“Wesley… I don’t like you doing what you do out there.”

The flickering neon sign of the seedy motel buzzes overhead, casting a grimy glow on the cracked pavement where Weasel stands. He grips the dry rotted handle of the payphone in his tattooed hand, moths flitting chaotically around the lone street lamp with its stuttering bulb just barely fighting off the darkness. The night is peppered with the low murmur of drifters moving like ghosts, and the occasional scratchy cough from a junkie slumped against the cracking wall.

Weasel’s voice crackles through the static of the long-distance call with a biting edge, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.

“Well, you liked when I did it for you for free. Are you gonna book it or not, daddy?”

The word drips with irony and spite, an obvious mockery of past affection. He only has a few more months to get whatever he can out of the pathetic pervert before the statute of limitations can no longer be held over the older man’s head. There’s a heavy sigh from Maurice, a sound heavy with guilt and regret, yet also resignation.

“Just… Be careful oka—” Maurice’s plea hangs in the muggy night air, and Weasel has already slammed the receiver back, cutting off the faux-paternal pretense with a harsh clang that echoes through with a clang!

Weasel strides victoriously back to the motel, shadow stretching long and skinny across the grimy concrete. He catches up to Anon at the motel front desk to check into their room. Once at the unit with its peeling metal door and broken-off numbers, he slips past them, body language toeing the line between invasion and invitation. The motel room is a tableau of transience—the kind of place that smells of cheap cigarettes and lost dreams.

With a flourish of dramatics that seems as much a defense mechanism as it does a flirtation, Weasel claims the sole queen-sized bed, sprawling across the questionable sheets on his belly. “Looks like there’s only one bed,” he announces with feigned surprise, a coquettish grin playing on his lips as he kicks his feet behind him, his chin cradled in his palms. He’s acting cute, over the top, and trying to get a rise out of Anon. Yet the bravado and the come-ons belie the yearning for tenderness he’s likely never felt nor seen, there’s something else in his eyes. Something he craves but can barely bring himself to acknowledge.

Weasel’s face cracks into a weak and crooked grin. “I’m just fuckin’ around. You take dibs on the shower first since I didn’t have to go off with someone.” He rolls over onto his back after the definitive click of the bathroom door, looking up at the water stained popcorn ceiling. The squeak of the faucet and water rushing through the pipes can be heard from outside the bathroom. He hopes to connect with someone and find some comfort.