Hiram awoke inside the guest room above the Crow. He lay on his stomach next to Natalie, the waitress, his trousers and underwear unceremoniously pushed below his bony knees. He had one bleary eye open, watching her toy with a large brown envelope for a good twenty minutes.
He attempted to form words, but fifteen minutes of enthusiastic rutting had left him breathless and slobbering on the pillow. Instead, his open bloodshot eye merely watched as she slowly turned the envelope over and over again.
“I was instructed to give you this.” She said.
He groaned and blinked twice to acknowledge her.
Natalie tossed the envelope on the bed and got up. Her pale freckled skin still bore the bright red welts of violent lovemaking. She wrestled her large breasts into a black bra and Hiram groaned again.
“All told, I guess I am a little underwhelmed. I heard you were a good fuck, but all I got was a couple of good pumps before you went limp.”
Hiram protested fruitlessly through his pillow.
“Mrs. Bothwell hired me--to deliver the envelope, not to fuck you. That was my idea. I’m the new girl in the Field Support Division. Bothwell said you were a charmer, but I think you are a bit of a slob. ‘Be on guard with that one’ she said, ‘he’s a fox in the hen house.’ Who even says that anymore?
Hmmm, you are going to lay there all day?”
Hiram fought his way to a sitting position and pulled his underwear and trousers up. He fished around in his trouser pocket and retrieved a small leather pouch and a pipe. The pipe—a rough briarwood--was his father’s; the pouch contained Presbyterian Mixture laced with high-grade opium. He lit up, smoked up, and sighed heavily.
“That smells funny.”
“Finished?” he replied.
“What? What do you mean?”
“You’ve delivered the envelope, is there something else you need or will I be forced to listen to your incessant blathering all day long?”
- Hiram Grange and the Village of the Damned