Laugh at Yourself First

Here in this Sorrow, Chapter 11

2012-02-01T07:08:00.000-08:00

Chapter 11

Clark didn’t flinch as the maroon Corsica rolled to a stop inches from his legs. As he got in the front seat, he did a double-take. “You’re all decked-out,” he said, buckling his seat-belt.

Christian looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. “Just the eye-liner,” he said, touching the black pools under his eyes. He held out hands clad in fingerless skeleton gloves. “I’ve worn these to school before. I’m putting on zombie make-up before we leave school tonight.” He pointed to Clark’s green hair and said, “You’re talking about getting all decked out for a show? How about you? ‘Oh, I’ve got to look all punk rock!’”

“What?” Clark asked. “I just wanted to do something different. I haven’t been green for a while. I figured, what the hell, right?”

“Sure,” Christian said through a broad smile. “Whatever.”

“Are you going to do that in detention?” Clark asked with a smile.

“Fuck detention. We’re leaving school right after eight period, as soon as I’m done putting on my make-up.” He pulled his long, black bangs down in his face. “I’m wearing my devilock down too.”

“You’re going to look like everyone else at the show.”

“So?” Christian said. “I might never see them again.”

“And what do you mean, ‘fuck detention?’ You’re probably going to be there all day for skipping it last night, along with the classes you missed.” Clark rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “How do you plan to get out of that one? They’ll pull you out first period.”

Christian’s brow furrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that one.” He shrugged. “I’m a smart guy, I’ll figure it out.” He smiled. “You should set off a smoke alarm to get Shannon and I out tonight.”

Clark scratched his chin. “You want me to risk getting arrested?

“Why not? It’s punk rock!” He drummed the steering wheel. “Come on, Sid Vicious would do it!”

“Yeah?” Clark said. “Look where he is.” He rolled down his window and draped his arm over the door. “So what happened with your dad last night?”

“He told me I had to work tonight, and that I couldn’t go to the show,” Christian said casually.

“Well, I take it you have no intent on obeying.”

“You only live once, and who knows when it’s going to end,” Christian responded with a smile.

Clark nodded. “That’s why I keep telling you to do drugs.”

Shannon was walking down her drive-way as Christian pulled up. Her stride was shortened by the crossed straps of the plaid bondage pants. She slid into the back seat behind Clark.

“I see everyone got dressed for the show but me,” Clark said, leaning around the seat. He extended his hand and she clapped it.

“Oh, you’re so normal-looking,” she said, punching his shoulder. “Besides, I had to go all out, so the boys will notice me when I’m up front.” She pulled the shoulder of her Crass-T-shirt-made-tank-top down over her arm, revealing a black bra-strap and smiled seductively. When Christian looked back in the mirror, she said, “Nice eye-liner, Chris.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m wearing zombie make-up and my devilock too.”

“Hey!” Clark said. “What about me? You don’t even notice my hair?”

Shannon laughed and ruffled his hair. “You look beautiful too, darling!” She smiled. “I bet Andy’s wearing khakis and a dress-shirt.” When Christian and Clark chuckled, she laughed and said, “He’s so straight. I can’t believe his psycho-mom even lets him hang out with us.” She laughed. “She probably thinks we’re going to make him kill people.”

Christian glanced up in the mirror.

Clark looked back at her. “Were you there the night she found his ‘American Psycho’ album?”

Shannon shook her head.

Clark cried out and threw his hands in the air. “She threw a fit! ‘Why are you bringing this garbage into my house? Why can’t you be more like normal kids? Why...’”

“‘...Can’t you be more like your brother,’” Shannon finished. “I’ve heard her use that one a thousand times. Jesus, back when she thought I was his girlfriend, she was so funny. She would always make a point to talk about other girls when I was around. Then she would act all weird when I would tell Andy that they would be good for him. She must have been so relieved when she found out we were just friends. I’ll tell you,” she sighed. “Andy doesn’t need us to make him kill people.”

Christian sneered. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

Shannon unzipped her back pack. She pulled out a vial of unopened stage-blood and held it between them. “You guys want to wear blood to school today?”

Christian snorted. “It’s not going to matter much, as the two of us are going to be in detention all day.”

Shannon chuckled. “I forgot about that.”

“I’ll just wait until I put on the rest of my make-up,” Christian said.

Clark took the vial, opened it and squirted it over his throat. It ran down into his shirt. “This isn’t going to turn pink on me, is it?”

Shannon took it out of his hand. “It better not, I paid a lot for it. I got blood capsules too, if anyone would like to spit during the day.”

“Jesus,” Clark said. “You’re doing more than you did on Halloween.”

She splattered blood on her face. “This is more important.”

“Save some for me,” Christian said. He rolled the car to a stop in front of Andy’s house. He beeped the horn twice and turned the stereo up. Blanks 77 blasted out of the open windows.

Andy ran out the front door, frantically motioning to turn it down.

“I told you he’d be dressed like that,” Shannon said, pointing to him as he nervously ran to the car.

“You said a dress-shirt. He’s got a sweater-vest,” Clark replied. He reached over and turned the music down. “It’s going to be funny seeing us in line for the show. We’ll be there looking like a massacre, and Andy looking like he just got out of chess-club.”

Andy sat down next to Shannon. “Well, you’re all a frightful mess,” he said. “I hope my mom didn’t see all of you looking like this.” He pulled a comb out of his bag and ran it through his wet, brown hair. “Nice eye-liner, Chris,” he said with a chuckle.

Christian looked in the mirror and winked.

“What’s with the blood?” Andy asked, touching the splotches on Shannon’s face.

“Want some?” she asked, holding the vial out to him.

He smiled and playfully batted it away.

“Are you going dressed like that?” Clark asked.

Andy looked at his wardrobe. “I’ll probably take the vest off,” he said, looking at it distastefully, “But other than that, yes.” He paused. “Isn’t this whole scene about looking like what you want to? I want to look like this, you shouldn’t judge me for it. Just because I don’t feel the need to dye my hair to impress the band...” He pointed at Christian. “Besides, at least I’m not going to be the guy wearing the shirt of the band he’s going to see.”

“I was talking to Mark Dorals,” Clark said. “He said that at a Misfits show, you’re the guy not wearing one of their shirts.”

Andy shrugged. “I guess I’m just not a crazed fan...” He put his hand on Christian’s shoulder. “...Like some people.” When Christian shrugged his hand away, Andy asked, “So, you going to finish Jim off today?”

Christian chuckled. “Well, I would do it today, but detention is putting a cramp in my schedule. He’s going to have to wait until tomorrow to get a piece of me.”

Andy nodded. “True.” He looked over at Clark. “So, you’re going to test Mr. Henry, then?” He tugged at one of the spikes on Clark’s collar.

“To hell with Mr. Henry,” Clark said. “What’s he going to do, walk me down from my last class? Even Chris is planning on breaking out. I’m not staying after school.”

Christian smiled. “I’m going to be an outlaw today. Be at my car at the end of the day. I’ll be there waiting for you.”

“With make-up on,” Clark interjected.

“With make up,” Christian repeated.

Dollars Per Hour Chapter 7

2012-01-27T10:29:00.000-08:00

Sunday night: A different night, a different bar. Drum and bass night at one of the downtown clubs. Doc Filth believes himself to be a great Techno DJ, so we always come out to see his competition. I hate the music, but the beer is cheap, and a lot of our friends come here. Not to mention that raver girls are usually far more attractive than punk rock or metal girls.

“I’m so fucking sick of working on Sundays,” I yell to Doc over the pounding drum beats as we nurse our Moosehead. “It’s such a fucking waste of time. I made over 400 calls today, and got a total of ten payments. Everyone just wanted to bitch and complain about being bothered on a Sunday. I wish they would just change the schedule and work us on a day that people were willing to pay instead of just pummeling us for nothing.” We are seated at the oak bar, across from where three televisions are playing whatever sports are generally popular in late spring/early summer.

“That’s how they break you down,” he yells, refilling his glass.

“Huh?”

“They put you through that so you can be broken down and readily accept the rhetoric. Look at you, you toil away at your job, hate it intensely, and get drunk every night to forget. So you are more likely to believe what the company wants you to believe.”

“The company rhetoric is ‘pay your bill, or we shut your damn phone off.’ I believed in that before I started this job. I don’t pay my bills either, and I accept responsibility for what happens. I don’t call up some innocent jerk and scream at him because I’m a dumbass. Why does it not only have to be my fault that I don’t pay my bills, but my fault that no one else does either?”

“You make a convenient scapegoat.”

“I don’t want to sound like some heartless conservative, but whatever happened to personal responsibility? Whatever happened to someone being held accountable for his actions? We’re out of the ‘90's. Isn’t it time to stop blaming everyone else for our problems?”

“Blaming other people is the core of the American Dream. ‘Get rich quick, or find someone whose fault it is for preventing you.”

“Maybe that’s my problem, I’m not quick enough to lay blame. Maybe I would have fewer problems if I attributed them to someone else.” I refill my glass and take a sip. “Maybe instead of trying to create some kind of art, I should churn out a genre novel and hit the bestseller list.”

“No, there are already enough Stephen Kings out there. We don’t need another.”

“Think about it though. Fantasy novels are easy and fun to write. All you need to have is some neat races, a threat to the entire world, some evil wizard, and a giant battle at the end. Bang! Cash-cow. I can’t think of a more formulaic type of writing. If I put my mind to it, I could hack out something entertaining in about a month, make some cash off that, and spend 11 months writing something I care about.”

“This sounds like the porno idea.”

“It’s exactly like the porno idea, but I just don’t need to know 100 different words for vagina and I wouldn’t be so ashamed that I wrote under a pseudonym. I could revive some of the stories I wrote in high school. They weren’t bad.”

“Yes they were,” he says bluntly.

“Come on. Some of those were written ten years ago, I was fifteen. If I wrote it now, it would be bad, but for a wee lad in the tenth grade, it was damn good. I can churn out way better schlock now.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Besides, what were you doing back then? You hadn’t gotten into music yet, and all you could do was start a story trying upstage me, and then never finish it. At least I managed to finish my projects.”

He looks up and down the bar, waves to some guy I don’t recognize, and looks back to see if I remember the prior conversation. “So are you going to hump that Alicia chick, or what?” he asks in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Because if you don’t, I want to have a chance.”

“Because you’re an irresistible ladies-man. She gave me her number. I should give it a shot. I’m sure she’s into writers who are washed up before they start. I mean, I have a promising career ahead of me as a bill collector. My manager told me so.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, I know, right? My dollars collected have been the highest on my team since my second month. They try to tell me that the way to collect is to be nice and polite, and they tell me to imagine how high my numbers would be if I changed my tactics, but bullying has kept me in the top 25 reps for five months now. I’m at $500 dollars per hour, 200 above my goal. Tell me who needs to change tactics.”

“You could be Number One.”

“Yeah, that’s the line they always try to feed me. I don’t see them cancelling out my payments for bullying customers to get them. I do the job and I do it right. They should be happy with that.”

“You should come work at Atum. You’d make more money and wouldn’t ever have to work a Sunday.”

“I thought you said the job sucked.”

“It does,” he says, with a nod. “We could work together, then it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“I suppose I could pick up an application tomorrow.”

“You should.”

“Or, I could sit content with my position and not make any major changes in my life,” I sigh.

“Which is probably what you’ll do.”

“Probably.”

Dollars Per Hour Chapter 6

2012-01-23T10:26:00.000-08:00

Kurt has a seat saved for me when I get in on Sunday morning. I, as usual, am ten minutes late. We are given fifteen minutes each day before they start to take disciplinary action, so I don’t ever hurry getting to work, usually strolling in after about ten minutes. In the last six months, they have twice threatened to start cracking down, and even abolish the 15-minute rule, but nothing has happened yet. Sometimes, bureaucracies aren’t so bad.

The seat I get is right next to our manager’s desk, but on Sundays, the managers don’t pay attention, and our calls aren’t monitored. This is something that we aren’t told, but it should be obvious to anyone with common sense. It has to be stated that the call may be recorded before we can record it, which we only do on our inbound calls, not the outbound, so therefore, the outbound calls can only be live monitored, with a supervisor listening to the call as it happens. The supervisors who do this monitoring aren’t present on weekends, and since hardly anyone thinks to call and yell at their phone company on a Sunday, we pretty much have free reign to say what we want to the customers.

Kurt is already on the phone while I’m logging onto the system. “Hello, is Lorps there?” he asks. After a brief pause, he continues. “Hi, my name is Kurt, and I’m calling from the financial department of SpectraCom. Our records indicate you are past due on your account in the amount of $103.95, and I was calling to see if you would like to take care of that over the phone by check or credit card today... I’m calling because there is a past due balance on your account... No sir, this bill was not received on time... Oh, it’s already been mailed? All right, I’ll just need to note what day you mailed that to prevent any further calling... Well, if you haven’t mailed it, then your account is past due... Your bill is $103.95, with $45.37 of that being past due... Well, if you knew that portion was past due, I don’t see why you were arguing that you were not actually past due... Yes sir, yes you are... Yes, your account is past due... Sir, just because your new bill is not past due, that doesn’t mean that the old bill, which is two weeks past its due date isn’t past due... What does thirty days have to do with anything, sir? Your account is past due one day past its due date, not thirty.”

The worst part about living in an economically depressed area is that the employers know they can make an employee work the most horrid hours, and there is nothing an employee can do about it, as the next job they manage to find will have the same terrible hours. We are left to believe we should be happy to work a second shift job with hours only 1:00-10:00, because any other place–even all the other departments in this office–will be working from 3:00-12:00, or worse.

Once I’m logged in, I hit ‘ready,’ and am instantly fed an inbound call. “Hi, thank you for calling SpectraCom, my name is Rubin, can I have your ten-digit phone number, please?”

“Oh, Rubin,” says the woman on the other end. “I don’t know if you can help me, I think I need to speak with a supervisor.”

Even though I would be well within my right to hand the call over right now, I’m far too stubborn to give the call up this easy. I know most of the people talking the supervisor calls, and I know I could handle whatever issue she has better than a manager. “Well, ma’am, it doesn’t hurt to let me try now, does it? Can I have your ten digit phone number, please?”

She sighs, registering that she knows I’m just a rapidly widening ass in a seat, not a person of intelligence as she, no doubt, is. “Two one five, five five five, o three four eight,” she snaps.

“Zero three four eight,” I repeat back.

“O three four eight,” she corrects.

“Thank you. Can you hold while I bring up your account?”

“Look, I just need to speak with a supervisor, you’re not going to be able to help me.”

“I’m going to need to review your account and attempt to help you first, anyway, and then if it actually is something I can’t do for you, which doesn’t come along often, then I can get you a supervisor, so let’s just go through the proper channels, okay?”

She sighs. “Fine.”

I access her account, and with much cajoling, get Laquisha Jones to verify her name and address. “All right, Ms. Jones,” I say. “I’m showing a balance of $85.32 on your account, would you like to take care of that today by check or credit card over the phone before I transfer you?”

“I want to pay it all by credit card,” she snaps.

I take her payment, give her a confirmation number, and ask, “Now, so I can attempt to aid you, or at the very least advise the supervisor as to the nature of your call, what is the issue today?”

“That’s it,” she snaps.

“Excuse me?

“I wanted to pay my bill.”

“You were just calling to pay your bill?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think I could handle this?”

“No.”

“And did you realize you were calling the financial department of SpectraCom?”

“Yes.”

“And that our job is to take payments?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think I’d be able to handle the job they hired me to do?”

“No.”

“Well, in the future, you can do this without a supervisor, each and every representative is capable of taking a payment. It’s our job.”

“Whatever.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I already paid it, didn’t I?”

“All right, thank you for calling SpectraCom. Have a wonderful day!”

She slams down the phone and I’m switched to outbound calling. The line beeps instantly, and the account pops up on my screen. “Hi, can I speak with Sandra, please?” I ask sweetly. There is a note in the ‘memo’ line that reads, “DON’T CALL SUNDAY.”

“This is Sandra,” answers an elderly, warbling voice.

