I also have two residents in my shabby little hotel.  One Chinese man, named Chang Wufei, who always rants to me when I come to collect the rent.  I guess I'm his personal punching bag.  I don't think he likes America too much.  He always complains about the pushy people, the food, women, the people, the food, women…Well, yeah, you get the idea.  I guess it makes him feel better that someone is listening to him while he writes his check.

The other renter, who is actually nice to me (Thank the Lord), is Quatre Winner.  Chirpy little guy, always says hello to Trowa and me before he heads off to his daddy's work.  Now, his daddy is a big shot.  You know the Winner Corporation?  Yeah, well, that's Quatre.  Don't ask me why he rents from poor little ol' me in this shithole, but he does.  Maybe he hates the fancy places too.

Okay.  Now for looks.  Don't be afraid though, I'm just trying to be original.  That and because I never had a handy blade.  What I'm trying to say is that I have a braid.  A long brown braid in fact.  Goes right to my tush (and may I just add that I have a very nice ass too, folks).  I always get these questions like 'Do you cook the food here?' or 'Why don't you put your hair in a bun or somethin'?'  What's with the world these days?  A few loose strands of hair aint gonna kill someone.  Enjoy your meal.  You probably wont even feel it.  Yeah, well, moving on.  I have one pride and joy.  Natural violet eyes.  Swear to God.  It came from my old ma's family.  It's completely genetic.  What?  You don't believe me?  Fine.  Big raspberry to you too.

All in all, I'm a happy little camper.  I got a roof, food, and money (well, barely).  I'm in good shape, I have my music, and I have one person in the world that acknowledges my existence.  Life is good, even if my home is in need of some fixing.  Yep, I don't need anything.

Truly.

Really.

What?

Don't believe me?

Damn, you're good.

*****

I've always been easily entertained.  I guess that's why I'm laying on my bed, staring at a corner in the ceiling where a handsome young spider sits.  I wonder what it's doing, just sitting there while the world passes both of us by.  Is it waiting for its food to appear so it can munch on that for an hour?  Or perhaps it's cleaning its little legs for the long climb across the white and cheap terrain called my ceiling.  Maybe it's questioning the laws of the universe.  Bet it doesn't even know I'm watching him.  Probably thinks it's just him and the flies.  That's his universe.  Never mind about where the blood bank (arms, legs, you know) comes from; probably a gift from Daddy Long Legs.

You know how disgusting, yet fascinating, spiders are?  I had a dream once in the gutter where spiders started munching on my foot for dinner.  After they were done, I had one ugly foot, man.  Red like frostbitten and bleeding from little pin needle wounds.  Eck.  Makes me feel sick all over again, just thinkin' about it.

Oh, oh!  The spider moved!  I watch it skitter across the wall along the line of the ceiling.  Then it stilled again and my momentary excitement vanished.  I really should kill the bastard before he finds residence in my bed but then, whom would I talk to at night when I go to bed?  Decisions, Decisions…

Raising my hand over my head, I took a good long look at my watch.  Almost time to open the restaurant and for Silent One to arrive.  Better get the frying pans acookin' and listen to my daily dose of Linkin Park.  Damn, I love that band.

Shoving myself off my lumpy bed, I make my way across the dirty floor to my rickety door.  If someone decided to rob my place, if they think there is something valuable, all it would take is a tiny kick and my door would come crashing down.  I reeeeaaaallly need to start fixing things around here.  At least my restaurant door was stable enough.  All my money went to that damn shop anyway.

Being careful to not disrupt my touchy door, I slip out into the dirty hallway.  Stains of crap had literally fused with the walls and floor and no matter what kind of soap and warm water; they weren't going to come up.  I would probably have to remodel the entire thing.  Yeah, right, right after I win the lotto.

Sighing, I toddle down the smelly hallway to the staircase.  A light on the left wall was flickering in and out inside its old-fashioned lamp.  If I ever had time, I would have to try to fix the electricity as well.  The hot water was beginning to have problems as well.  So much crap to do and never enough time.  Life sucks that way, ne?

Down three staircases and through a second hallway, I arrive at my pride and joy, the kitchen.  If I had a choice, I'd sleep in my holy clean kitchen.  I've put every penny in this damn restaurant, trying to make it function better then my water system.  Clean knives, new stove, nice cutting table.  Yep.  It doesn't smell like rotten floorboards here.  It smells like food.  And I love food.

