/lit/ - Literature

Fiery took out the folded paper from his crusty leather jacket pocket and confirmed the address written on in. He looked up at the scale of the apartment complex, a cold sweat breaking out in the folds of the back of his neck. He stuffed the note back in his pocket and with a shakey hand, pressed the buzzer to be let in the building.
"What do you want" said the exhasberated voice.
"It's Guy..."
"SHHHH - shut your fucking face" The voice said curtly as the intercom clicked off.
The locks unlatched as Fiery reached for the handle.
"Looks like the lobby staff left for the evening" he thought. He realized he would need a key to use the elevator with no staff around. Fiery didn't want to piss his patron off any further buy calling them again. He decided to proceed up the stairs to the 4th floor to find room 450. The stair well was dimly lit, even for a more upper class apartment complex in New York City.
Gasping for air, Fiery finally made it to the 4th floor. His cold sweat now replace with that of exhaustion.
"Fuck" he thought "I gotta stop visting so many fried food joints".
Pacing himself, he fumbled to the end of the hall until he rounded the right corner to find himself face to face with the right door. After catching his breath, he raised his hand to knock on the door. Before his knuckles made contact, the door opened swiftly and black leather clad hands rushed Fiery through the entry way.
Fiery found himself being pushed from behind and guided to a blow up mattress in the middle of the living room. He wound up tripping on the slightly dog-eared carpet runner, stumbling and fell onto the matress.
"You bumbling Oaf! Don't embarass me!" growled the figure.
Fiery instantly appologized, "I'm sorry! It's dark in here, I didn't see..."
"Oh shut the fuck up before I make chutny of your arse" the figure demanded as the steped closer, the stove light iluminating them from behind.
"Okay, Okay, but I'm not really sure what you want of me Mr...." Guy stuttered
"Don't make me use an apple and turn you into pork roast" Scowled Gordan Ramsey as he snapped his whip across the palm of his left hand.
"Yes Sir..." winced Guy.
Part 1/?