“That’ll be $4.53, thanks for shopping at QuickMart”

“What a rip off” I thought “When Grandpa bought smokes they cost him 35 cents a pack, and I’m paying five dollars” My grip on monetary inflation was slim, but even so, I realized that prices had done nothing but go up since the increase in sin taxes.
As I slapped the bottom of the pack against my hand, I walked out into the glimmering sun, and it seemed hot enough to light the “complimentary” matches I’d been given just by holding them towards the sky. I pulled the first cigarette out of the pack and lit it, feeling the rush of strong tobacco coursing through my lungs.
“Those things will kill you someday.” It was a man standing outside the store, lazily leaning against the brick walls like those drug dealers you might see in a now-comical 1980s PSA.
“Not as quickly as they should.” I replied, uninterested in whatever this fellow had to say, maybe he was a dealer, maybe he was just bored, but I was not interested in his anti-smoking speech.
“I was kidding, how would you feel about seeing what really kills people?” As he stepped out of the shadows, I got a clearer look at him. He was wearing a red suit, but not one of those tweed jobs, it was actually crimson-he looked downright shocking, the kind of person you’d stare sideways at if you saw him walking down the street.
“I would probably feel depressed if I were to see what actually kills people.” It seemed to be the answer he was hoping for, his eyes lit up and I could suddenly see an unsettling intensity that gripped his whole body.
“Exactly! Can you believe how depressing it must be for me?” He replied, not looking depressed at all.
“Aren’t you missing your soapbox and ‘The End is Near’ sign?” I shot back, tired of these ridiculous mind games.
“Just walk with me, oh, and no smoking in my car.” He replied, striding quickly across the street.
As I followed this unusual man, it seemed as though he had no destination in mind. He cut through parks, alleyways and even one time we walked right through a restaurant, in the front door and out the back. We finally approached a parking garage.
“I hope those things haven’t destroyed your lungs too much, I’m parked on the very top level and the elevator’s broken.” He commented as he started to approach five flights of stairs. I noticed that there were very few cars parked in this particular garage.
“Why would you park so high up? There’s like four cars parked on every level.” I asked, hoping the answer would not involve him being a serial killer and the 5th floor having no surveillance cameras.
“Didn’t want to risk getting a door-ding. There are zero cars parked on the fifth level and zero is better than four.” His paranoia was starting to confuse me, a man who stood in front of a convenience store for no particular reason was worried about his car doors?
“If you’re driving a ’92 Corolla with 250,000 miles on it, I’m going home right now.” I replied. I was getting sick of this nonsense and was considering asking him for a ride home so I could fall asleep in front of the television.
We approached what could only be his car and for a moment he was lost in the camouflage. It was a ’65 Corvette Stingray, in the same crimson color as his suit. It really was a thing of beauty, and even though the weather had kept up a consistent drizzle for the past few days, there was not a spot of mud or road grime on it. It looked just as shiny and new as it must have when it was rolled out of the showroom floor so many years ago.
“Ok, if we’re going somewhere, there are worse ways to travel.” I said, too shocked to come up with something pithier.
“You’re going to find out how people live. But more importantly, you’re going to find out how they die.” He replied matter-of-factly.
“How are you the expert?” I asked incredulously.
“My name is Letum. Brushed up on your Latin recently? It means ruin, and I’m named appropriately.” It was not the response I was looking for, and he knew that.
As we slid into his car and the engine growled itself to life, I looked around for any indicating marks as to who in the hell this person was. There were none, no pictures, no gym shoes, and nothing in the center console. All I saw was what appeared to be a GPS unit. I began to wonder if he’d stolen the car as we slowly cruised down Robbins Street.
“Do you see her? Yes, the woman in the green t-shirt and the blue jeans.” He asked me, for once sounding sincere.
“What about her?” I was growing bored with nonspecific questions.
“I can’t see her, but I know she’s there. You see, she’s not from the city.”
“So?”
“So she’s not from my territory, thus, I can’t see her the way I can see you or any number of these people.” He was making no sense, and for the first time I realized that this could end badly.
We turned onto a side street and encountered a police barricade. The street was closed off and there were several cruisers pulled up close to the curb, flashing their lights. A crowd had begun to form and as I was about to suggest we turn around, Letum pulled into a parking space, turned off the car and looked at me.
“This morning a young woman jumped off her balcony, landed right there.” He pointed at a spot on the ground. “They say that if you jump off buildings as a form of suicide you die of fear before you hit the ground, let me tell you, that is false.”
“And how do you know all of this?” I replied warily.
“I did it, didn’t I tell you? I am ruin.”
“Ruin personified.” I mulled over the idea.
“No, I can see that you haven’t brushed up on your religion either.”
“I would seem to be a bit rusty, what part of religion are you referring to?”
He started to say something, but got cut off by a knocking on the car window, it was a cop and he did not appear to be happy.
“Hey! Can’t you see that you can’t park here? We need all the space we can get, move your car.” The police officer barked at us, they must teach that tone at the academy.
We pulled out of the parking spot and I was still waiting for Letum to continue his story as he drove down another busy city street. He seemed to be in no hurry to explain what he had meant.
“Well?” I said, hoping he’d go on.
“See that’s the problem with people, you’re so in love with your reflection in the pool, you forget that there are things under the water. “ He replied with righteous indignation.
“Not including yourself in this count now?” We were now several blocks from the suicide scene but I still could not get it out of my mind. He was still only creeping along the street
“No, I am not including myself. If you’re curious as to where we’re going, I’ll save you the time, we are headed to a rodeo.”
I must have looked so despondent that he felt the need to add on the reason as to why we were going to a rodeo.
“Relax, we’ll only be there for five minutes, it’s work-related.” Letum added, laughing a bit to himself at how put off I was at the idea of seeing men in cowboy hats try to ride bucking bulls.
“I might as well tell you now,” he continued, “I mention that I’m not including myself among humans because of my job, I am something of an enigma, most people don’t believe that I exist.”
“Now comes the part where he tells me that he works for the CIA, or that he’s a character in a John Grisham novel.” I thought.