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So, Open The Door

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He looks at his companions around the table. A couple, probably around his age or slightly younger. He doesn’t recall if they mentioned being married or just dating. It’s not important.

Mike and Louise.

He laughed for probably a good minute when they introduced themselves.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said in between fits of laughter, “You just have the same names as two of my... friends.”

“Well, ain’t that cool?” Mike says.

“Yes it is,” he wipes a small tear from his left eye. “They’re both dead.”

“...Oh,” said Louise.

“I’m sorry...?” Mike replies awkwardly.

Sure, bro, whatever.

It’s ironic how they’re actually the opposites of their namesakes. Mike looks and sounds like a pussy, the kind who got smacked around by his grandmother with a rolled newspaper. Nothing like the confident-sounding pilot whose face he hasn’t even seen. Louise looks like she was dragged into this place by force. She’s uptight and snobbish, nothing like the carefree and charming Luis Sera (or Lewis as he called him before— the only way he could say his name right is if he imagines that it’s spelled like Louise). She made sure to make both of them feel that she hates being here and the fact that she’s sharing a table with a stranger.

Speaking of, he doesn’t even remember why they’re seated in one table in the first place. Again, it’s probably not important.

This is an open karaoke bar. People come here to get drunk and sing their hearts out— not to worry about unimportant things.

He’s been coming to this place a few days after the start of his vacation. At first, he’d get drunk in some bar, or in his room, but the quietness around him drove him insane. He wants to wallow in misery and bitterness— but it gets too much sometimes, and it’s harder to get drunk when he’s so aware that he’s trying to.

The constant rowdiness of this open karaoke bar— Frankie’s as what it’s called— offers an odd source of comfort. It’s always dark, noisy, and busy. Hence it’s a lot harder to keep track of how much he’s drinking. Hearing the off-key singing helps a bit, too. It keeps the flashbacks of failed missions and dead comrades away.

And it made him realize— he never actually sang in front of anyone his entire life. The last person who tried to make him sing was Sherry on her birthday. He broke her heart that day by declining her invitation for a duet in the karaoke machine. He felt and still feels like an asshole for it— especially since Wesker’s son, of all people, took up the offer instead so as not to embarrass her. What a lousy father he was that night, really. Add that to his list of failures.

Tonight, that will change.

He’s consumed an entire bottle of liquid courage, albeit for a different reason, but nonetheless, he feels ready to finally give it a go. It’s gonna be more like rapping senseless bullshit with the song he chose. But the chorus involves singing— and the lyrics of the chorus— man, it just describes his feelings so perfectly right now.

“My song comes after this,” he tells his companions excitedly.

“That’s great, man, what’re you singing?” Mike asks.

“Loser. By Beck.”

“Oh, that song!” Mike says excitedly, pointing at him for emphasis. He then starts to sing. “Soooo... open the door! I’m a loser—“

“Nononono. It’s ‘soy un perdedor’,” he forms the OK sign with his fingers. “It’s Spanish for ‘I’m a loser’.”

“Is it?” Mike replies, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, yes, trust me, I know Spanish when I hear it,” he says as-a-matter-of-factly. “Been to Spain before. Killed lots of bastards yelling at me in Spanish.”

He could see the confused and frightened look form in Mike’s eyes, although he kept the polite smile on his lips. Louise on the other hand narrows her eyes, as if asking herself if she heard him right.

“They were weirdos. And only semi-human. So it’s all good,” he nods his head reassuringly at her.

The crowd erupts in cheers, indicating that the current song has finished. He looks away from Louise’s judgmental face and onto the crowd, deciding that he really doesn’t like her as she appears to have a stick up her butt, just like he first thought. Even now, he could feel her staring at him with her squinty eyes. He ignores it and claps along in excitement. “Perfect! It’s my turn now.”

Raising a hand, he signals for the mic to be passed to him as the cheering subsides. The triumphant melody from the karaoke machine plays and the previous singer’s score is displayed on the screen: 96. “Not bad, not bad,” he claps again then takes a drink from his glass. “Now watch me.”

The speakers start blaring the catchy guitar tune to the opening of his song. With the mic now in his hand, he grips on it tightly and clears his throat. This is it. It’s his time to shine.

In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey
Butane in my veins so I'm out to cut the junkie
With the plastic eyeballs, spray paint the vegetables
Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose
Kill the headlights and put it in neutral
Stock car flamin' with a loser and the cruise control
Baby's in Reno with the vitamin D
Got a couple of couches sleep on the love seat
Someone keeps sayin' I'm insane to complain
About a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt
Don't believe everything that you read
You get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve
So shave your face with some mace in the dark
Savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park
Yo, cut it!

Now here comes the fun part, and he raises the mic closer to his mouth.

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?

He could tell that the crowd loved it, some of them even nodding their heads to the beat and mouthing the words. There were a few killjoys who looked at him like he had a bit too much to drink, Louise being one of them, but he paid them no attention as he continues:

Forces of evil in a bozo nightmare
Banned all the music with a phony gas chamber
Cause one's got a weasel and the other's got a flag
One's got on the pole shove the other in a bag
With the rerun shows and the cocaine nose job
The daytime crap with the folksinger slop
He hung himself with a guitar string
Slap the turkey neck and it's hangin' from a pigeon wing
You can't write if you can't relate
Trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate
And my time is a piece of wax fallin' on a termite
Who's chokin' on the splinters

Confident that the crowd is absolutely living for his performance, he gets up from his seat, and the response that he got was electric. They start clapping to the beat as he passionately performs the chorus:

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?