“Hello, ma’am, my name is Rubin, and I’m calling from SpectraCom in regard to a balance due on your account of $36.42, and I was calling to see if you would like to take care of that over the phone by check or credit card today.”

“Do you realize what day this is?” she snarls.

“The fifth?” I ask, unsure.

“Today is Sunday!”

“Yes it is, and you owe a balance to SpectraCom. Would you like to take care of that today?”

“Isn’t there a note on my account not to call on Sundays?”

“There was, but I’m removing it, because when you owe us money, we call seven days a week.”

“Well don’t do it again!” she screams and hangs up.

I note the account that she wasn’t home, so we’ll call back in two hours when the calls are recycled. I complete the call and am given another immediately. “Hi, can I speak with Penny, please?”

“This is Penny.”

“Hi, my name is Rubin, and I’m calling from SpectraCom about a balance due on your account of $52.37, and I was calling to see if you would like to take care of that over the phone by check or credit card today.”

“Don’t you realize it’s illegal to call on Sundays?”

“That would explain why I’m the only one here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘The FCC regulates that we can call seven days a week between 8AM and 9PM if you owe us money. It is illegal for a telemarketer to call on a Sunday. A telemarketer, I am not. If you are going to make statements like that, be sure you know the law a little better,’ that’s what I said.”

“I’m calling the police!” she cries.

I sigh. “That’s fine, ma’am, be sure to point out to them that the reason for our perfectly legal call is because you have a bill past due for services rendered, so you are therefore guilty of theft of services. We are being kind and trying to work something out instead of taking legal action.” The line disconnects while I’m in mid-sentence. “Bitch,” I grumble and note the account that she wasn’t home. “Hi, is Tamika there?” I ask when the line beeps again.

“This is her.”

“Hi, my name is Rubin, and I’m calling from SpectraCom...”

“Don’t you call my house on a Sunday, this is the Lord’s day!”

I sigh. “Jesus is a filthy lie, ma’am.”

Dollars Per Hour Chapter 5

2012-01-20T10:25:00.000-08:00

Friday passes like Friday’s always pass. Payments. Turned-off phones. Screaming people. Beers at lunch. Arguing more heatedly with customers after lunch. Managers asking Chloe and me to please keep it down. Counting down minutes, spacing calls to the end of the night. Going straight from work to the bar. Drinking until last call. Cheap, greasy food that usually gets vomited up on the way home. Wake up hungover Saturday morning for another bright, sunshiny day.

Every Saturday morning is a mad dash into the building. Without fail, SpectraCom management schedules more asses in chairs than there are chairs, and to ensure you have a seat, you have to show up at least 15 minutes early. To ensure you have a good seat, you have to show up anywhere from half an hour to an hour early and wait for one to open. If you don’t find somewhere to sit, say, if you were to simply show up on time, you have to wander around, waiting for someone to go to lunch, so you can force the unfortunate person out of his or her hard-fought chair, leaving that person to do the same upon returning 59 minutes later. As you wander, any number of managers will be on your heels, demanding to know why you aren’t working, until they are distracted by another wanderer, leaving you to be attacked by the next manager, a clever ploy by upper management to break your spirit even further, bring you even more under their thumbs. Luckily, I have Kurt on my side, leaving the house early enough to save seats for both of us.

It’s a fairly uneventful Saturday, the only problem call right after our first break, when Graham Hancock calls to make complaints about representatives calling about his mother’s account and not telling him why. With his name absent from the account, neither I nor the rep before me were able to talk to him without her permission. The mother presented a whole new problem, standing next to her son and loudly refusing to grant that permission. No matter how much I tried to explain that both I and the prior rep were correct and not talking to Graham, and that if he would let me speak to his mother for only a moment, I would be able to speak with him at length, neither Graham nor his mother would consent.

Graham demanded a supervisor, because surely he would get answers from a supervisor. He waited about five minutes and hung up. We’re not allowed to release the call until a supervisor picks up, so I had to sit there and wait on the line. Boo hoo.

While I endlessly rearranged the words in a poem about wandering drunk through downtown, Kurt grabs my arm, laughing as he drags me to his desk, pointing to my signature in the notes of his current customer, Graham Hancock. Mr. Hancock was demanding to speak with a supervisor to complain that I had kept him on hold for over half an hour and refusing to get help. My counter registered that I had been on the call for a total of nine minutes and ticking. Kurt told the customer he was sitting next to me, and that we had been back from break for only fifteen minutes, so what he was saying was not possible, and he could see that my clock showed I was only on for ten minutes. Graham demanded a supervisor for complaints against Kurt as well, hanging up this time after only two minutes.

Go to Chapter 6

Dollars Per Hour Chapter 4

2012-01-16T10:24:00.000-08:00

Dr. Filth sat across the table, nose almost touching the paper, frantically scribbling our new scene into my notebook. Every time I shifted, the rickety table would lean, and Filth would have to lurch after his drink as the pint glass tried to throw itself over the table’s edge. Filth would look up viciously, sip his drink, and then struggle to find his lost place in the narrative.

As I grip my glass tightly, I allow my eyes to drift absently past him. I watch the new bartender hurry about, busying herself with the other regulars. At the end of the bar, closest to us is Scott, fresh out of rehab, drinking heavily to keep his mind off heroin. Sitting two or three seats past him is the youngish-looking man, hardly older than Dr. Filth and me, with a mullet haircut and moustache, looking a little like Dave Mustaine of Megadeth, clad in a yellow T-shirt with a twin lightning bolt mark of the SS. Down at the other end, away from everyone else is a lanky, grizzled old coot with a collection of empty bar stools on either side. Whenever the juke box kicks to life, the old bastard cranes his bald head and caterwauls mournfully, rapping his knuckles on the oak bar.

“You know, Rubin, you’re an alcoholic,” Dr. Filth says, dragging my mind back to the table. He’s looking up at me, still hunched over the table, his neck bent way back so he can see me, his big, bearded chin nearly resting on the notebook. I look down at my glass, which once held a double rum and coke, but now just ice. He has a smug grin on his face. “Know how I know?”

My eyes are drifting along to the wall to our right, from the cigarette machine in the corner, past the door into the two bathrooms to the video poker machine, the bright, flashing juke box next to it, off to the front of the bar, where the front door has been propped open to let in the cool spring air. I give him a passing glance with a shrug, trying my hardest to look uninterested in the subject. “How?” I grunt.

“Because I am,” he answers, pushing forth his pint glass of ginger ale and whiskey. “And you finished your drink before I was half done with mine.”

I raise my eyebrows and lick my teeth beneath my lips. “The more time you spend talking about it, the less time you spend drinking it,” I grumble. “Hurry up and finish that, it’s your turn to buy the first pitcher.” I pull the notebook away from him and spin it to face me. “I should be writing this,” I say, mostly to myself. I look at him over the rim of my glasses. “You have the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. Plus, I can drink and write at the same time.”

His fingers knit behind his head. “There’s a talent there to be proud of.”

I do a mock cheers with my empty glass. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”

“I guess you have to be a professional at something,” he mumbles, pulling the notebook out of my hands, going back to writing.

I stare down at the empty pint glass in my hand, horrified at the thought of buying the first pitcher two nights in a row. “We should get in touch with some film students, so we don’t have to pay them,” I say, eyes not leaving the melting ice. “Get some college kids to do all the work, and we can use all our friends as actors.” I glance up to find him still not looking at me. “We’ll need any money we can get for the big opening sequence.”

He nods, still writing. “And we need that opening sequence, that’s how we sell the movie. We can do the rest with a couple desks and telephones. We can get those at the Salvation Army.”

“How very Ed Wood,” I say dryly. “Drink!”

He looks up at me, then to his glass. “Dude, it’s the magic of Hollywood!” He emphasizes his point with a sip of his drink.

“Yeah, but we’re not Hollywood, and neither is our movie.” I point to his glass. “Are you ever going to finish that, or are you just going to nurse it all night?”

“Calm down, I’m savoring.”

“Savoring,” I moan. “You make me go back to your house so you can smoke pot, but when I’m ready to get more to drink, you’re savoring.” I shake my head. “It’s whiskey, what is there to savor?”

“Easy, easy,” he says, lifting his glass but not drinking. “Don’t you think it’s time to get a handle on this little problem of yours?”

“Handle?” I ask nonchalantly. “I haven’t started drinking at nine in the morning in almost two years, and I haven’t blacked out in nearly four months. If that’s not a handle, I don’t know what is.” I turn and cast my ice under the cigarette machine, the only cleaning this floor ever gets. “Now finish your drink so we can get to the beer.”

He snorts. “Trying to drink yourself to death again?”

“If it’s good enough to kill Jack Kerouac, it’s good enough to kill me.”

“How poetic.”

I jam a finger down on the notebook. “We need a way to tie these scenes together.” I lean back in my booth.

He takes off his glasses, wipes them on his shirt and cocks an eye to the ceiling in thought. “We could have them all calling the same person, this crazy guy, the kind of customer that we dread. They are selling him things and turning off his cable, asking for surveys, and they turn off his phone at the end, which makes him freak out and go in with a gun.”

“I like it.”

He celebrates with a Herculean gulp of his drink, finishing it off.

Two short girls with dark hair come in and walk straight to the juke box. They look a little younger than us, probably college girls. They take no notice of us, going from the juke box to the bar as we do our best to discretely give them hungry, wolfish looks. The Rolling Stones “19th Nervous Breakdown” booms from the speakers behind the bar. Knuckles is immediately rapping his fists on the wood and singing a mournful wail in horrific time with the music.

Filth digs out his wallet and throws a five dollar bill on the table. “I’m buying, but you’re going to get it.” When he puts the wallet away, his hands come back with a cigarette and lighter, fluidly tapping the cigarette out and shoving it in his mouth.

“I’m likely to dump the beer in the old man’s lap,” I say, taking the bill.

“I don’t care what you do with it, but you’re buying the second pitcher,” he tells me through half his mouth as he cups his hands on the other side to light the cigarette.

“I’ll just make it look like an accident,” I tell him as I stand up. “Holly will give me another.”

“Not if you only leave a fifty-cent tip,” he says, grinning wickedly up at me. “You don’t get no love if you don’t leave a good tip.”

I walk past him, saying, “Then you are going up to get the next one, and you can leave the tip.”

I’m back minutes later with an intact pitcher of Moosehead. Dr. Filth casts his ice into the closet behind him and we fill up. “If we get a couple of reels shot, we can shop it around with that, try and get someone to fund the rest of it. We need a really good script and something to show we know what we’re doing.”

“But we don’t,” I attack.

“That’s not the point,” he defends. “We just have to sound like we know what we’re doing. Hell, they don’t even need to be reels we use, we can always reshoot them when we get someone to fund it.” He cocks an eye at me and snorts. “You think I can’t convince someone we know what we’re talking about? I’m the best bullshitter this side of the Mississippi.”

“True...” I say, trailing off in thought. “Well, the shopping around is all you,” I say. “I’m a philosopher, a poet, a writer...” I sip my drink. “...a drunk. Selling and marketing... that’s your college degree.”

“Just a lot of schmoozing and buying drinks. I bet I could get this thing on every screen in America.” He laughs, folding his hands prayer-like before him. “People are going to identify with this movie.” He downs most of his pint glass in one go. “They will be lining up to see it. Think of how many people out there working on the other end of a phone. It’s the standard-fare job for disaffected youth. Bill Collectors, insurance salesmen, telemarketers, they are all going to see this movie.” He finishes his glass and pours another, topping off mine when I push it across the table to him. “We will be saying on the screen what they want to say to the customers. We’ll have a cult following.”

“I’m hungry,” I say thoughtfully. “We should get some food, maybe some coffee.” I’m staring past him to the two girls seated along the counter across from the bar. They are looking marginally drunk, but still have no interest in us. Two guys sitting in the back of the bar, writing. They probably think we’re gay.

“You trying to skip out on the next pitcher?” He clutches his glass defensively between us. “It’s your turn after this one, don’t forget.”

I drink most of mine and top it off. “I know, I know. I wouldn’t forget.” I look down at the non existent watch on my wrist. “Come on, drink up. I want to get some food, and I have to work in the morning.” I pull the notebook away from him and slam it closed. “Plus, I don’t want to work on any more of this tonight. Let’s blow this joint before I get drunk enough to start hitting on those two,” I say, pointing to the girls at the bar.

Dr. Filth looks over at them. “Yeah, that would be very unpleasant for all involved.” He pushes my pen across the table and dumps the rest of the pitcher into our glasses. “Tomorrow, you’ve got the first one.”

Go to Chapter 5

Dollars Per Hour Chapter 3

2012-01-13T10:23:00.000-08:00

I drop Doc Filth off at home after work, agreeing to meet him later at our bar, the Spot. I’m kind of tired, and am not really looking forward to being out until last call, then the obligatory trip to Meaty Boyz Italian Sausage, and then back to the Doc’s house to smoke a blunt, which has more or less become a ritual for the two of us in the last few weeks. I mean, obviously we have to do it on Friday and Saturday, because they are the weekends, that’s what they are there for. While we’re on the subject, Sunday is still the weekend. Mondays just suck in general, so you need to drink them away as well. On Tuesday, you need to kill the hangover that has been kept at bay through the weekend, so it’s back to the bar. Wednesday: Hump Day, so close to the weekend, but so far away, and how to forget it? That’s right, go to the bar. Today is Thursday. The weekend unofficially starts on Thursday, leaving us obligated to be there.

My mailbox yields–among a stack of bills–a letter from Lifesblood Press, a publisher in Montana that would like to see the entire manuscript of my new novel that they have heard so much about, and are brimming with excitement to read. Under normal circumstances, this would have me screaming, yelling, and dancing around my apartment, but the veil over the scam is too thin.

They couldn’t have heard of my school violence novel, because no one has heard of my school violence novel. I find it a little hard to believe that the publishing world is out there, waiting, hungrily, salivating over the very first completed novel from unpublished and unknown Rubin Valentine, especially out in Montana.

This has to be the dirty work of my archnemesis Writers Die-Jest, the archnemesis of good literature everywhere. I’ll probably never figure out where the devils there got my name to begin with, but when they did, they began a full-blown assault against me with advertisements and promotions cramming my mailbox every day, until both the postal carrier and my roommates were all begging me to accept the offers just to see if the magazine was worth the money. Finally, I broke down and accepted an offer for two free issues. I should have known that the third issue would come whether I asked for it or not, followed immediately by a bill. Then a fourth issue. Then another bill. Then a fifth issue. Then another bill.

The sixth issue never arrived, only three or four more bills, and it seems by now, they have come to grips with the fact I have no intention of ever paying for their unrequested, quickly provided services. There are more ways than one to recoup their losses on me. Each and every fraudulent publisher, agent, book club, or anyone even remotely attached to the publishing industry in any shady way now flails me with their tendrils, pummeling me, hoping that I will break down to them the way I folded to Writers Die-Jest.

That’s why I have no doubt that an publisher soliciting me, wanting to see my entire novel must be too good to be true. As I go up the stairs to our apartment, I read over their proposal, looking for the holes in the plot, trying to find where they fuck me. However, what if it’s not too good to be true? I can’t pass that up.

I check the answering machine as soon as I get through the door. It’s all for my roommates: The hipster guy Chloe Isis is infatuated with this week, a touring band asking Kurt Vance to give them a show; Kurt’s mom; the hipster guy Chloe was infatuated with last week; the hipster guy Chloe was infatuated with the week before; nothing for me. I erase them all in a fit of rage and stomp into my bedroom.

The computer is on, waiting patiently for me, smiling as I pull out my captain’s chair and fall into it. “How are you doing today Rubin?” it asks in a lifeless monotone.

“Not bad,” I grumble. “My job sucks, my love life sucks, and the answering machine hates me,” I tell it. “I hope you can provide a little better.”

“I’d say I feel bad for you, but I’m a rather obsolete model, and am incapable of feeling any kind of emotion. You really should upgrade at some point soon.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “What can I say, I’ve grown attached to you." That, and I don’t really have the money for an upgrade. “Anyway, what do I have in the way of e-mail?”

