Location: Highway 83 — Campbell, VA
Shit got boring.
It was just a fact of life. A sprinkle of death here, and some action there managed to punch a hole in the lifeboat; but once it was all said and done and he had that shit patched up, life went on being this shit-void of a waste of time.
Lucky for him. He had a wife to break up the monotony.
One for each day of the week.
A foursome on Monday.
Anal on Wednesday.
And if he really wanted something to combat the monotony—The Pussy Parlor on Saturday.
Negan liked to compare life to a lifeboat simply because you were either drowning or surviving in this life. He thought the analogy was profound.
Depressing, yet profound.
And then there was him, he liked to save people. Pull those who were drowning onto his lifeboat, you could say. Call it the nurturing gene, but he liked to provide for his people. Whether they saw it like that or not, he did his best. It was all in the details, the small things that people tended to overlook. Shelter, warmth, and clean clothes at cost. He was a damn good leader. Still, he digressed.
The sun had begun to set along with a layer of grime and guts over his beloved leather jacket and Lucille was no better. His poor baby had started to wear over the years, the grains of wood carried this dullish burgundy color no matter how many times he polished her.
Around him, his men worked dutifully to carry out his orders. His rules. He loved when shit was all nice and tidy, and in-between the lines. They’d come from a massive haul just twenty miles east of the factory, an abandoned mini-mall that held furniture and some other shit he’d find a use for.
“A big, fat A+, Simon.” He’d done the majority of the grunt work on this collection, which Negan could appreciate for what it was. Not so much ass-kissing, but an actual sense of obligation. “A round at The Pussy Parlor,” He smirked, “on me tonight.”
Fuck that, he was feeling generous, and maybe just a little sentimental. Over the years, Simon, the little fucker, had actually grown on him. “You know what? I’m feeling generous, and maybe just a little sentimental. Why don’t you go for two nights, slugger?” He clapped Simon on the back in passing. The day was done and in the meantime, his dirty girl needed a good cleaning.
Simon’s response came low, stilted, “Nah, I’m good.”
Negan paused, a hand on the RV door. It took him a moment to understand that someone, Simon, of all people, was actually turning down free pussy.
“Nah, I’m good?” He mimicked the words, his head cocked like he couldn’t quite understand or maybe he just hadn’t heard right. He couldn’t have. Slightly lower, he murmured, “What the hell?” Negan was a caretaker and The Pussy Parlor was how he cared for Simon.
Simon had never refused his care.
“Simon,” He called louder after a second try, and it took Simon a moment to turn, his figure having been folded over a pile of paper he’d held poised on the hood of his truck. He looked defeated, like a man without a purpose.
Three delayed seconds before Simon answered, “Yeah, boss?”
Negan paused, reassessing his approach, “Nothing.”
His grip on Lucille slackened. It was odd. To see someone one way, until suddenly they weren’t. He considered that maybe he’d wanted to see Simon the way he was before this one came along. He wasn’t sure. How hadn't he noticed it before? The blank stare. His hollow voice.
Simon was a dead man walking.
For once, Negan didn’t know whether to attempt a rescue or ignore the body in the water.
One thing was clear, Simon was drowning.