High to Low Spaces

 High-density polyethylene, slick with rancid garbage grease, crinkled in the awaiting fist.

 "The fuck is this?" Ezra spluttered, nearly dropping the rest of the baggage in its entirety: the bottle of gin, the battered bleach jug. Catching himself and wrangling the containers somewhat-securely underneath his arm, he let the knotted trash bag slump limply to the floor. Knocked across the width of the bar's narrow back ally, it could've been a sloshed patron - stretched out and oversaturated into unconsciousness.

 "Two-fifty in the hole and you've got me playing busboy? I have a Ph.D., you know."

 Cocking his head at the garbage, Ezra's pinpoint pupils flashed.

 "Oh, you're a genius," he breathed, launching to his knees and ripping into the bag. "There's gotta be something else here to spice things up!"

She waved her hand at him, shooing him away.

"It's my trash, I didn't want to look suspicious!" Her eyes widened, however, as he began to dig through the trash. Chickadee slipped further out of the door, closing it quietly behind her. "The fuck are you doing?" Was this man seriously digging through the garbage on the ground? But also, why was she surprised. This man continued to prove her wrong.

"Are you gonna tell me what you're making, or what the hell you're gonna do with all that stuff?" She scrunched up her nose a the smell of the garbage wafting under her nose, "You're giving me serious serial killer vibes, dude."

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