There is a short pause, and the computer lets out a loud ‘ding!’ “You’ve got four new messages, Rubin,” it tells me in a mock happy voice, and opens my e-mail client. There is one ad for penis enlargement and two porn ads that slipped through my filters, and with them, a rejection for five of my poems from some magazine in Kansas, which makes me wonder why I would submit to a magazine in Kansas to begin with. I delete all four. Afterward, I e-mail a magazine in California and one in New Jersey for their submission guidelines.

What the hell, what do I have to lose, sending this book off to Lifesblood Press? Ten, fifteen dollars in shipping? Hardly a figure worth noting in the grand scheme of accomplishing my dreams. It takes a few seconds to build up the courage, overcome the gnawing fear on the edges of my brain, open up Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?, and jam my mouse down on the ‘print’ icon. The cantankerous inkjet printer whirrs to life with a crash and a few bangs, and the computer itself is moaning in protest.

In the parlor, the door opens and slams closed, and Chloe Isis bursts into my room in a blast of scarlet hair. “Hey, Rubin,” she says, “How long have you been home?” She skirts around me and sits down on my futon with my cat.

“About ten minutes,” I say. “Why are you getting home so late?”

“I stopped for beer on the way,” she says, emphasizing this by rubbing her eyes. “Where’s Kurt?”

I shrug. “No idea, he didn’t come home after work. He’s probably downtown.”

She falls back on my bed. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Meeting Doc Filth at the Spot at midnight, working on our movie, and getting drunk,” I answer, still typing. “How about you?”

“Getting laid, I hope” she says desperately. “At this point, I don’t even care by who!” She throws her arm across her face like a damsel in distress, seconds before the train hits her. “If not getting laid, at least getting really stoned.” She lifts her head and raises an eyebrow at me. “Do you have any drugs?”

I say nothing, just shake my head as I continue to type.

“What are you working on?” she asks, forcing herself into a sitting position.

“New book,” I say, scrolling back to the top.

“What’s it about?”

“Disillusionment, wasted youth, growing up with no future,” I say, tossing a glance over at her.

“It’s about you and all your friends,” she says. “Nice.”

“It’s about me and all my friends,” I confirm. “It’s good. Here, check out the opening,” I say, and start to read. “‘The innocent days of youth kissed us goodbye a long time ago. There was a time when we all loved, we all laughed, we all cried. We all had hope for the future. We all thought things would go right for us. School, jobs, families, these were all owed to us, because it was fed to us by every form of media. If we lived the way we saw on TV, we would be just as prosperous as we saw on TV. It was a beautiful picture they painted for us: success; happiness; the “American Dream,” and it all drained out in the orgasm of our youth. Us poor, beaten children of the dying millennium had been promised so much, and we had come of age knowing just what belonged to us, and with gnashing, shark teeth, we were going to take it.

“‘We were wrong.

“‘Dead wrong, even.

“‘What they failed to tell us was that there were millions of other kids out there who had been told the same thing. A lot of them already had the money we wanted to take, and were just out to get some more.

“‘I’m not going to sit here crying about it. I suppose, if I had worked hard enough, I could have had the same things they did. I’m not bitter; I don’t think I’ve been denied all the things I should have been handed, so I could be put on an even playing field with them. Despite what I was told all my life, I wasn’t owed a fucking thing. Life ain’t fair. I found that out really early, and I refuse to stand with people who fixate on that point, whining about how life beat them down.

“‘The point I’m trying to make is that reality had spent almost 21 years breaking all of my dreams. All of my hopes had been smashed, almost as fast as I could dream them up. I was going to be damned if I at least didn’t get to destroy myself. Really I mean, if I couldn’t have a ton of money, could have a high-stakes job in the corner office, what choice did we have, other than to poison our bodies with drugs and alcohol and fuck everything that moved. The way I see it, I had no choice!’”

She giggles. “The day you ‘fuck everything that moved,’ will be an interesting day indeed.”

“It’s a fictional character,” I groan. “If a fictional representation of me wants to fuck everything that moves, that fictional representation of me can fuck everything that moves, and there is nothing in the world you can do to change that.”

She purses her lips and nods. “Creative license,” she says, standing up. “You just want your readers to think you are a stud.”

“If that’s what it takes to convince lots of girls to have sex with me, that’s what it takes, and I’m willing to do it.”

“You’re so noble, Rubin,” she says flatly, floating out of my room like a ghost.

Go to Chapter 4

Dollars Per Hour Chapter 2

2012-01-09T10:22:00.000-08:00

At five o’clock, SpectraCom and Atum Insurance Guardians let the mice out of the wheels for lunch, and the plaza fills up with business-casual broken souls that trudge from one end of the asphalt to the other, deciding if they want pizza, Chinese, or other fast food. We usually opt for the pizza joint at the far corner, sitting outside at the dirty, green plastic deck furniture on nice days like today. As Kurt, Alicia, and I approach, my other roommate, Chloe Isis hails us from the middle table, flanked on either side by our SpectraCom coworkers, ducking and covering their ears against the constant stream of slurs and curses spilling out of Chloe’s mouth.

Chloe has a special talent to out-burp, out-fart, out-chauvinize, and out-do me on about everything you can imagine. She is the only girl who has ever pointed out another female to me and said, “Yeah, I fucked the shit out of that bitch.” Despite the constant rumors that we are dating, I could never fall for a girl who is more of a man than me. Chloe has a tall, tightly muscled frame, scarlet hair, bewitching eyes, and a sexual appetite that would put a rabbit to shame, but inside her lithe body is a 300 pound beer-drinking truck driver with a four-inch beard, and that’s just not my type.

After we order our food, the three of us join Chloe at our table outside. I extend my arm and say, “Chloe, I would like you to meet our newest comrade, Alicia Higgins, who has been kind enough to take my calls for me today. Alicia, this lovely vision is Chloe Isis.” I pull out a chair next to her and sit. “Chloe is our Third Musketeer. We alone know the deepest and darkest secrets in the world of SpectraCom. If ever you ever need to know how to do something, no one else will be able to help you. No one. Don’t even bother asking.”

“What about a manager?” she asks, her voice quivering.

“Managers,” I groan wistfully. “We have recently discovered that the managers on the floor are actually a type of cyborg that SpectraCom had designed to infiltrate Communist governments and seize control in bloodless coups. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the project was abandoned, and the cyborgs were reprogrammed to serve as training modules and customer liaisons. They have half a dozen phrases they are given to spit out, rarely relating to the subject at hand. You don’t want to ask a manager anything; they usually just complicate whatever they touch. Kurt... what is it that we call them? ”

“Completely incompetent,” Kurt says.

“Completely incompetent,” I confirm. “Part of the programming is that they will do and say anything to provide you with a wordy and detailed answer to any question you ask. Problem is, 95 percent of the time, they're wrong.”

“Cyborgs?” Alicia asks incredulously.

“Cyborgs,” Chloe tells her, deadly serious.

I shake my head. “Most of the managers have not spent more than 10 or 20 minutes on the phone before they come to take your call, and usually don’t know a damn thing about the job. I’ve actually seen them hire one off the street, walk them right into the office and make them take a call. One was homeless.” I lean in close to let Alicia know just how serious I am here. “That doesn’t stop them from talking though, and they have no programming to stop them from telling the customer anything they want to hear, even if it’s an out-and-out lie.”

Chloe nods gravely. “Today, Ms. Gall told someone that the customer would be credited their entire balance just because I told them they were delinquent in their payments.”

Alicia stares at her in disbelief for a moment before asking, “She didn’t get it, did she?”

“No,” Chloe cries. “The credit was rejected within the hour!”

“So what do I do?” Alicia asks with a covered gasp.

“Come to us,” Kurt says dramatically.

I double over, giggling into my hands. “Jesus,” I say. “I think this is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had.”

Kurt extends a hand to Alicia across the green plastic table. “Welcome to hell,” he says, and takes another bite of his cheeseburger.

Chloe says nothing. She is no doubt sizing up Alicia and trying to come up with a strategy to get her in bed, have her voracious way with the innocent young girl, and then leave her behind forever. I wouldn’t call Chloe gay, or even bisexual–just sexual, with anyone being a potential victim of a one-night stand. I haven’t met anyone who isn’t safe from Chloe’s claws, and generally, she usually gets whoever she decides is tasty. If I want to make a play for Alicia’s affections, I’m going to have to move fast before Chloe starts the blitzkrieg.

“So how did you all start working here?” Alicia asks, sounding more like she wants to change the subject than actually wanting to know.

I’m taken back six months, sitting in the human resources office, lounging back in strong, confidence-exuding sprawl, hands knitted behind my head, chest and vital organs exposed. The recruiter is sitting across from me, thinning, sandy hair close cropped, greying goatee neatly trimmed, studying my application intensely, occasionally gazing up at me over his horn-rimmed glasses, as if SpectraCom would be paying me to do something more important than functioning as a rapidly widening ass in a seat. “So, Mr. Valentine,” he says in a practiced drawl. “Describe yourself for me in three words.”

I flash a thin smile and narrow my eyes. “Unstoppable killing machine.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “You’re hired,” he chimes, extending his hand to shake mine.

“I had just come back from exploring the country,” I tell Alicia. “I didn’t have a job, didn’t have any money, and I was living with my parents again. I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

Her eyes move to Kurt, who tells her, “I had just moved back after college, had no job lined up after that, no money, living with my parents... Same deal, pretty much.”

“What was your major?” she asks.

“Graphic art,” he says. “Not the biggest job market for it here.” He eats a french fry.

Alicia looks over at Chloe. “Try to find a job around here doing anything else,” Chloe says, not bothering to look up. “If you aren’t working for SpectraCom, you’re doing something just as degrading.”

I point to the raggedy figure approaching. “Speaking of degrading,” I say. His head turns as our scent hits his nostrils, and his body lurches in our direction, a shamble of baggy jeans, golf sweater and dreadlocks, carrying a two-liter cola bottle in one hand and an oil-stained brown paper bag in the other. As he arrives at our table, I nod to him and tell her, “Alicia, I would like you to meet my dearest friend and partner in crime, Dr. Filth.”

“Dr. Filth?” she questions harshly.

He says nothing and sits down, pulling a salami sub oozing with mayonnaise out of the bag to attack it, biting it nearly in half with one bite.

“He's a superhero," I say. "But don’t ask where he got his PhD,” I say. “He mans a chair at the Atum Insurance Guardians call center on the other end of the plaza, across from SpectraCom.”

“The insurance company doesn’t drug-test,” he grumbles. “SpectraCom does, that’s why I work where I do.” He sneers hatefully and spits, “I would have thought differently, seeing as their CEO is into black magic and the occult. You would think he would loosen the drug policies in the workplace.”

“He also knows the secret history of everything. Generally, you don’t want to engage him in conversation in any way.”

“Not in the least,” he moans. “Who is this?” he asks, as if Alicia isn’t there.

“Alicia,” she says, offering her hand to his limp, uninterested shake.

“She’s taking my calls today,” I explain.

“Lazy bastard,” he growls at me. His eyes loll to Alicia, looking her over as sympathetically as he can muster, shaking his head the entire time. “Do you want to quit yet?” he asks, pounding a cigarette out of his pack, jamming it into his mouth and lighting it, his eyes never leaving her golden cheeks.

“No, it’s kind of fun,” she says with half a chuckle. “Rubin’s funny, I don’t mind it.”

“Not funny ‘ha ha,’ but ‘funny queer,’” Doc says.

"Give it a few months," Chloe warns. “You’ll hate this job like you wouldn’t believe.”

“That’s encouraging,” mumbles Alicia, never breaking a smile.

“Like Rubin said,” Kurt tells her. “Come to us if you want honesty.”

"Where is Tommy Guilt?" I ask Filth, taking a giant bite of my steak and cheese sub. "Isn't he joining us for lunch today?"

"Do I look like Tommy's keeper?" Filth says, sipping from the cola bottle. "He was probably in the middle of selling a year's subscription to the paper and couldn't get away." He holds up the cola bottle to the light and looks at the half-empty contents with disdain. "Are we still going writing tonight?" he grumbles. "I don't have much money; I don't want to be out late.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “It’s my weekend to work here, so I don’t want to be at the bar until close. I haven't had a chance to type up what we wrote last time anyway."

Chloe finally looks up at Alicia. “Rubin and the Doctor believe themselves to be movie-makers,” she cries in an exaggerated drawl, throwing her arms wide, bearing her chest to the sun.

“No,” I correct, waving my arms with flourish. “We are writing a film script together. We are going to be movie makers.”

“Whatever,” Chloe says with a short. “They spend their evenings in a bar with a notebook between them, trying to come up with a script. Usually, they just drink themselves into a stupor and don’t accomplish anything except a pair of hangovers.”

I shrug. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“That’s interesting,” Alicia says. “What’s the script about?”

“It’s about us,” I say. “About the poor saps who work in call centers. The people who have to deal with the trash of society on a daily basis and pretend we like it. We are going to be using ideas from the actual calls we take, you know, loosely base it on our own lives.”

“Basically, it’s their warped little confessional,” Chloe clarifies. These jokers are convinced that people want to hear about their lives.”

“Of course they do,” Dr. Filth tells her. “We’re the ones on the inside, the ones who are in the know, the ones in the same position they are. They want to hear what we’ve so painfully endured. It will validate their own sufferings and unite them in the cause against Corporate America.”

She shrugs. “I guess that’s a start.”

“Going to be the biggest damn movie in the world,” Filth says matter-of-factly. “Everyone in America is going to come to see it. Every one.”

“Then maybe you could pay off your bar tab,” Kurt chides.

Doc Filth ponders this thoughtfully. “That could be an option,” he grumbles.

“You a bit hungover, Doc?” I ask.

“You were there,” he says. “You saw how much I drank.”

“I didn’t see much of anything last night,” I tell him.

“Good point.”

“Oh, the life of the artist,” Kurt moans and eats the last of his cheeseburger.

“I live the life of a bill collector, my boy. Until I can find a publisher who says, ‘Mr. Valentine, we want to offer you a huge book deal with a giant advance,’ I will be living the life of a bill collector.”

“At least until they fire you,” Kurt adds.

“They wouldn’t fire me,” I gasp. “They love me, I’m the meanest bastard on the floor. I can bully anyone into a payment. I’ve made them a ton of money.”

“Whatever happened to your plan to write for porno magazines?” Chloe asks. “I haven’t heard you mention that in a long time. You were all about that for a while.”

“You were going to write for porno magazines?” Alicia asks with a giggle.

Roses bloom on my cheeks and I gurgle an uncomfortable laugh, eyes fixing on a smiling Doc Filth. “I had considered it,” I admit. “I figure those magazines must pay quite a bit of cash for a story, and it’s not like it takes Kurt Vonnegut to churn out one of those things. I figured I could spank one out, pun intended, in a few hours and with no more revisions than transferring from my notebook to the computer.”

“Interesting...,” Alicia says, trailing off.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m doing anything dirty, except maybe with my pen, so I wouldn’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

“And how did this turn out?” she pushes.

“It didn’t. I wrote one story, and it was kind of creepy, so I didn’t pursue it.”

“Wrote one, eh?” she asks. “I’d like to read that.”

I turn away. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” she asks, still giggling.

“All you need to write one of those is a sexthaurus, if you will. Have a few descriptions of settings to set a mood, and then the monstrous cocks start ramming into quivering beavers in carnal ecstasy until bodies spasm in crushing orgasm, and BANG! you’ve got a winner!” As Alicia stares in shock, I offer a weak, innocent shrug. “After all my talk about it, I’m kind of embarrassed to have written it. Doc read it. He can tell you what it was like. He’s an expert on the subject.”

“It gave me wood,” he injects.

Kurt backs away from the table. “Way more than I needed to know.”

“Vibrating cars give you wood,” Chloe snorts. She hooked up with Doc Filth at a party at my place a couple months back. She said he was so drunk that he forgot what he was doing and passed out. She won’t admit this to anyone, and only told me because I wanted to know why the good Doctor was half naked in my bed. He has never mentioned it, and I doubt even remembers. Chloe swore to me that it ended before there was any spillage of bodily fluids. I still thought about burning the mattress.