Ding-a-ling-a-ding.  Ah, our first customer.  Running my hand over my favorite steel stove, I walk to the swinging door to my restaurant.  This door was sturdy enough so with liveliness I kicked the door outwards to reveal my employee shaking his coat free of frosted flakes (snow, people. SNOOOOW. Not the cereal).  He had more crazy hair then I could ever hope for.  Brown locks that completely cover half his face.  If people were scared of my hair getting in their food, wait until they saw the real cooker of the house.  I'd be lucky to have any customers after that.

That's kind of odd, don't you think?  People are so worried about getting a strand in their hamburger; they don't even notice the wad of spit on their onion rings…

…That was a joke you know.

"Yo, Tro!" I wave to him enthusiastically and he looks up while tucking his coat under his arm.

"Hello."

So polite, so nice, so formal.  Gag.

"Remember to clean up the snow flakes," I said.  "We don't want some old woman to slip and break her little bones, do we?"

He just stared at me.

Ooookay, now is a good time to retreat to my far corner of the kitchen like a good manager. 

Letting the door swing close, I walk to the stove and flip on the heaters.  Shoving pans back in their usual place for gravy, potatoes, soup, etc. etc. I move to my second stove for the hamburgers to burn on.  A flat gray surface that really steams up those meat circles in a couple of minutes.  I hear Trowa come in, grab a mop, and retreat back to my restaurant.

Such a good little boy.  Pat.  Pat.

Now its time for some cooookin'.  Come here you lovely pieces of fat.

*****

Construction workers.  I love 'em.  Ten times better then the riff-raff teenagers, who are my age (imagine that), that come into my store.  They're always hungry and ready to hand a few bucks on their lunch break.  There has been some major construction around this lower life of town.  Hopefully my food keeps them coming back for a bit more.  I seriously need the cash.

Kicking the swinging door open from the kitchen with enthusiasm, I carry out fresh hamburgers to a couple of happy construction workers in the corner booth, passing the waist high swivel door on my way.  A couple of pretty teenagers stand near the music box, bobbing their heads or doing little cute moves.  There are the locals, Hilde and Relena, who always come in at this time to spend their cash on my music and sometimes order some fries.  They stay for an hour then leave again, only to come back later at night for some good hard-rock music.  The other girls I haven't had the fortune of talking to.

"Here you go, boys," I chirp with my usual vigor ness.  "Nice of you guys to order the same thing.  Makes my job easier on remembering whose who with which and what."  Placing their plates down in front of them, I turn to leave but one of them calls me back.

"Do you cook the food here?"

Oh, what a day.  I *told* you they loved to torture me with that question.  Plastering a smile on my face, I turn back around.

"Why yes," I answer in my sweet nonsense voice.  The one on the right grins.

"Oh, just making sure."

Turning again, I make a beeline back to the safety of my kitchen.  I will not be responsible if someone disses my hair one more time-

Snatch.  Someone is TOUCHING my braid.  Someone TUGGED on my braid.  Let me tell you, that is a big no-no.  Duo Maxwell, King of Braids and a falling hotel, does NOT like anyone TOUCHING his braid UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES.  Pity the soul who dared to get the manager of the building even more pissed off.

Whirling around, my mouth full with swear words and death threats, I suddenly falter and choke on my own saliva.  A suit.  A SUIT is in my building.  You know what a suit is?  A suit is somebody with cash.  And usually that cash comes from bad places like bill collectors, or lawsuit dudes.  I'm in trouble.  And the suit has my braid.  Thank God I have better eyesight then most, or I'd be in a shit load of trouble.

"Are you Duo Maxwell?"

Swallowing my swear words down for another time and taking a tentative step back, I look up from the black suit, that seemed to by mocking me right now, into a face…of a very young man.  Okay, so maybe I wasn't in so much trouble.  The guy had to be at least my age with brown hair (God, everyone is copying my hair color these days, aren't they?).  Brown hair that was even crazier then my morning hair.  Looks like someone doesn't own a hairbrush…

Hah!  I have threeeeeeeee!

Narrow face, hard expression, blue eyes.  Yeah, nothing really amazing here.  Except that he looked like he was ready to kill me.  And I didn't do anything!

Oh, wait.  He asked me a question didn't he?  Heh.  Whoops.

"Huh?" I said intelligently.  God, I'm so good.

"Hn," he grunts.  Impatient, impatient.  People are just so nice to me, don't you think?  "Are you Duo Maxwell?"