Get crazy with the Cheeze Whiz!

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?

Drive-by body pierce!

He then closes his eyes, savoring the pause in the melody as the drums take center stage for a short period, only for the melody to resume and the background vocals to start chanting in a hypnotizing tune:


Eyes still closed, he moves his head to the beat. Whatever dread and angst left in his body that the whiskey hadn’t washed off is now being drifted away by this song. It just speaks to his soul. The act of singing is purely liberating, and now he finally understands why people pay to do this or gather so they can do it with friends. He finally understands what he’s been missing all his life.

“I'm a driver, I'm a winner, things are gonna change, I can feel it,” he raps the lyrics with his eyes shut, knowing this particular line by heart, not needing to read it on the screen.

Now he opens his eyes, intent on delivering a heartfelt delivery of the final chorus before the song forever ends:

SoY uN peRdeDOoo0r
‘aMma LuZeR bAy-BeH...

...What in God’s name? Someone just tried to outsing him in the crowd, breaking his trance-like concentration.

He scans around for the culprit.

There he is, seated several tables away in front of him in his muscle shirt, obviously hammered and looking like a 40-year-old fuckboy. The motherfucker pays no notice that he had stopped singing, not caring that he had stolen the spotlight from him.

“Hey, asshole, this is MY song,” he blares at the mic.

He doesn’t stop— and ends the song for him.

‘AmmA LUzeR bAY-bEh
So wHY d0ncHA kiLl mE...

Alright, he thinks, will do then.

And so he grabs Louise’s bottled water on the table and hurls it in the fucker’s direction. The crowd yelps as it hits him square in the face, the loose cap coming off on impact and soaking his greasy hair. Leon cocks an eyebrow, proud of his A1 aim despite the world constantly spinning around him since 5 PM.

“Yo, what the fuck!” The man yells as he wipes off the water from his face and hair. He then gets up from his seat violently and starts to march to his direction.

“Oh my god!” He hears Louise cry. The crowd around them starts to disperse amidst gasps and other shouts in attempt to stop the inevitable. Several of the men got up from their seats to either help stop the fight or join in, but Leon doesn’t really care, as he feels crossed by this insensitive asshat. Who the hell does he think he is, ruining his personal journey of discovering the joys of singing, interrupting him exactly as he was in the moment?

The man menacingly shoves the tables and chairs out of his way as he comes closer. People start to stand up and move away from their table. Leon looks down and sees Louise’s untouched cocktail. What a waste of booze, he thinks. He grabs the glass and finishes it in a single gulp, knowing that the table might get knocked over from what’s about to happen.

True enough, the man shoves their table aside, making his empty glass slide off and fall to the floor and earning a shrill cry from Louise. Mike pulls her away and they practically run from the spot. So long, my 5-minute friends.

“You’re small-time!” He taunts at the man charging at him, ready to throw hands—

—but is suddenly grabbed by two bouncers on both sides. “H-hey!” He yelps, caught off-guard; had he not been as shit-faced as he currently is, he could easily let himself free, or could probably have seen them before they got close in the first place, but in his current state, despite his perfect water-bottle aim and heavenly singing voice, he gets easily dragged to the exit and thrown to the floor despite his protests.

“Oof!” He grunts as his ass hits the pavement. The double doors of the exit slam shut.

He gets up on shaky feet and tries to balance himself, rubbing a hand on his bottom. He then runs back to the door and tries to get back in to no avail. He slams his fist on it as hard as he could. “Hey! What’s my score?!”

It’s no use. The door wouldn’t budge. They’ve forever robbed him of ever seeing the score of his very first karaoke performance.

“Assholes!” He curses and steps back. He twirls around to give the door a parting roundhouse kick, a move that he’s known for being a grandmaster of— but the heartbreak brought about by the night ending the way it did (definitely not the alcohol) was too much. He stumbles face first back to the ground as soon as he swings his leg up in the air.

Tomorrow, he swears in his mind, I shall have my vendetta.

He vows to outsing everybody so hard that they’d want to fight him, just like what that fucker did.


The next morning, he decided to stay in the quiet bar of the classy hotel he’s staying at. It’s too soon to return to the karaoke bar. They might remember him and throw him out again. Maybe he should wear a disguise.

The much-quieter bar offers a great view of the Colorado mountains and had a rustic feel to it, perfect for a tranquil morning of early drinking and plotting for his next trip to Frankie’s.

Anything to keep his mind off the constant shit that life decided to throw his way.

That is, until Redfield shows up with Rebecca Chambers in tow. The other Redfield would’ve been a welcome surprise, but alas, it’s the hairy, sweaty Redfield who’s here, and he looks like he’s about to get them in trouble.

“Careful you don’t scare the locals,” he flippantly says as he hears them approach, “Your stealth’s for shit.” It really was aimed solely at Redfield, who wears tactical gear in every occasion, but that seemed to have rubbed off on his companion too.

“It’s a little early to be that deep in the bottle, Leon,” Redfield responds.

Screw you, I got a karaoke bar to raid tonight.

“Well, look who it is,” he turns around now, pretending to be surprised. “The BSAA’s golden boy and Dr. High Hopes!”

Yeah, man, the only way you’re getting my butt off of this chair is if Becky gets kidnapped or if some BOW starts shooting at us with a gatling gun.

“The hell do you want?”