“What can I say?” Doc grunts. “I’m easily amused.”

I jump when a hand falls on my shoulder and Tommy Guilt says from behind me, "Hey guys, sorry I'm late." He slips into the chair next to me, eying everyone with an empty grin. "I was in the middle of selling a year subscription to the paper, and I couldn't just let it go." He drums his hands on the plastic and adjusts his black-and-yellow-polka-dot tie. "They don't come along every day."

"Hey, Tommy," Chloe says. "What are you up to?"

"The top of my team for the last four months," he says with a sneer. "I think I'm the top salesman in my division." He rubs his knuckles on the breast of his crisp milk-white shirt. He scans us again and his eyes settle on Alicia. "Why, hello," he purrs. "Tommy Guilt."

She shakes his hand firmly, shaking Tommy's entire body. "Alicia," she says with a smile and a nod, hand darting back under the table.

"Tommy works up in the office above SpectraCom," Kurt Vance tells her. "He sells newspapers."

"No, no, no," Tommy says, adjusting his tie again. "I put local and national news, sports and weather, into the hands of more people in this community than anyone else, not to mention the good dose of laughter, the world's best medicine, in each week's Sunday comics, all for a low-low price that's just pennies of what you would pay getting it from a newsstand."

"Because he does too much coke," Doc Filth says, finishing the cola bottle. He holds it vertical a few seconds, jiggling it to get that last drop of whiskey at the top of the bottle.

"So I can sell more newspapers," Tommy says in a condescending tone, shrugging and holding his hands up like scales. "Duh, so I can make more money."

"So he can buy more coke," Kurt grunts.

"Exactly," Tommy grunts, pulling a stray french fry out of my basket. "What are you guys doing tonight?"

"Going to the Spot," I tell him. "Want to go?"

"Naw," he moans. "I owe Zombie some money, and besides, I got this bitch coming over to my place tonight. I'm pretty sure I can get her to put out." He pauses, grins at Alicia and whispers, "Excuse my French and all," and scans the rest of us again as he says, "but yeah, I think I might be able to knock her in the fart-box." He steals another fry and says, "I'll go out tomorrow night, it's Friday, there will be more girls out." He smiles wolf-in-sheep's-clothingly at Alicia and asks, "Will you be making an appearance with us this weekend? You're kinda cute."

"Tommy!" I scold.

"I'm just askin'!" he protests, holding up his hands, palms out.

"She might not be ready for your level of uncouth," I growl. "Do you think you could act like a half-way-decent person for just a few minutes?"

"Oh, sorry," he says, looking from me to her. "I didn't know you two were together."

Go to Chapter 3

Dollars Per Hour, Chapter 1

2012-01-06T10:20:00.000-08:00

The setting sun painted the sky an obscene orange fluorescence, the color of some sleazy, fast food drink. The scuffed black Mustang blazed down the empty, cracked highway, smoke and dust swirling in its wake behind the car, a bullet fired at the horizon, the hand of God blasting through the night.

Trailing behind the Mustang, approximately 100 feet away, a tight six-car wedge of police cars flowed along at light speed in pursuit. The lights on their black roofs spun madly, striking sand and cactus alike. Their sirens drowned out all sounds of the desert, and through the megaphone mounted on the lead car, one yelled, “Rubin Valentine! You can’t win this situation! Pull over before this gets any worse.”

Inside the Mustang, Rubin Valentine screamed in laughter, trying to keep the speeding car in control with one hand. He was tall, with shaggy brown hair, a black leather biker jacket and a pair of dirty blue jeans pulled over the top of his scuffed motorcycle boots. He wore a torn Mötley Crüe T-shirt and a pair of leather driving gloves with no fingers. Clenched in his groin was a half-empty bottle of rum, and in the seat beside him was a Alternatron Bird of Prey™ 31C. It’s a magnificent weapon of .357 caliber, an easy equal to the Excalabur Deluxe® Desert Talon© .45 Caliber. It is 7.32 inches in length and stands 5.43 inches tall and weighs 9.87 ounces. His has a magazine capable of carrying seventeen shots. The weapon has two exhaust vents on the top of the barrel to compensate for the recoil, making shots far more accurate. The frame of the gun is made from a stronger-than-steel synthetic polymer that can be effective anywhere between -40̊ all the way to 150̊. Its metal components have a Blak-Ice® finish, making them virtually as hard a diamond and with more corrosion resistance than stainless steel. Rubin took a swig of the rum, grimaced at the taste and popped a tape into the stereo, which blasted out Guns ‘N Roses’ “Out Ta Get Me.”

“Pull over?” Rubin asked the radio with a laugh. “Fuck you, pigs!” He rolled down his window, grabbed the Alternatron Bird of Prey™ 31C and started firing blindly behind him. In the rearview mirror, the lead car swerved, and the car behind it broke off, sliding off the road and nearly rolling.

Rubin wailed laughter and jammed on the accelerator. “How’s that for pulling over?!” he cried and took another pull from the bottle. “They break down my door and they rape my rights!” he screamed along with the music. “‘Cuz I got something I been buildin’ up inside! For so fuckin’ long!”

The police answered with a return volley, smashing out the back window, and hitting the car with a collection of metal-hitting-metal ‘thunk’s. “Rubin Valentine! Pull over now!”

“Didn’t I already answer that?” he whispered. “You’ll never take me alive!”

“...And I gave the money to my son, but he kept it, and he never told me, so you people were calling me and I kept saying it was on it’s way, but you wouldn’t stop calling, and you made me so furious that I wanted to switch my service...”

Rubin’s eyes jolted open as they traced the horizon ahead of him. “Oh shit,” he whispered, his words still audible over the music and the sirens and the scream of his tires on the asphalt. Blocking the road ahead of him were three rows of three police cars. Cops perched around the cars, aiming shotguns.

“Rubin Valentine, pull over and surrender immediately!” boomed a loudspeaker.

Rubin finished the bottle in a single pull. “You won’t make me! Let me see ya’ try!” he screamed with the music.

“...But then, I found he hadn’t sent the money...”

“Uh huh.”

“...so I had to get more money and do it myself...”

“Uh huh.”

“Never take me alive, pigs!” Rubin screamed, jamming the accelerator to the floor and flying at the blockade. The police around the cars dropped their guns and scattered, trying to move their vehicles, trying to get out of the way and avoid being killed, but Rubin was moving too quickly for them to react. He slammed into the blockade, knocking police cruisers about and exploding the car front and center into a massive conflagration, igniting both cars around it and the Mustang as well. Quickly, all the cars were burning and exploding with police dashing about, bodies burning, dancing like beheaded chickens. All the while, Rubin continued to laugh.

“...because he wouldn’t pay me back! Oh... (sob)”

“Uh huh.”

“...and I walked all over this city trying to pay your bills, but you don’t have any place around here...”

“Uh huh.”

The five remaining police cars following Rubin tried to break, or veer off, or anything to avoid the burning roadblock, but they were moving too quickly. They hit the blaze at full speed, all five cars immediately exploding in enormous, oily balls of flame rolling skyward. Burning police screamed and rolled about in the sand. Rubin continues to laugh as he burns, his world fading to black.

And from the darkness of my retina, I’m pulled back to the agony of the real world: The stinging chill of the air conditioning; The inadequate padding in my chair that’s flattening my once-respectable ass; the fact that there is no head rest on the back of my chair, so I go home with a cramp every night from flopping my head over the back of it like I’m doing now; the pain in my eyes as this computer screen burns them away a little bit each moment (but our insurance gives us a great deal on glasses); the dull roar of several hundred other people gibbering away at the same time; and the fact that this woman is still fucking talking.

“...and then I had to go to the doctor because of all that walking and I didn’t even get that bill paid! And now you’ve turned off my phone, and I can’t go without it...”

“Uh huh.”

“You have to understand, mister, I’m a sick lady, I can’t go without my phone, I need to call my doctor! I can’t go all that time without my phone!”

Growing bored with the game, I finally break out of my stupor and ask, “Did you call us to see if we had any payment locations near you?”

“No, but...”

“Did you have our phone number?”

“Yes, but...”

“So why didn’t you call us to find out if there were any payment locations nearby? When you did it the hard way and didn’t find anything, why did you wait two weeks before you called us? You got the notice saying we would be suspending your service, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“So you knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? Or did you think we were bluffing?”

“Yes, I knew, but...”

“So how can you call and argue that we have no right to do this? We are your phone company, ma’am, we have every right to do this. You haven’t paid your phone bill in three months.”

“Do you pay your phone bill every month?”

“Ma’am, my life isn’t the one in question right now,” I drone.

“It would be different if you were in my shoes!”

“Different?” I ask disappointedly. “Ma’am, my phone was shut off just last week. Do you want to know why? Because I didn’t pay my bill. Do you want to know why? Because I was lazy. When they told me how long it would take to turn it on, I said, ‘okay,’ I didn’t argue.”

“You can’t do this! I’m mailing my payment today, you need to turn my phone on today!”

“Ma’am, I’ve already told you the timeframe for your payment to post, which is seven to ten days, and it then takes up to 48 business hours to restore your suspended service. I’ve told you that repeatedly. Was it necessary for me to repeat it again? The only way to get it on faster if you aren’t going to one of our payment centers is to pay it over the phone by check or credit card right now.”

“This is not right!”

“This is business, ma’am,” I sigh in a lifeless monotone. “You can’t expect us to keep being nice and let you have service you aren’t paying for,” I drone on. “You need to accept responsibility for your actions. You brought this on yourself, and now you don’t think it’s right that we take action?” I sigh audibly, hoping this will finally signal my frustration, that she won’t get any further with me. “I’m sorry if you don’t agree with our policies, but we are going to wait to receive your payment before we restore your service.”

“Then I’m going to switch, and I’ll never send you that payment, and you’ll never get that money!”

“Well, ma’am, if that’s the course of action you choose to take, then do be advised that you are unable to migrate your service while it is suspended, so the only way you can do that is to either wait until we cancel your account and set up new service with someone else, or have a new phone line installed in your house. Either way, it will take a lot longer than the possible two weeks you will need to wait, and cost you a lot more money, and either way, you lose this phone number.”

“I’ve had this number for twenty years!”

“Better pay up then.” Honestly, sometimes it hurts to be this good.

“I’m 87 years old. I need my phone. Don’t you care about my problems?”

I sigh again, and mustering all the emotion I possibly can, which brings my voice slightly above a monotone, I say, “Yes, ma’am, I care.”

“Fuck you!” she screams and slams down the phone..

“Thank you for using SpectraCom and have a good day!” I tell the dead air. My roommate, Kurt Vance is sitting at my left. I mute my line to say, “I’m sick of dealing with all these fucking old people.” The third of the month. Social Security. All the old people call in to yell at us. The same happens on the fifteenth when they get their second check. Not to mention the first when the welfare checks arrive.

Kurt looks at me and laughs mutely. He lifts his left hand, clapping together his thumb and forefinger. Kurt, on the other hand, is the kind of guy who spent too many of his free hours in the high school computer room trying to hack the mainframe. Small and awkward, he’s the kind of kid that bullies would track down to beat the shit out of when they did poorly on tests, but the kind of kid that would own titles to those same bullies later in life. Shortly after the three of us started, we discovered three accounts with huge credit balances, resulting in any unmarked and yet-unclaimed payment. Immediately, we started formulating a plan to set ourselves up with accounts, transfer this balance over to these accounts, and send the money to us. It didn’t pan out, as the plan relied heavily on convincing Kurt to use his talents for evil. We found it impossible to break the years of indoctrination into the world of comic-book superheros, and we were unable to persuade him to foray into the dangerous and seductive world of villainy.

“Rambler?” I groan. When he nods in response, I ask, “How long?”

He holds down his mute button. “Fifteen minutes.” He moves around some of the programs on his screen. “Fifteen minutes and he hasn’t even gotten to when he plans to pay...” He unmutes his line and says, “Uh huh, yes sir.” He remutes and continues. “He says that was his reason for calling.”

“Rat-fuck bastards,” I jump forward as my line beeps with another call coming in. “Hi, thank you for calling SpectraCom, my name is Rubin, could I please have your ten-digit phone number starting with the area code?”

A heavy, drawling voice on the other end slurs, “Five five five, two four, three o.”

“Ten digit phone number,” I repeat.

“Five five five...”

“Ten digit”

“Five five...”

“Ten digit phone number, starting with your area code, please.”

“Five five five...”

“Area code first, please.”

“Five five five...”

My mind is left to wander around the room, endless seas of grey and blue with endless people overdressed for the job they do, manning the nonstop phone calls. I’m near the front door, so I can easily escape at the end of the day. I’m idly watching Jenn, the classroom trainer giddily swaying her wide hips, leading a class of fresh-faced recruits. Around the office, Jenn is a godsend, providing one of the newbies to horrify with your calls, and a free break for you as demonic customers vent and rage, while you just tell them they are doing a good job. I’m the best and brightest SpectraCom has to offer; I usually get the honor.

Jenn’s eyes fall on me, and she leads doe-eyed rookies to me, her plump body jiggling happily beneath her conservative sweater and class pink stretch pants. “Mr. Valentine, would you like to impart your vast knowledge of the SpectraCom systems on one of our new soldiers?”

I mute my line and ask, “You’d trust me with a trainee? I’ve already made one person cry today, Jenn. It might not be safe.” On the computer screen, I’m busy taking a credit card payment.

Jenn turns around and with her revolving door arm, presents me with a tall, pretty girl and says, “Rubin, this is Alicia, she can listen to you for the next few hours.” Jenn grins absently and orders me, “Try to be nice,” and then gently assures, “Rubin may look scary, but he doesn’t bite. I point to my call box and say, “Go ahead, plug in, let’s get this show on the road.” I extend my arm as she sits down, saying, “Rubin Valentine,” as she sits. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Alicia Higgins,” she tells me with a defensive, rabbit-in-the-trap smile, eyes darting back and forth from me, to the row after row of shielded desks and the Customer Care Professionals® chained to them.

Trying to block the demoralizing view with my body, I do my best at distracting her with, “Have you done anything like this before? You know, like... worked on the phones before?”

“No.”

“It sucks,” Kurt chimes in.

I wince as his words sting. It’s too early in the day to break a spirit; that kind of thing rolls better after lunch. I would have liked to ease her into the pool before showing her just how miserable we all are, not just toss her in, letting the chill of the water come close to stopping her heart. I grin in concession. “Kurt is bitter, but, alas, he is right. This job sucks, but just try to find a job around here where you aren’t on the phone.” I lean back in my chair. “It’s time to tell you the truth about SpectraCom.”

“The truth?” she whispers in a low, bewildered voice. Good. She hasn’t been roped into the sick cache of corporate filth and lies yet, hasn’t been blindfolded and led like a lamb to the slaughter in the name of the SpectraCom profit margin.

“The truth,” Kurt agrees, placing his customer on hold. “SpectraCom is an evil, heartless corporation, that has little concern for either their employees or their customers. Each and every human being they encounter is a simple statistic in their megalomaniacal quest for domination of all world markets. Some suspect they use black magic to achieve their goals, but regardless, all they want is to wring you out until you are dry.”

I sigh and give Kurt a pleading look. “Yes, that’s true, customers and employees are about the same in the eyes of SpectraCom Holdings Inc., but they are the ones giving you a paycheck and benefits, which are not easy to come by in this day and age,” I explain. “In exchange for those things, they request that for 40 or so hours a week, you pretend you believe in their policies and protocol.”

“And what are those policies and protocols?” she asks.

“The customer is the enemy. He has something that belongs to SpectraCom, and we are the patsies they hired to take it away. Sometimes customers have just forgotten to give it to us, and realize they made an error, and they are happy to pay. Once in a great while, there is someone proactively calling to pay, a few are even cutting you off to give credit card information. That’s rare though, most want to fight.” I look her over. “Do you have a mean streak? Are you a fighter?”

