Six booths. Red and white leather seats, intended for four patrons at each. Plastic green tables, bolted to the wall and cutting each booth into two dual chair halves. But there was no sign of life. No sign of anything abnormal though either. No struggles, no mess. Not even an empty sundae glass left on a table somewhere. That was, until he walked in. Unkempt lilac hair, messy bangs. Segments were cut into a bowl, while it looked like others had been missed. As if a child had attempted to give themselves a haircut and messed up, or even just gotten bored part of the way through and given up. Perhaps a bit of both was the most logical.
The glass door now stained with five red dots, spiraled fingerprints left, where he had pushed the door open. Upon entering there was no real change in the air, that same empty/lifeless feeling remained despite his presence. He gently sucked on his right forefinger, turning back to the door and flipping the sign. Now reading OPEN from the outside. He threw his weapon to his booth, the blood on it's tip dirtying the white leather.
The gentle swaying of his black dress as he wandered around the bar, behind which he found the flavors. Green. Brown. Yellow. White. Pink. Yes, that delightful pink flavor. Little of it remained however, indented as though it had been scratched out. Not with a scoop, instead fingers. The occasional lost nail embedded within the frosty cream. He lifted a small tub from the far right, grasping the desert and filling the container. But it was not complete. The pink lacked the red sauce, long since removed from the front desk.
The lanky boy wandered into the back, finding the freezer. Opening the heavy door, the red was found within. A body, vendor's cap on his head. Bloodied apron and shirt covering his body. He grasped at the man, frozen to the wall behind him. His back tore free of his front, the frozen goo within now within his reach. He reached with the tub, catching what little unfrozen matter did drip, it was complete. He kicked the door closed behind him, walking out from behind the bar, taking his seat in his booth. It was eight on a cold Autumn morning and he was eating icecream alone in an empty parlor. Well, with his weapon with him, was he ever truly alone?
The glass door now stained with five red dots, spiraled fingerprints left, where he had pushed the door open. Upon entering there was no real change in the air, that same empty/lifeless feeling remained despite his presence. He gently sucked on his right forefinger, turning back to the door and flipping the sign. Now reading OPEN from the outside. He threw his weapon to his booth, the blood on it's tip dirtying the white leather.
The gentle swaying of his black dress as he wandered around the bar, behind which he found the flavors. Green. Brown. Yellow. White. Pink. Yes, that delightful pink flavor. Little of it remained however, indented as though it had been scratched out. Not with a scoop, instead fingers. The occasional lost nail embedded within the frosty cream. He lifted a small tub from the far right, grasping the desert and filling the container. But it was not complete. The pink lacked the red sauce, long since removed from the front desk.
The lanky boy wandered into the back, finding the freezer. Opening the heavy door, the red was found within. A body, vendor's cap on his head. Bloodied apron and shirt covering his body. He grasped at the man, frozen to the wall behind him. His back tore free of his front, the frozen goo within now within his reach. He reached with the tub, catching what little unfrozen matter did drip, it was complete. He kicked the door closed behind him, walking out from behind the bar, taking his seat in his booth. It was eight on a cold Autumn morning and he was eating icecream alone in an empty parlor. Well, with his weapon with him, was he ever truly alone?
