilʼs
escapades, she didnʼt know – and as she sniffed a half empty bottle of Cîroc vodka and a carton of old Chinese food, she sighed. 

    It would take at least two days to clean everything up. 

    F*ckinʼ William Harris. 

    Frowning, Robin approached her desk and plopped down. Her laptop had at least two coffee stains on it, and weapons were sprawled all over it; her sheath of wolf-skinned bow-and-arrows, her long Commando knives, her semi-automatics and hunting pistols. 

    "Hijo de p*ta," Robin cursed, shoveling them onto the floor and fisting her hands in her hair. The only clean thing in the entire apartment complex was probably her cushioned chair, and even that had specs of dust on it...

    Oh well. 

    Booze costed money, usually, and as an old Spanish love song blared on the radio, Lord knew she needed a lot of it.