“I... I guess,” she says nervously.

“Good,” I tell her. “You will need every bit of it.”

“Okay...,” she says, trailing off apprehensively.

“Just watch,” I say. I switch myself over to outbound calling. The line beeps as I’m given a call.

“Hello?” asks a girl who sounds about nine or ten.

“Could I speak with April, please?”

The little girl says, “Yeah, hold on. Mom!” There is a pause and I can hear a person speak in the distance. “Who’dis?” she demands.

“SpectraCom,” I say flatly.

She resumes screaming to her mother. “He says he’s from SpectraCom. He wants to talk to you!” Another pause and she says to me, “She isn’t here.”

Alicia giggles.

“She’s not home?” I ask.

“No,” answers the girl.

“Even though you were just talking to her?”

“Umm...”

“Please put her on the phone.”

“She’s not home,” the little girl says feebly.

“You know it’s bad to lie, don’t you?” I ask menacingly.

“Yeah,” she squeaks.

“Then put your mother on the phone please,” I grumble condescendingly.

“Okay,” the little girl concedes. “Just wait.”

There is a short pause, and the line is snatched up with a vicious and demanding, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this April?” I ask sweetly.

“Yeah,” she snaps.

“My name is Rubin and I’m calling from SpectraCom...”

“Why are you calling my daughter a liar!?!” she screams and the phone disconnects.

Go to Chapter 2.

The Salvation Shark, Epilogue

2011-12-23T07:08:00.000-08:00

Becki

We’re in a diner at the edge of the city. I told Eva everything to keep her from calling the police. I can’t tell if she believes me. I’m nearly to the end of the story when Anton sits on the stool at the lunch counter next to our booth. I didn’t see him come in, and fight back a scream. No more death. No more bloodshed.

His suit is perfect. His hair is perfect.

Eva is motionless but for her eyes going from me to Lazarus. Her chest heaves a little. “Where is he?” she asks.

“Gone,” Lazarus says in a low voice. He isn’t smiling.

“You said you couldn’t kill him,” I protest.

"I lied," Lazarus says.

We look at each other a few seconds. Eva finds her voice. “Was he really God?”

Lazarus considers her a moment, rolling his tongue inside his mouth. “Your average psychotic. Delusions of grandeur. He thought he was the Messiah. Is that what he told you?” Lazarus takes a deep breath and leans against the counter. “I showed him what he was looking for.”

Eva breaks down crying. I don’t have anything left. His answer is not good enough. “You said you couldn’t kill him,” I whisper, holding eye contact. “You said you couldn’t do it, so you needed me.”

Anton's face shows no emotion, watching me a few seconds before the tiniest smile is hinted at the corners of his mouth. “You were the one I couldn’t kill.”

"You can't be the Devil," I say. I won't be able to get attention from anyone if Anton doesn't want me to. If he wants me to, it won't matter. "It's not possible."

"Is that what you thought?" He scratches his chin and fidgets a little, looking me over. "You might never wonder why Abraxas wanted to cut you apart, but I had to make sure he didn't. He won't bother you any more." The waitress walks between us but doesn't stop to see if our coffee cups are empty. "You can go home now. They will forget you." Lazarus stands up.

"How am I supposed to do that?" I ask. There is no way I will get in the car with him.

He answers with five hundred dollar bills on the table. I hadn't even seen them in his hand.

"Don't talk to strangers." Anton tries to leave, but Eva grabs his hand.

"Why did you kill Jesse?" she begs. Still, we haven't interrupted any dinners.

"He'll never be missed," Lazarus says and she lets him go. He smiles fully at last. "Neither will Becki Murphy." Lazarus takes my hand. "You can go home now, you will not be bothered any longer. SpectraCom owes you one last paycheck, and you can go back to how it was." He lets me go, nods to Eva, who is sobbing, and he exits.

END

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 65

2011-12-19T07:05:00.000-08:00

Jesse

I hear a voice in my ear and I gasp. “Do it,” I say to Becki. “Do what he says, and remember what I told you.”

She looks at me, confused. “I... I can’t do it... I can’t kill you.”

“Do it!” I beg. “Please!”

Tears are welling in her eyes. “No,” she whimpers.

“You won’t?” Anton says thoughtfully. “Well, not much we can do about that, is there? You have free will and all.” His eyes narrow. “Little cunt,” he snarls and aims at her. Everyone is screaming, and he fires twice. Becki is running, and Eva is running, and Lazarus is turning back on me as the screen door slams.

I shake my head, looking at the ground in frustration. “It’s about me, Lucifer, me. It’s not about her, it’s not about her family.” I slump back in the chair and feel the tears running out of my eyes.”

“That’s where you’re so wrong, kid,” Lucifer says. “It’s about her, it’s about them. It’s about ever single human on the fucking planet. Ever since the game started, the Old Man has been trying to take what belongs to me...”

“Belongs to you?” I cry out. “He made them! I made them! Just like I made you, Lucifer, they belong to me just as much as you do.”

“I think not.” His smile fades. “All along, He has been seeking something to love Him." He seems to loom closer without moving. "He made the angels, and it was their job to serve and love Him.” He shakes his head. “I held the light over His fucking throne! That can only go so far. Once me and my ilk were gone, what did He do? He turned around and made humans with the same Free Will He punished me for using. He gave them the option to love Him. Did that work? Not a chance." I am sweating profusely and can't move. I don't know if that is because of him or me "The second they had an opportunity, they came running to me!” He throws his head back and laughs. For several seconds, he is silent, staring at me with those horrific, piercing eyes. “He has always been jealous of me,” Lucifer says at last. “He drilled that in again and again.” He sits down on the wicker chair again and crosses his legs. “Come on kid, play ball with me.”

“You want to bargain?”

“Always!” Lucifer purses his lips and kisses the air. “The Old Man doesn’t want the best for me, I need to look out for myself.”

“What is it you want?” I ask, wiping the tears from my eyes.

Lucifer stands and paces slowly. “I can give what Heaven wants,” he whispers.

“You?”

He savors my question. “They are going to keep sending you here, and I’m going to keep finding and killing you. This can go on for an eternity. The Old Man wants Earth wiped away. He has something new in mind, I assume. I have no intent of letting it happen. No Earth means quite a bit more than going back to Hell. I have more at stake in this than you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Are you a dullard boy?” he shouts, getting to his feet. “I like Earth. It has every comfort I can imagine. People like me.” He walks behind my chair and leans over the back, putting his hands on my shoulders. “There is one place in the Universe that is better than Earth though.”

“Heaven,” I whisper.

“I want to go home,” Lucifer says longingly.

“You were cast out for Eternity,” I say.

“He gave me a new job!” Lucifer cries. “A new job, and I served better than I ever served in Heaven. Shit, I liked my work! I think I have proved myself. Now I’m here asking your forgiveness. I’m sorry for my rebellion. I’ve suffered the consequences, and I think I’ve suffered long enough. I want to go home.”

“I can’t give you that, Lucifer.”

“You can! You can, and you will!”

“Are you ordering me around?”

“Yes, I am. I am, because I still have an Ace up my sleeve. I still have a monkey wrench to throw in the gears of the Divine Plan, and you can bet that I will.” He circles like a shark. The gun is still clutched tightly in his clawed hand, glinting in the moonlight. “We have options here, my Lord. The problem with You and Yours was that you had no sense of sport. For the Old Man, it was always ‘My way or the highway.’ You were all so unwilling to compromise. Now don’t tell me that the Old Man is too arrogant to admit when He’s been bested. Does He have such an ego that He can’t live with that? You can’t win them all, Son. Give me what I want, and the Plan goes just how He wants it. Bless me, forgive me, and I’ll go back home and watch from the clouds as you undo all that’s been wrought.” He smiles wickedly. “Unless you do it my way, we just sit and wait, with Earth getting more and more corrupt and polluted, for all eternity. That’s just fine with me. The question is, are you people willing to negotiate and compromise?”

I’m filled with a sudden surge of energy. “You’re right, Lucifer, you can’t win them all. You might kill me tonight, but I’ll be born again. Every time you kill me, I’ll be reborn, and one of those times, I’ll slip right past you.”

Lucifer looks at me listlessly. “Let’s be realistic. There are a good thirty years or so before you come to the full realization of yourself and your power. I have a host of demons to scour the Earth for you. I was lazy this time, I waited more than five years to even start. I won’t make that mistake a second time. The chances that you could actually get past me are so slim that they aren’t worth mentioning. Heaven doesn’t have that kind of power on Earth anymore.”

I shake my head. “I can’t send you home, Lucifer. You were banished and cannot return, just like the scriptures say.”

“The Scriptures don't say that," he says. "I'm barely mentioned in the Bible. I can't even tell you where some of those stories came from!" Gun still in hand, he waves me to him. "Come with me,” Lucifer says. “Come outside.” I go with him, and we stand on the front step.

The air is sharp in my lungs and on my skin. Enough snow has come down to cover the dead grass. Lucifer puts his arm around me like an older brother. Eva’s car is gone. “All this is mine, " Lucifer says. "I offer it to you.”

“Temptation, Lucifer?”

He throws his head back and laughs, clapping his hands before him. “Temptation? I think not. They tried to hide you from me so I couldn’t tempt you this time. That didn’t work, you fell for every temptation you possibly could. Drugs, sex, greed, you fell for all of it. I didn’t even have to be there. I don’t have to tempt you, boy, your flesh is already weak.” The Devil looks at the ground, taking in a deep breath to prepare himself. “I can see your past, see your sins. A week ago, had I offered you the world, you would have taken it. You’re just a man, and you aren’t strong against temptation." He puts his arm around me again. "What I have to offer is nothing more than the continuation of the Plan. We’re caught in a big loop here. I’m not about to let things progress.” He whispers venom in my ear. “A Devil has even a temptation for God.” He pulls back and says, “That’s my final offer, I won’t ask again.”

I look him over. He knows he has me and the whole Universe over the coals. The Plan must go on, the Will of God must be allowed, and not even Lucifer can be allowed to stand in its way. I look up into his pale blue eyes, and I can see the joy in those orbs as they register my defeat.

The blessing stops on my lips when a voice whispers in my ear. I see his return, the lost third of Heaven’s legions swarming at the gates. I see the faith of the angels and saints broken as the first sinner is allowed to return. I see Heaven burning. I see...

“No,” I whisper.

He takes the gun out of his coat and presses the muzzle against my chest. “No? Come on, kid, I’ve never given anyone so many chances to change their mind. I’m feeling generous on account of you being the Prime Mover, and my Creator and all.”

I see a victorious Lucifer approaching the Throne. “No,” I say again. As the first shot goes through my left lung, my whole body jerks. I saw Lucifer with all his pride, his envy, his greed, all of it vindicated.

“The Father,” he says. He puts the muzzle over my right lung.

I saw him standing before God.

He pulls the trigger again, and says, “The Son.”

I saw him attacking God, and the Lord, weakened by the reversal of Laws, powerless to stop it.

“And the Holy Spirit,” he says, firing a bullet into my heart.

As I crumble and lay dying, I know that the only way Heaven can ever come out victorious in this war is if it continues to end in a stalemate.

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 64

2011-12-09T05:59:00.000-08:00

Becki

I’m curled on the leather front seat of the black Porsche as Jesse fumbles for the keys. It’s so cold, and my T-shirt is practically cut in half. I’m shivering uncontrollably with my legs pulled up beneath me.

“They have to be here,” Jesse whispers, searching under the seat.

“Anton loves this car,” I spit out between my chattering teeth. I have my right hand on the door handle in case I see him come out of the church. “There is no way he would leave the keys in it.”

“He wouldn’t, would he?” Jesse says proudly. Triumphantly, he pulls them out from under the seat.

“Do you know how to drive standard?” I ask.

“I’ve never driven a car in my life.” Looking at me, he starts the ignition. “Let’s just hope for a miracle.” He guides the car into gear and it moves smoothly, like the car is in control and Jesse the passenger.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You live in Boston, right? You want to go home?”

“But what about Anton?”

“We’ll worry about that later,” he says, pulling the car onto the road. “It looks like I’ve got some guidance here.” He looks over at me. “It usually happens when I’m helping someone. I’ll hear directions whispered in my ear, and things just work out right.” He guns the engine, and we speed down the road. He shifts the gears expertly, maneuvering turns and corners like he has been doing this for years. “Why do you call him ‘Anton?’” he asks after a couple minutes.

“That's his name,” I say.

“But he is Lucifer. He is Satan in the flesh.”

“I don’t know,” I say, staring out the window, relaxing a little as the heat blasts over my body. “Maybe... maybe it just makes it easier to deal with if I keep calling him by that name. I was fucked by the Devil” He cringes at the words. “Not like that," I say. "He promised me many things, but it was a lie. I've never even seen a cock in real life. Anton was a perfect gentleman.”

“I’m sorry, I guess I just always assumed... All the pictures in the skimpy clothes, the video where you were nude...”

“I was actually wearing a bikini,” I say. “It was done with convenient cuts and trick photography. I didn’t even know they had shot it like that until I saw the video on the Internet.” I look back at him. “And all the photos were fake. I saw some that were supposedly from that video. 'Cut' scenes, where I was actually nude. This person assembled a picture of me like a puzzle from the video and included... details from pictures of other women."

“Is that why you stayed with the Devil?”

“He promised to take it all away. I don't want to be famous anymore. I just wanted to be with my family. Then I could help them be good.” I press my face against the window. “He told me he couldn’t kill you himself. He chose me so that I could help save the souls you wouldn't.” I’m looking him over carefully, trying to get some kind of reaction. “He said if I asked forgiveness, it would absolve me of what I did to you.”

“You commit suicide.”

His words hit me like my mother’s hand across my cheek. “What?”

“You are forgiven by me for what you do, but that doesn’t erase your grief. On your nineteenth birthday, you cut your wrists with a hunting knife. You don’t just cut them, you stab through them at the kitchen table while your parents are buying you a cake. They are excited because you hadn’t been depressed for so long. A week later, they run the ‘Where Are They Now,’ with an addendum that you just died. You do get your wish though, as your parents only get less than two hundred sympathy cards, and music critics make jokes.”

I’m too shocked to say anything.

“Some people sell their souls to the Devil for fame and fortune. You sold yours to be forgotten.”

“I didn’t...,” I stammer, my jaw working, but no sound coming out.

“Of course you didn’t,” Jesse says. “Do you think he would let you win so easily? You were working with the master of the stacked deck. Satan doesn’t cast his dice unless he knows they will fall in his favor.”

“Why... Why me?” I whisper.

“Lucifer can’t see the future, he sees every possibility and how they assemble. He studies human nature and knows it better than any psychiatrist and sociologist in all of history. If he intervenes a certain way, he can predict how people will react. He could see the possibilities of your future, and knew that most likely, if he left you unchecked, by the time you were twenty-three, you would be so sick of your fame and the materialistic nature of the world. He knew you would disappear from the world for seven years, and when you returned, you would start a religious revival, one of true peace, and true love, one that would show people the true way to my breast, closer to it than the Church ever got, and you would lead more people to me than anyone in history. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to intervene, because your revival came after I showed you this.”

He reaches over and grasps my hand. My head is filled with a blinding white light–blinding to all the pain, all the suffering, all the greed, all the evils of the world. I’m struck with a feeling so pure, so true, that I know I’m looking in the face of the True God. I see the emptiness of all the religions of the world, so long corrupted by Lucifer’s grasp that they could never lead a soul anywhere. I see truth.

I’m speechless.

“There is no corrupting what I just showed you. In that possible future, I made it all so clear that you temporarily turn the War against Lucifer, though he always brings it back his way eventually.”

“Possible future?” I ask. “You just showed it to me. I’ve seen what you had to show me, doesn’t that mean that we beat Lucifer this time, that we won?”

He looks grave for a moment and says, “There are a lot of possibilities, I can only see what is shown to me.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Exactly where you wanted," Jesse says. "We're going to Boston.” He squints through the snow that is accumulating on the windshield like frosting. Maybe he doesn't know how to turn on the windshield wipers, but I don't know either so I say nothing. “But first, I need to get money. Then we are off to Boston.”

