breathe your smoke into my lungs

Moo doesn’t argue their statement or put on an act of humility. There was no question in his mind that his noodles were of a different standard. Humility was invented for people who weren’t confident in their own skill set and needed something to hide behind. “Of course. I wouldn’t serve you anything less than perfection. Though I’d probably value your opinion more if you weren’t hammered all the time” He mused at the younger man, pulling out a chair before making himself comfortable. It was an unrelatable concept; the idea of drowning your sorrow and frustrations in alcohol. The risk of tainting his palette was stronger than his urges to indulge in things like drinking and smoking. Therefore he would never completely understand the other and their method of dealing with their pain. 

He wasn't in any sort of position to be caring for someone else. Not when his own life was constantly threatening to crumble once more. However in any case that didn’t stop him from providing the woman with a shoulder and place to sort out her thoughts every once and awhile. No matter how much he complained or how inconvenient her stay was to his routine he simply couldn’t turn her away. He would never be that kind of person despite his usual cold and evasive personality, at the end of the day he was still a human being with somewhat of his conscious still intact.

“I’ve been meaning to ask for some time but your life...” The man paused in the middle of his sentence as he handed over a set of wooden chopsticks.  “What’s your end goal? The damage that you’re doing to your body--you’ve got a plan, right?” His words are unintentionally heavy and slightly drawn out as his thoughts made their way to his mouth. His tone remained soft and his intention wasn’t  to lecture someone who’s already had a miserable day but he can’t quite refrain from his own curiosity. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his own lack of direction at one point in his past had nearly killed him, landing himself semi paralyzed in a hospital room for an entire year.

"Noted...I’m glad to hear that though. With how fast the world has been moving these days many people tend to eat too quickly to get where they’re going and end up with indigestion. A person who doesn’t pace themselves while eating risks making themselves quite sick...” Vague memories of his own childhood were coming back to him in that brief moment. He remember how his father would often scold him for his bad table manners and unhealthy eating habits.

The man was in the middle of wiping down the inside of the registry, the rest of the staff having already left for the night. It had been a decent run this time around, the profits were good and the mistakes were minimizing with each service. His father being the simple man that he was, would of been proud of what his son had accomplished up until this point. However he couldn’t allow himself to settle for that. It had been a long and painful path but the real challenges had only just begun therefore he was in no position to feel satisfied just yet.They needed to be perfect. Flawless. Uncrushable.

Glancing up from behind the counter when he heard the bell above the door ring, he watched as a familiar face pushed past the ‘closed’ sign and sat themselves down at an empty table. Their movements were sloppy and careless; a dead giveaway to their intoxication. It wasn’t all that difficult to see that their day hadn’t gone well. Putting aside the cloth that he had been using on the last minute cleanup, he abandoned the task before heading into the kitchen in search of some spare ingredients. He figured they wouldn’t of shown up if they had eaten already. It wasn’t long before he had returned with a steaming bowl and a package of bandages.

 [f || m || open] the nurse/doctor/person that was in charge of him during his year of rehabilitation.  he was involved in car accident as the result of a targeted killing attempt which left him with a permanent back injury. someone trustworthy enough to keep his condition and existence hidden until he was able to recover.[message for more details]

[f || m || open] part-time workers for his restaurant. needed: waiters/waitresses, cleanup crew, security team, trainees for the noodle making team, etc. this plot-line will be continuous/ongoing/forever available.  *** The positions in the noodle making department are only open to non-smokers and non-drinkers. No exceptions*** [message for more details]

The man has been living in the apartment complex for six months and during that time has successfully managed to avoid any sort of interaction with the other residents of the building. He hadn’t quite come to a decision on how long he planned on staying therefore it would be amateurish to go out of his way to be noticed. No. His existence needed to be fleeting and ghost-like. He didn’t send out for mail or take subscriptions services, his front door remained void of any sign of life and he made a point of returning at odd hours. 

Stepping inside the elevator with somewhat of a weary sigh, the worn out watch that hung loosely on his wrist indicated that it was just past one in the morning. Perfect. It had been a tiresome day at the restaurant; the new hires weren’t quite working out and a past injury had somehow managed to flare up which caused his back to be in a severe state of pain. Carrying a container of leftovers from his shift he was about to press the button for his floor when someone else stepped on, causing him to hesitate for a moment. 

 The man's gaze is strong and calculative as he leaned down to examine the dishes that were about to be taken away. It was part of their obligatory day-to day routine. No dish was allowed to leave the kitchen without his approval. No exceptions. Obsessive. Controlling. Over-competent. He didn’t care what other people called him, the restaurant wasn’t established enough to trust anyone else with the task of overseeing quality control.  

“Your plating has improved...you’ve worked hard”  He nodded in satisfaction and gave his fingers a quick snap, an indication that the dishes could be served.  Stepping back he allowed them to be distributed to a set of assigned waiters before he turned his attention back to the main register. Greeting the unfamiliar face that stood in front of the counter with a classic dipping of his head, he relaxed his stiffened facial muscles and let the corners of his mouth turn in an upward motion, a gesture that other human beings often referred to as smiling.

                                                      HUMAN BEINGS IN A MOB

                     WHAT’S A MOB TO A KING? 

                                                                          WHAT’S A KING TO A GOD? 

                  WHAT’S A GOD TO A NON-BELIEVER?