I reach for my pocket, but all my money was in my jacket I left at the bar. “But what about Anton?” I ask. The heater is blowing hot air in my eyes. I’m so nervous that my leg is pounding on the floor at about one hundred miles per hour. "Can't you make money like he does?"

“Do you think I'd be a bartender at Myer Road if I could make my own money?" Jesse asks. He chuckles until he sees I'm not laughing. Finally, he figures out which lever operates the lights, and how to clear the windshield. Unless he figures out how to turn on the heat, it won't be long before it frosts on the inside. "This isn't like normal cars. If it had been something from the Eighties, I could have figured it out. Those cars are pretty simple."

"But you know how to shift?" I ask.

Jesse throws his hands in the air. "Not in control here," he says. A moment passes before Jesse realizes his hands aren't on the wheel, and he jumps, wrapping his arms around the column. The car doesn't swerve. "I know someone out here. She will believe me."

He pulls into a driveway out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a tiny raised ranch set back on a half acre of land. There are thick trees with bare, spindly arms reaching across the yard. “This is it,” he says, as we go up the long driveway. A figure appears in the picture window as we approach. “And she’s home too.”

Jesse beats on the glass door with his fist. It’s cold. I follow hesitantly, pulling at the hem of the T-shirt to keep myself decent. The door opens, revealing a pretty, brown haired girl that doesn't look nearly as shocked as I thought she would be.

“Jess,” she says rather calmly. “First you tell me you’re Jesus, and now you drive up to my house in a Porsche with a half-naked girl?” I pull down the frayed ends of T-shirt and look at the bushes.

“This is Becki Murphy. The singer," Jesse says. "Eva, Becki Murphy. Becki, Eva.” Jesse grabs my hand and pushes past the girl.

"I thought you were dead," Eva says.

“It’s only going to get more weird.” We go into the basement to a large den with a neatly made futon in the back corner.

"Jesse, no," the girl says, chasing after. "I don't know what's going on, but I don't want any part of it."

"Eva, come on," Jesse says. "You have to believe me, this is important." He gestures to me. "Tell her," he says. "You're Becki Murphy!" There is a worn brown couch in the middle of the room, facing a muted television set. Jesse turns it off and pushes me down on the couch. He points at the small window above the television and says, “Is there any way to cover that?” Before the girl can answer, Jesse turns the lamp to the lowest setting.

“You can’t fool him that easily,” I say, matter-of-factly.

Jesse stops and takes a deep breath. “I know,” he says at last. “I’m just panicking."

"Jesse, what is going on?" Eva asks, still in the doorway, unable to comprehend the scene. "What are you doing here? I'm not letting you say another word until you tell me what is happening!"

"I rescued Becki from some guy that came to kill me."

"Because you are Jesus?"

"Yes."

"Jess, I think whatever problems you are having are bigger than anything I can help you with anything in any way." She hands me a T-shirt and a sweater. I put on both of them over my ripped shirt.

“Can Becki have some clothes please.”

Eva goes to a dresser next to the bed. "Jesse, some people told me you got sick some times," she says, stepping between me and Jesse. "If that is true, maybe we should talk to a doctor or something, but regardless, if this is the real Becki Murphy, I think everyone will be safer if she is not in my house. She's dead." She turns to me, and as if she's letting me in on a secret says, "You're dead. It said so on the news."

"If you can give me two hundred bucks, I can get to Albany and hit up my Dad..."

"Jesse, I'm not giving you any money," Eva says. I can tell she doesn't believe I am me. Has Anton already granted my wish? She seems especially worried the way Jesse is pacing the room and ranting.

"I told you that Satan was coming to kill me? Well, he showed up tonight at the bar with her.” He looks to me. “He kidnapped Becki and brainwashed her into becoming his assassin. For some reason, he can’t kill me himself.”

“Why not?” Eva asks. She's grinning a little bit, like she thinks he's about to say the punchline. “Why Becki Murphy?”

“It’s a long story," Jesse says. "I’ll have time to explain later.” He chews his lip for a moment. “I need you to do something for me. I'm giving you a holy quest.”

“A quest?” she asks skeptically.

“Any money you can give me will be much appreciated. I need to get this girl to Boston, and I don't know anyone else that would have enough.”

“Jesse, come on. Is it drugs? Do you owe someone?”

“Right now, Lucifer is on his way here. I need to get this girl to Boston!”

“Whatever happened to letting him take you?”

He sighs through his nose. “I had my mind changed on that. I think it might be too late for me to undo everything, but I want to accomplish this one good deed before he can get me.” Jesse pauses again. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been reborn. It won’t be the last. One of these days, I’ll get it right.”

“You didn't lock the door,” Anton says, stepping into the room, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "It wouldn't matter, but it is still good practice.” He stares at Jesse. “You have something that belongs to me.” I put the couch between myself and Lazarus. “Hunting you down and killing you has become a full time job, kid. I’ve been at it for fifteen years now, I want a vacation.” He sits down in the wicker chair. “Would you believe they had me thinking you were in China? I was there for almost five years hunting down leads.” He raises his eyebrows. “I was a little embarrassed, it only made sense that you’d be an American.”

“Let us go, Lucifer,” Jesse commands.

Anton laughs. “I let you go again at the church, but I don’t plan on letting you go a third time.” He entwines his fingers behind his head.

“Will you shut up?!” Jesse shouts. “Talk! Talk! Talk! Is that all you ever do, Lucifer? Just do it already. You’re boring me to death with all this talk. Why don’t you just put your money where your mouth is and fucking kill me?”

Anton shrugs. “All right.” He stands up and pulls the gun out of his jacket.

Eva screams, “No!” and jumps at him.

Anton catches her by the hair. “Saint Eva,” he says in a low, gravelly voice. He tosses her aside. “Becki?" He holds out the gun. "Will you do me the favor of shooting Jesse?” he asks. “Then I can get you home to your parents, who happen to think you are dead.”

“No,” I say obstinately.

"No?" Lazarus asks.

Go to Chapter 65

The Salvation Shark Chapter 63

2011-12-05T05:58:00.000-08:00

Anton

“Abraxas! Agent Martin, I don’t even know how to address you anymore,” I say with a smile. I open up my jacket and point to the distinct lack of bullet-holes. “Did you forget who we are?" I heft my sword to my shoulder.

“I'm not like you,” Martin/Abraxas says.

“I was a man that is now a machine. You were a machine that is now a man. How much difference is there?" The machine doesn't understand the formulation of my words. "This won't end like you want," I whisper, holding his cold gaze. I step close. "You know you can’t beat me.” My sword begins to smoke.

“I can slow you down,” he whispers, holding his own sword in front of me. “You’re going to have to kill me.” He takes a step forwards. “Really kill me. I won’t let you leave here until I’m gone.”

I smile bitterly. “Did Martin ever know the truth?"

"What truth would that be?" they ask. If there is anything left of John Martin, it is cocking the eyebrow in confusion right now.

"I did time for you, Abraxas! Twenty minutes in a transport van? That's at least as bad as an afternoon in Social Services." We circle each other, tight as springs. "Did Martin know you killed that girl in Florida?”

“The girl called me an angel. The boy thought he was commanding us."

"That story is so much bigger than ours," I say, sticking the tip of my sword in the warped wood. It twists and smokes, burning away from the unearthly metal.

"Are we angels?"

I shake my head. “Don’t throw your existence away for this, not after all the time we spent together.” I sit behind my sword, crossing my legs. “Do you remember when we fought back the Chaos, side-by-side. Do you remember what it was like to stand over those vanquished cities?”

“You would burn Heaven to the ground if you didn't get to play king."

“That is probably true,” I hiss. “That’s all behind us.”

Abraxas laughs. I didn't know there was emotion in there. "I knew there was a reason for this. I knew couldn't all be thrown to chance," he says. "We're the hurricane in the junkyard. You and I are angels. The world must be clean, and I will start with that girl."

I jump to my feet, wrenching the sword out of the floor and lunge. A black flame bursts from the blade as it crashes into his own sword, which ignites in red on contact. I cut three times, not connecting, but knocking Abraxas the length of the aisle before he can recover and mount a defense. Enraged, I shriek, “This will not end how you want!” We lock blades and I push him toward the vestibule. “I never lose, Abraxas, never!”

Abraxas sets himself against me, but I kick him in the gut, sending him crashing through the doors of the vestibule and tumbling to the floor. Sword in my hand, we're not so evenly matched any longer. “We have been called to service, Eleazar," Abraxas says. "If you will not aide me, you are no less an enemy." He crouches and ducks when I charge in attempt to spear him.

I whirl to face him as he rips a long counter off the wall and throws it at me. I cut it down and the wood ignites. I jump at him again. His blade deflects me, knocking me on my back and igniting the carpet and a chair. I roll and swing wide at his legs and he jumps to avoid. I hit him in the gut with my shoulder as I leap up, keeping him from getting his balance. He goes through the cinder-block wall into the sanctuary, and toppling a pew. I claw through the rubble, toppling more debris on him. “The human body is weak, Abraxas.” Martin's feet are in the air before I can come down on him with my sword. Abraxas kicks me over him, crashing me through the next pew. Fires have started on all the wood we've touched. He is up in a moment, chopping at my prone body, but I block inches from my nose.

Pushing him back, I struggle to my feet, keeping our eyes locked. Abraxas backs away to see what I will do next. I charge and we lock hilts again, our faces so close between the blades that if one of us could get the leverage to scissor, the wound would surely decapitate us “Give up, Abraxas. Give up now, and even Martin can walk away from this.”

“I have you scared, don’t I, Eleazar?” Fire and black smoke are making it difficult to see him, but for the blood-red flame rolling on his sword. He smiles. “You know that I’m right, and that if you don’t get to that boy soon, this game ends.” He pushes back against me, but I don’t give any ground.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I say. “Who will believe him if he does go to the media? The girl's job is already done." I extend my neck between the blades and let the unearthly flame lick my throat. I kiss Abraxas on the tip of his crooked nose.

He loses his footing on a piece of flaming pew and tumbles back against the broken cinder block wall. I chop overhand and snap my body like a whip, narrowly severing his arm at the shoulder before he dodges. I recover and swing up after him, cutting easily through the wall. I duck when he swings for my head and he falls back from my return. The tip of my blade misses his chest by inches. He crouches in a defensive stance, sword before him, ready to parry.

“The time has come for this to end,” I snap, and wave my hand. The force sends him flying across the room, landing him in the pews across the aisle, and embedding his sword in the wall behind him. Two plastic trees a few feet away melt to water. I leap and try to impale him, but he rolls to the side. As I come down on him again, he grabs a broken candelabra post and prop it up like a spear, burying the post in my gut. I didn’t see that coming.

I drop my sword and the black flame goes out. With both hands I clench the four-foot length of metal protruding all the way through my lower back. “That’s not good,” I whisper, trying to pull it out. Abraxas pushes, sending waves of pain through my body as he fights his way to his feet. Throwing all his weight into me, he jams the exposed end of the post into the wall behind me. “Fuck!" I wail, still fighting against the stake that prevents me from moving.

Abraxas is incapable of feeling, so it must be Agent Martin that takes great pleasure of holding the pole in both hands. His touch is delicate, like a lover, and each tremble sends waves of pain rolling through my body. That must be the collapsed lung. Real bad. I don’t remember if I’ve ever felt pain like the pain I’m going to feel. Abraxas shoves the post up and I wail in agony. “Does that hurt?” Abraxas says with a laugh, backing away to examine his work.

Focus. I wrench myself free from the wall, still impaled on the candelabra base. Putting one labored foot in front of the other, slow and deliberate I walk. Abraxas is backing away. “It doesn’t end like this,” I hiss, falling to my knees, and then down on my face. My eyes flutter and close.

He stands over me, looking down solemnly. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispers. “I didn’t want this either.”

The force of my will brings my sword to my hand, and I roll, swinging at up at him in a clumsy chop that he easily avoids. I get to my feet as the candelabra base melts away. “Come on now,” I say, knocking him to the ground with another wave of my hand.

He struggles, but I keep him pinned to the ground with my thought. He tries to summon his sword to him, but I see it blocked in my head, and the sword flies into the burning ruin of the vestibule. I picture Abraxas flung fifteen feet in the air through the burning rafters, and he is. He crashes down and I leap the five feet that separates us, and bring my sword down in a golf swing to his ribs, slicing Martin to the spine.

He cries out and wrenches himself off the blade, spilling boiled blood on the church floor. I follow a few steps as he still crawls for his weapon. The sword skitters out of the flames, vibrating and lurching toward him a few feet at a time. I straddle Abraxas, raise my sword over my head and plunge the fiery blade through his spine.

The Martin/Abraxas conglomerate wails and arches his back. His jacket and the floor burst into immediate fire, which spreads quickly. Already most of the pews and exposed beams are burning, and the vestibule looks nearly solid with a churning black mass. Much of my suit has been burned away as well. Martin goes limp and falls on his face. I pull my sword out of his back and the black flame extinguishes. No longer necessary, the sword fades away.

Too much to do, too much to do. That poor boy thinks he can hide from me. If his every move wasn't obvious, I could still smell him further than he could possibly run.

Abraxas wraps an arm around my leg as I pass. I stop and stare down at the bloody mess as it starts to crawl up my leg. The instant urge is to kick him away and crush his skull under my boot, but I steel against it. For being as injured as he is, he is moving quickly. He even has some use in those legs. He gets himself to my chest in a matter of seconds, his eyes never leaving mine. There is a determination in his eyes that only and angel could muster.

The serrated dagger he would have used on Becki is still tucked in my belt. I draw it now and hold it before him. "The torturers always showed the victims the tools that would be used. For most, this was enough to make them talk. I put the blade into his ribs push my will through him. Abraxas screams out and writhes against me, spilling more blood on my clothes. His struggles grow weaker and weaker, until the entire essence is gone. My eyes don’t break from his dead, empty orbs until I wrench the dagger from his chest, wipe it off on my jacket and step over him.

In the vestibule, I search for Abraxas's sword. The flames do hurt as my skin burns away, but I hardly notice. It will take some time before Abraxas burns to an ash so fine he cannot be restored. I am in pain as I search the fire for the weapon, but the pain will go away and the wounds will heal. The prize is too great. It has impaled a mahogany crucifix on the wall. I'm nearly skeletonized and my organs are a cooked mess by the time I wrench it free and smash through the doors to the open air. The ceiling collapses as I exit. The moon is full and I can see stars here. My muscle and skin rebuild in the time it takes me to reach the car. In the trunk I have only my spare suit remaining, along with a silk sheet to wrap the sword.

With Abraxas gone, my mission is complete. I have only a few loose ends to tie.

Go to Chapter 64

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 62

2011-12-02T05:57:00.000-08:00

Jesse

I follow the screams to the abandoned church at the end of Quick St., and find the angel about to gut Becki Murphy. He looks up when I toss Lucifer’s sword into the first pew.

“And who are you supposed to be?” he asks, stepping to the edge of the dais with a twisted, serrated dagger in his hand.

“You’re going to kill her?” I ask.

When the angel says, “Yes,” Murphy whimpers a little. “She has been deceived, and I must purify her soul to find grace. That was my command.”

“No,” I command. “No more are to die.” I slump down into the pew near the middle. “I’m sick of all this.”

“She is the Devil’s concubine! She has entered into a pack with him unwittingly.”

“Only one more is to die, and that’s me.”

The angel looks shocked.

“I didn’t ask for this. It’s too much to take. I may have the soul of God, but I’m still a man.” I shake my head. “Lucifer will stop once I’m gone.”

The angel narrows his eyes.

“I can't do this!” I scream, my words echoing through the temple. “I’m just a man! I have fallen to temptation more times than I can count. I’m supposed to be free of sin, but I’m not! I can't condemn a world of sinners when I can’t even break free of temptation. When Lucifer comes for me, I’m willing to let him take me.”

The angel takes a deep breath through his nose, looking me up and down and taking an uneasy step in my direction. “There are rules the world must follow...”

“And I couldn’t even follow them." I lean forward and rest my head on the pew. "What does that tell you about my rules?” In the periphery I see the angel moving closer. “I wasn’t here. I was so far removed from their existence that I couldn’t see what life was like.” I jab a finger to the air. “But Lucifer, he was down in the trenches. He knew what people wanted. What good is Heaven to a man that can’t feed his family? I can’t give that to him, all I can do is say, ‘It’ll be all right when you die.’ That’s an awful long time to wait when your children are crying. All he has to do is turn off that conscience button, turn off my voice. I didn’t know the human condition, I didn’t know what to give them..”

“I’ve heard that before,” the angel says.

“I want to go home.” I point Becki, struggling against the leather thongs binding her to the alter. “Cut her loose, let her go. She can burn in fucking Hell for all I care. She’s just another one of his people, born and bred. She is a prostitute, and she was willing to be a murderer. Cut her loose and let her live her life.”

“But...” Becki whimpers.

"I told you to cut her loose!" I shout at the angel, he must obey. I get up and approach the dais. “What is it?” I ask. “What reason could you have to justify entering a pact with Satan? How is it all right for you to do these things and not be damned to Hell as per my commandments?”

“I just wanted to save my family,” she whimpers.

I touch her face and in the span of a second I see her history. “The television was more of a caregiver than either parent. Everyone was tense and yelling all the time You thought it was your fault. The only time you even thought they liked you was up on the stage.”

“I just wanted them to see me sing!”

Her words hit me like a bullet, and I’m almost spun around by them, so pure, so honest. She knew it was Lucifer. She knew who I was, but she still entered this pact with him, because she knew it was the only way to spare them from Hell. I can see the course of events being fed to my brain by some unseen presence. She knew that her parents would never repent their sins in time, she knew if she didn’t help Lucifer, they would suffer in Hell for an eternity.

The angel saws the cords through, freeing her hands. She pulls her shirt tight over her stomach.

“Child,” I say. “I saw you when there wasn’t even any flesh on your soul. Seeing you without clothes is no big deal” I grab her shoulder and stare into her eyes. I can see all her sins, all the torment. There is a pleading in her eyes, begging for my forgiveness, but it isn’t just for her... “I can’t,” I say. “I can cleanse you, but I can’t cleanse them unless they ask me and mean it.”

She falls to her knees and begins to sob. “They’ve done bad things, but I love them. I don’t want them to go to Hell. I’ll do anything, please, just forgive them.”

“You can save them,” I say. “Go to them. They have been blinded by the world, blinded by all of Lucifer’s temptations. You are the only chance they have.” I stand up straight and look around. “We have to get you out of here though. I can feel him. He will be here soon.” I tell the angel,“I need you to cover us. Hold him off so we can escape.”

The angel watches, unsure. “Changed your mind?”

I look at his smug face. “For the moment,” I sigh. I put an arm around Becki and lead her toward the door. “I know somewhere we can hide.”

“And where might that be?” Lucifer asks, striding majestically from the vestibule. "Where could you possibly hide from me? Ask Becki. I'm tenacious.” He leans over and picks his sword up from where I dropped it. He runs his finger over the blade. “You killed Mephis, huh? What a disappointment.” He shakes his head.

“Be gone, Lucifer,” I command, but he just smiles at me.

“My Lord,” he says sarcastically. “You think you can come here and boss me around? I don’t think so.” He pokes me in the chest with his long, slim index finger. “This is my world, sweetheart. Every one of these people are mine for the taking. Every one of them.” He points to Becki. “Especially that one. Why don’t you get out of my way and let me have what’s mine.”

“Belongs to you?” I say boastfully. “You tricked this girl. You offered her what only I can give...”

“But you wouldn’t!” Lucifer booms. “You would have left her for dead! I intervened and sent her back your way. You were going to call up your faithful and forget about the rest. How’s that for love? She had to go to Mr. Anton Lazarus for salvation. Some Savior you are!” He throws his head back and laughs at me. “Now, if you’ll all excuse, Messiah, my flesh puppet and I have some business to attend to."

“Why don’t you just do it? Take that fucking sword and ram it through my stomach! Do it, Lucifer, kill me!” I scream, slapping my hand against my gut. "I dare you."

He smiles wickedly. “Not my style.”

“You have to bring a human down with you?”

“I don’t bring anyone anywhere. They come with me of their own free will. Do you remember Free Will, Lord?” he shoves me aside and goes to Becki, ruffling her hair. “You gave these beasts Free Will–the same will you punished me for using–and you let them make their own decisions. Are you now saying you are retracting that will and blaming all the bad on me?” He rolls his eyes. “You are so Gen-X. Blame, blame, blame, that’s all you kids know how to do these days. 'It’s not my fault, my parents didn’t love me! 'It’s not my fault, it was the television and the video games! Backi in our day, you'd get put on a cross for that!” He pounds his fist on the alter. “Don’t blame me for people doing bad. I may open the door, I may point the way, but I don’t force anyone to do anything.” He sits on the alter and kicks his heels against it like a child. “Come here, Becki, dear. Time to do your job.” He picks up the serrated dagger and turns it over his hand, pursing his lips and smiling. He puts it inside his suit jacket and pulls out his gun.

“Kill him!” I scream at the angel, who yanks is gun from his jacket and opens fire. I grab Becki’s arm and drag her away. As we get to the vestibule, all I can hear is Lucifer laughing.

Go to Chapter 63

The Salvation Shark Chapter 61

2011-11-25T05:56:00.000-08:00

Agent Martin

We ride in silence for a while, the wind whipping through the empty front of the car. After a while, the girl leans over the seat and says, “What are you going to do with me?”

I don’t bother to look at her. “I was sent here to save you.” Behind us, the sun is a brilliant orange, and has already fallen into the greedy, skeletal hands of the trees. "We need to find a quiet place.”

There is a wooden church down a road that no one has followed in a number of years. I can smell the mold a mile away. The path is overgrown, but solid to drive across, and I stop at the slate steps. Heavy doors that are chained closed and sagging on their hinges. The chains rust and crumble when I touch them, and the doors push open like a curtain to the dank vestibule. I don't have to tell the girl to follow.

The church is dark, lit only by the fading sun spilling through the broken stained glass windows. The floor is thick with dust. I snap my fingers and candles flare to life they have not known in years. “Go to the alter,” I command. She doesn't go fast enough, so I give her a push. She sees my sword for the first time. The blade ignites. She starts to cry.

I toss the girl on top of the alter and tie her down with leather cords. She is screaming and pleading, realizing the terrible reality of what is about to happen.

“Pray,” I tell her. “Pray to your God and ask him for forgiveness. If he sees honesty, you will be at Heaven’s Gate very soon.”

“You bastard!” she wails. “You fucking bastard! You can't kill me, I haven't done anything wrong!”

I show her the serrated dagger I keep under my armpit. “Now you choose to plead innocent. You have lived a life of sin long before you met the Devil, but now you wish to be spared. You beasts are all the same! Arrogant in the face of your Creator.” Her face calms a bit. “That is why it feels so good, that is why I love to torture and kill you! Hearing you scream doesn’t compare to the pain you cause your God. You were given everything, and you turned your back on it.” I open the briefcase on the alter beside her. “My brothers fought off chaos to build Heaven. In the end our lot became servants for you, serving animals that didn’t even know gratitude for your creation.”

“A jealous angel?” she asks. “That story's used up.”

“Angel?” I ask. “Is that what you think I am?" I shake my head in disbelief and lay out the brace of knives along the length of her leg. "Trial and error, you bred yourselves from monkeys into what could have been the equals of your God. You claim unique design, but you are no elegant machine. Life was created in the image of Creation. Some creations succeed. Others fail. Man and all that came before you was a great experiment to discover the roots of your God's creation. But you became fat and complacent. and perverse. I hate you humans because you could have evolved into God, but chose not to.”

Her face contorts in confusion. “To discover His own roots...?” the girl asks, her whole world-view strained by the subject.

“Would you rather have Free Will or an All-Knowing?" I ask and cut open the stomach of her shirt to paint the necessary runes. She wails and thrashes like it was her skin. “You can’t have both. If every event has already been mapped out in His big brain, then you aren’t plotting your own path. You can go through life doing whatever comes to mind, but ultimately, your path has been chosen for you. If you have Free Will, it means that even God doesn’t know what you are about to do from minute to minute.” I trace a line from her neck to her groin with my finger and whisper. “He did all this, tried with all of you, and has acknowledged failure. He tried to find out where He came from, because that is a question He can’t even answer.”

Go to Chapter 62

Here in this Sorrow Chapter 10

2011-11-15T06:03:00.000-08:00

Chapter 10

The house was dark when Christian got back home. He came into the basement and dropped his bag by the entertainment center against the wall. When he turned on the light, he saw the handwritten note on top of the shelf. He picked it up, revealing a twenty-dollar bill beneath. A smile crossed his lips as he scanned it.

“Christian,” it read. “We went out to dinner. Here’s money for pizza. Do your homework. –Mom”
He picked up the twenty dollar bill and looked at it. “LOVE,” was written in giant letters with a black magic marker. He smiled and shoved it in his wallet. He crossed the room and slumped on the couch. He sat there motionless for a few minutes, half-lidded. When the telephone rang, he sat up and stared across the room for a couple seconds. On the third ring, he ran across the basement and answered it. “Duke residence,” he said.

“Hey,” Clark said. “How you feeling?”

“A little better,” Christian responded. “Want to come over for a while?”

“Sure,” Clark said.

“Want me to come get you?”

“No,” Clark responded. “I’ll walk. I’ll be right over. Want me to bring anything?”

Christian pursed his lips for a second and said, “No, just come over.” He hung up and went over to the outside door, locking it as he peered out the tiny window. He tried it once and went to the back corner of the room. Three mattresses were stacked there, covered by a thick quilt. He pulled back the quilt and lifted off the top mattress. A three-by-four foot square hole had been crudely hacked in the middle mattress. He reached in and pulled out a 12-inch length of PVC pipe, capped at both ends. A thick, waxy string hung limply from one of the caps. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting it lovingly and replaced it. He did the same with ever piece in the cache of bombs, bullet-boxes, boxes of nails, four holstered pistols and finally a pump-action shotgun. He held it by the stock, his other hand running gently up and down the length of the finely polished weapon.

“Stand up for myself?” he whispered, opening the chamber and looking inside. “I’ll fucking show them standing up for myself.” He replaced the gun in its hide-away and picked up a 9mm Baretta. He checked the chamber and pointed it at the wall. He pulled the trigger three times and smiled. “We’ll see who the real man is.”

Christian jumped when the phone rang. He replaced the gun and hastily pulled the top mattresses back in place. He got to the phone on the fourth ring.

“Duke residence,” he said politely.

“Chris?” Andy said.

Christian relaxed. “What’s going on?”

“I was just calling to make sure you were all right,” he said, his voice quivering.

Christian leaned against the table. “Yeah,” Christian said with a sigh. “I’m fine.” He chuckled. “A few bruises, but like you said, nothing worse than I’m going to get tomorrow.” He hopped on the counter and stared at his black socks. “He just hurt my pride.”

“That’s good,” Andy said. He didn’t sound convinced.

“You gonna be in the pit tomorrow?” Christian asked boisterously, looking up.

Andy laughed. “No way! There’s going to be too many metal-heads.” He paused. “I’m not going to get my ass kicked. I just want to see the band.”

Christian got up and started to pace. “You never dance,” he chided. “You always just stand in the back quietly. How come you never get into it?”

“Sorry, Chris, getting hurt just isn’t my idea of a good time. I leave that one for you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Christian asked, feigning offense.

Andy chuckled. “Nothing.” After a few seconds, he asked, “What happened with you and Shannon today?” he asked suggestively.

Christian kicked softly at the counter with his heel. “I told you, nothing is going to happen.”

“Jeez, Chris, why don’t you just tell her how you feel?”

“I can’t,” he said forcefully.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, okay?”

“Are you afraid of what she’ll say? Are you afraid things will get weird?”

“No, no, it’s just... things...” He trailed off, clamping his free hand over his forehead. “I have my reasons. I just can’t tell her how I feel.” He fell into the chair by the phone. “She asked me to go to California with her next semester.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her that I’d think about it.”

There was a brief silence on Andy’s end of the line. “Chris,” he said at last. “When the girl you’re in love with asks you to move far away with her, you say ‘yes.’”

“That’s not it,” Christian mumbled.

“What’s not it? You like her, she wants you to come live with her, what’s the problem?” He paused, but started talking before Christian could respond. “Chris, how long have I known you? Ten years? Longer than any of your other friends? I think if anyone is close enough to tell you this, it’s me. You’re being stupid.”

Christian shook his head. “There’s a lot of stuff going on that I can’t even tell you about.”

“You can tell me anything...”

“I can’t tell you this. You’ll find out soon enough, but I can’t tell you.”

Andy hesitated . “Chris?” he asked in a quivering voice. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine, but I can’t tell you what’s going on. Just trust me on this one.”

“Everything is going to be alright?” he asked skeptically.

“I promise,” Christian said, squeezing his eyes closed. “Everything is going to be better than before.”

“All right.” Another short pause. “Are you taking a lot of cash tomorrow?”

Christian chuckled. “I’ve saved every penny for the last month. I’m going to buy everything they have to sell.”

Andy laughed. “I’m just taking forty bucks. I figure I’ll just get a shirt or something. I know Clark and Shannon are going to do the same. I swear, Monday morning, we’re going to be the Misfits brigade.”

“A gang, even,” Christian grumbled.

Andy chuckled. “Yeah. Mr. Henry is going to love it.”

“I don’t know how you can handle being in a class with that fucker,” Christian said, squeezing his eyes closed and banging his heels against the counter.

“It isn’t easy,” Andy grumbled. “The guy is always going on about how I should bring the three of you up to my level and everything. It’s annoying.” He paused again. “Oh...,” he said, half into the phone. “I’ve got to run, Chris, my mom needs to make a call. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait,” Christian said. “I’m going to school late on Friday. I won’t be able to give you a ride in.”

“Okay. See ya’.”

“Bye.” Christian hung up the phone and sat on the counter for several minutes until the doorbell rang. He hopped off the counter and went out to the basement door. When he opened it, Clark was leaning against the screen door with his mouth pressed against the wire mesh. “What’s going on?” Christian asked. “You know, bugs walk all over that thing, and I used to sit down here and smash flies through it.” When Clark didn’t respond, Christian opened the screen, making Clark fall inside.

“I got in a fight with my mom,” he said as he passed Christian. He walked ahead of Christian into the finished basement and sat down in one of the chairs. “I cannot wait to go to college. I think I’m going to see if I can move down to Florida as soon as we are out of school.”

Christian sat in the chair across from him, where a nylon guitar case leaned against it. Christian picked it up and pulled out the black guitar covered in Misfits stickers. “I’ve been writing a song for Shannon,” he said, pulling a pick out of the pocket of the case. “I’m going to record it tonight and leave it for her.”

“You’re finally going to let her know how you feel?” Clark said proudly. “It’s about time.” He pointed at the instrument and said, “Play it for me, Let me hear what you will be using to woo her into your arms.”

“No!” Christian exclaimed. “It’s too personal,” he said.

“How will you know if it’s going to work?” Clark asked. “Play the song for me. If I fall madly in love with you, you know it’ll work.” He shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work on Shannon, you’ll at least have me.” He smiled lustfully. “And you know that I’ll put out.”

“Yeah,” Christian said. “That’s exactly what I need.” He smiled. “With all the slutty girls you’ve been with, you probably have every disease in the book.”

“Protection, my good man,” Clark said, jabbing his finger at the ceiling. “Besides, I think Angela has made me get on the straight and narrow. She may make an honest man of me after all.”

“Are you suggesting...” Christian let the question linger unsaid in the air.

“Who knows,” Clark responded. “She has mentioned going away with me when I leave. You got any root beer?” Clark asked, pointing to the miniature refrigerator by the bar.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think there’s some.”

“Any real beer?” Clark asked as he was getting up.

“Like my dad would trust me with real beer,” Christian said as he strummed lightly on the guitar.

“That’s fucked up,” Clark said as he twisted the cap off his root beer. “You’re practically straight-edge, don’t drink, don’t even smoke cigarettes, let alone anything else, and your dad still won’t leave anything in the house?”

“My dad is a freak. He’s convinced that if I look the way I do, I must be on drugs.” He strummed the guitar harder. “He sneaks in my room and searches it sometimes. He doesn’t think I know, but I noticed things moved around. You’d think he would trust me a little more, seeing as he’s never found anything.”

“I’m surprised he leaves you alone in the store,” Clark said as he sat back down.

“Working with guns is good and wholesome. It’s supposed to build character. He’s always telling me about him and his father going out and shooting guns. He wants so badly for us to bond like that.” He put the guitar back in its case and zipped it up. “He gets so furious when I tell him I support gun control.” He got up and got a root beer out of the refrigerator and sat back down. “He always tells me, ‘Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.’”

Clark snorted. “There aren’t many school massacres with knives.”

“Yeah,” Christian said, his voice detached. He twisted the cap off his root beer and sipped it. “My dad just doesn’t understand, that’s all.” He drank half the soda and said. “If he heard I got beat up, he would blame me for it. He would tell me I should try and fit in better, and things like that.”

“Just like Mr. Henry,” Clark commented.

“My dad would love that guy.”

“Well, that’s great. My parents hate me, your parents hate you, Shannon’s parents hate her, and Andy’s parents hate all of us.”

“My mom doesn’t hate me,” Christian said. “She just likes the TV more.” Outside, a car pulled up and car doors were slammed. Christian closed his eyes and sighed. “Sounds like my parents are home,” he said.

The door opened and Christian’s father came in, followed by his mother. Christian’s father looked at Clark with distaste and turned his blazing eyes on Christian. “What the hell, Christian?” he demanded. He put a Styrofoam meal container on the entertainment center. “You said you couldn’t work because you have homework, but now you are just hanging out with your friends?”

“It’s all right,” Christian said, turning the chair to face his parents. “I finished it before Clark got here.”

“You had that little?” his father asked. “Then you could have worked!” He scowled, inhaling and exhaling through his nose several times before saying, “I need you to work tomorrow.”

“I’d better go,” Clark said. He got out of the chair and hurried past Christian’s parents and out the door.

Christian’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “I can’t!” he yelled, paying no notice to Clark’s departure. “I’m going to that show, I’ve been planning it for weeks!” He leaned forward, glaring hatefully at his father. “You know I can’t work tomorrow!”

His mother walked between them and went upstairs.

“Well, I needed you to work tonight, but you couldn’t be bothered. I had to call Richard to have him cover for you. Now, you can cover for him tomorrow.”

“He’s going to have to work for me again,” Christian snapped defiantly. “I’m going to the show right after school. I’m not going to work.”

His father slammed his fist down on the entertainment center. “Christian, it’s time you learned some god-damned responsibilities! You need to understand that life isn’t just fun and games. You can’t go skipping out on work every time there is some silly concert you want to go to.”

“It’s not silly...”

“You have to work to get by in life. You need to learn that! You can see this band again, sometime when it’s convenient. You’re eighteen years old now. You’re going to be out of school in a month, it’s time you started acting like it.”

“I’m not working tomorrow!” Christian yelled on the verge of tears. “Don’t even expect to see me there!”

His father jabbed a stubby finger at him. “If you aren’t there, you will have hell to pay, you got that, mister?”

“Fine,” Christian snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

His father stared at him for nearly a minute and then stomped upstairs.

Christian sat in the chair for a few minutes. A single tear rolled down his cheek, hung suspended on his chin and plummeted to the lap of his cargo pants. He got up and stumbled to the back of the room, collapsing on the stack of mattresses. In a few minutes, he was sobbing freely. He shoved his face tightly into the pillow. After about ten minutes, his sobs lightened, fading steadily until they stopped altogether.

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 60

2011-10-21T05:53:00.000-07:00

Jesse

After refusing to snow all week, it's falling as soon as I get out the back door of the bar. For a moment, I consider going back for my Carhart, but danger wins out. I race into the woods behind the bar, not sure where I’m going. I know the general direction of home, and know it's not a place I can run in this weather with the clothes I'm wearing.

The Devil’s sword is heavy, and waves of evil roll off it, working up my arm, numbing my hand far more than the cold. I want to throw it away, leave it out in the woods, make him hunt it down.

It probably takes less time than I think before I have to stop running and lean against a tree to catch my breath. Too many nights in front of the TV with bong and Cheetos. I think the only exercise I get is fucking Courtney.

“Where exactly am I going?” I ask aloud.

“That is a very good question,” Mephis Tyr asks. I'm deep enough in the woods and the sun has gone down far enough that I can only make out his outline against a tree a few yards away. When he opens his eyes, they glow in the dark. “Where exactly are you going?” He pushes away from the tree and folds his arms across his chest. “Where could you go that we couldn't find you?"

“Fuck you!” I snap. I hold the Devil’s sword out toward him, as if I could possibly be menacing with it.

“That’s quite an answer. I would have expected better from the Son of God.”

“So you got me, are you going to kill me now?”

He snorts. “Kill you? Not my job. I was sent here just to track you down, keep you in one place.” He starts to swagger forward. “Killing you, that’s reserved for the brat. Anton put a lot of work into getting her to do the job. I don’t think he would be all that happy if I stole the glory." He laughs in that practiced sort of way. “Getting your boss angry is not a good idea, you know.”

The sword is too heavy to hold extended, and it dips to the snow, steaming around the tip. “You had me the whole time,” I say. “This whole time, I knew your lot was looking for me, but it didn’t raise my heckles at all when I saw you.”

“Don’t feel bad,” he consoles. “We’re a lot stronger than you.” He smiles. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

“Where are we going?”

“Abraxas, took the brat to an abandoned church not too far from here.” He points through the trees. “Lazarus is on his way to get her back. We need to meet up with them there and get this over with.” Mephis puts his hand on my shoulder to move me with him.

I stand firm. “Do you just expect me to give up, to just let you kill me?”

“It’s all over. We’ve done this all so many times before. You have an important role to fulfill. Just make it easier on all of us.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

“That’s what I thought," he says, coming over to pat me on the back...

...and apparently doesn’t expect I will chop up with the sword into his stomach. His eyes burn hatefully into me and his jaw works but no sound comes out, only an intense light from deep within him. His hands claw, but his strength fades quickly, pulling himself off the blade and falling to his knees.

"This will not end how you want!" I shout as he sinks to a laying position on his side. When his eyes go blank, I run in the direction he pointed. I know the church, but I won't be able to find it unless I get on a road.

Go to Chapter 61

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 59

2011-10-17T05:53:00.000-07:00

Anton

Mephis is running to help before I even stop rolling. I get to my feet and brush off the dirt. My shirt is full of holes and stains, but the skin is already unmarred. “Mr. Lazarus, are you alright.” He stops short of placing a hand on my shoulder.

I push him away. “Bub is dead,” I say. “Abraxas got away with the girl. This is not going as planned.”

He looks over his shoulder as flames start to spew out of the bar. “At least there were no witnesses. What do you command?”

“There is an abandoned church that way through the woods,” I say, pointing past the bar and getting in the black Porsche. “Abraxas will be taking the girl there. Find Jesse in the woods and make sure he goes there. I’ll meet you.”

I have no problem starting the car. I’m not about to let Abraxas kill that girl and waste all my hard work.

Go to Chapter 60

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 58

2011-10-14T05:52:00.000-07:00

Agent Martin

I drag the Murphy girl outside and throw her in the back seat of the black Cadillac. I get in the front, dropping my smoking sword in the seat next to me. She screams.

Mephisto Tyr runs around the side of the bar and jumps on the hood, slamming his fist through the windshield. He tears the glass out of the frame with one hand and grabs my throat with the other. “Been a long time, Johnny,” he hisses, pulling himself half-way through the window. “See you had to get Abraxas to help you... Or was it the other way around?” When I punch him in the face, and he smiles at me through bleeding lips. “Give us the kid, Martin, it’s all over.”

I punch him again, and he falls off the hood, rolling in the dirt of the parking lot as I put the car in reverse and slam my foot down on the gas.

“Hang on!” I yell to the Murphy girl. “This is going to be a rough ride.”

Eleazar jumps on the hood as I’m backing into the road, missing another car by inches. I punch him in the face, but he doesn’t even flinch. He pulls himself farther through the window, grabbing at my sword. I’m slamming my fist down on his other hand, jamming fragments of broken glass into his palm, but he won’t budge. It’s not easy, even for me, to drive with this kind of distraction. It’s not until I swerve unexpectedly that I manage to catch him off guard and dislodge him.

As he hits the dirt road and rolls off as I speed away.

Go to Chapter 59

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 57

2011-10-10T05:51:00.000-07:00

Anton

We lay low in Harlem until dawn. Even the cold can't stop the music from playing all night. I buy new clothes from a street vendor and find a car waiting for me near the college. We cross the Tappan Zee and follow traffic north on the Thru-Way. Becki sleeps. I take the Harriman exit, a town named after the Persian principle of evil, and drive east through a highway built at a time before cars went as fast as they do. It twists like a Indian following the drunken snake Delaware river through rounded forests too rugged for any habitation but a few fishing camps hastily constructed on the banks between floods. Leafless, the trees resemble the bristles of a porcupine.

We will find the boy at work outside Parlor City, a town named for its record setting population of taverns. A shot and a beer in each was the tradition, but those numbers would have been fatal for any that claimed to have succeeded. Now the residents get wasted on industrial ash and dumped carcinogens. Drinking the water is not recommended. I won't have to see it today, a sad shell of former glory, like the abandoned ruins of Rome or Middle Earth.

The bar is more of a shed with a wheel-chair ramp off a broken country road that is largely ignored by authority, and can get rowdy on a Saturday night. I was buying coke at this place before the paint was smudged and peeling, before even the roof sagged. There are two cars in front of the bar. I park beside the manager’s cherry-red convertible and yank out a strand of Becki’s hair.

She comes awake with a start, looking around. “What’s going on?” she asks, rubbing her head.

“We’re here,” I say, drawing the gun from my jacket and handing it to her. I don't think she fully understands what she is holding until surprise puffs her eyes. “It’s easy to use, just point, and pull the trigger until he’s dead, got it?” Becki catches her emotions, looks at the gun, and looks at me. She nods. "Good," I say. We get out of the car. From the trunk, I collect the four-foot parcel wrapped in black silk and tied with a silver cord.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Don’t worry about,” I respond, and hope I won't either. Bub and Mephis have a table in the corner. They are drinking champagne, which is a good way to get beaten up in a place like this. The fat manager is behind the bar studying a clip-board, but doesn't recognize me. A handful of life-long-losers sit near the juke box. I don't see the boy.

Becki and I sit at the corner table. A girl wouldn't need to look half as good as Becki to draw attention in a place like this, but none of these slobs recognize who she really is. Mephis pours a glass for me. I'm pleasantly surprised there are real champagne flutes. I sip. “Classy!" I sit back to savor the mouthful. The manager is pretending not to notice us. “Have you seen him yet?” I ask, throwing back the rest of my flute.

Mephis nods. “He’s been hiding in the back since we arrived.”

“He knows," Bub says, recoiling from the anger he sees in my face.

I take breath sharply. "How?" I ask.

Bub shrugs. His suit looks like a tarp over a woodpile.

"No idea," Mephis says. "Can't you feel his heart pounding from here?"

I shake my head. "It's nothing. He thinks we are police. Let's do this." I point to Mephis and to the front door. Mephis exits. I wonder if it would be too much if I cut a line in here. It shouldn’t cause too much trouble, as everyone will be dead in an hour.

Bub waits at the table when I lead Becki to the bar. “When I snap my fingers, blow the fucker away,” I whisper. I rap my knuckles on the oak rail. There was a time when a person was proud of this place.

The manager looks up impatiently. “Can I help you?” He usually leaves Jesse to deal with the customers, but he thinks I'm here for him, and he's trying to look guiltless.

“Hi... Kevin,” I say confidently, showing him the tin badge I bought in a dime store. “I’m Special Agent Anton Lazarus.” I flash it fast and he wouldn't know the difference. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His armpits soak through almost instantly. "I'm looking for a Jesse Black. I'm told he works here.”

“Ye... Yeah,” he stammers. When it finally sticks in his craw that I ain't lookin' fer him, Kevin snorts and laughs. "FBI? What did he do?"

I take a deep breath and sigh. "Is Mr. Black here today?”

“Yeah,” he says, wanting to make sure I don’t do any background checks on him. “Hey Jess!” he says, in a forced struggle not to laugh. "You got visitors!” Kevin goes in the back room where he can watch from his office door out of sight.

On the other side of the wall, Jesse Black is about to shit himself. He is receiving little relief from the erroneous belief that he can banish me. With the time I've had to reflect, I see now that unrecognized multiple-personality disorder puts a modern-day Messiah in a precarious position against the real thing.

He steps through the door.

I snap my fingers in front of the girl.

Shit.

“Eleazar!” Abraxas shouts as he enters. His broadsword bursts into flame. “It ends here.”

I point to Bub, who throws the black parcel to me. The silk burns away as my own sword ignites in black flame. “You don't have to do this to yourself, my brother,” I hiss.

Abraxas leaps at me. We cross blades, and I have all I can do to push him back. "I'm not like you," he says.

I can’t afford this fight. I shove him off and brace myself for defense. I sniff the air. "You're exactly like me now. I can smell it in you, your cells have merged with Martin entirely. You're man and machine." I swing, but he blocks. Liquid flame splatters off our swords, igniting tables and chairs with a more Earthly fire. Abraxas tries to impale me as he gets up, but I bat him to the side.

Becki is distracted, and Jesse grabs the gun. I spin, slicing at his writs, Martin wraps his arms around my leg and brings me to the ground. Jesse can't get the gun away from Becki, but is keeping her from aiming. He can't beat out her determination. My kind of kid.

Martin and I are also on the ground wrestling. I’m holding him down with his sword-arm pinned under my knee, but I can’t get the angle or leverage to make a killing blow. Kevin is trying to escape, most likely to a telephone. Bub steps in to break his neck and collects a kitchen knife from the bar to dispatch the bar patrons, who probably would have been content to watch until the end and return to their drinks. With my free hand, I grab Martin and spin our bodies to smash him into Bub. Martin lets go of me and the two fall in a tangle of limbs.

Abraxas rises quickly, trying to plunge his sword into me. Bub kicks him in the spine, knocking him off-balance, but not so long that Bub can avoid Martin's chop to the chest. The white fire shines in his eyes and mouth and Bub's body caves in. The great scream of a hungry Hell pierces the air as Bub’s flesh rots away and is sucked into the Abyss.

I’m poised to plunge my sword through the dusty foot print on Martin’s back when the gun goes off. Normally, I can burn away a fired bullet before it can ruin my clothes. However, when Becki accidentally pulls the trigger as she tries to club Jesse with the weapon, I’m not prepared. Of all the places the random shot could have gone, who would expect it to go through my neck. The force of the blow sends me sprawling and I drop my sword. The flame extinguishes as it spins across the floor under a table.

Becki, thinking I’m dead and that she’s now in real trouble, lets go of both the gun and Jesse Black. She runs to my side, even though I’m already half-way to my feet with my wound nearly healed. “Anton, are you hurt?” she’s crying out, helping me up, but I’m batting her away, more because I can hear Jesse’s thoughts as he takes aim at her.

Seeing he now has an advantage, Jesse takes aim on the girl that was trying to kill him. So much for turning the other cheek. I knock her aside in time, and the shot goes between her and myself, hitting Martin in the chest as tries to attack. He goes down but doesn't drop his weapon. Jesse is scrambling for my sword.

I can’t concentrate on that, as I jump back on top of Abraxas, pummeling his face, keeping him from using his sword. “Fucking get him!” I scream at Becki. Jesse catches the grip of my sword and turns it on me.

Becki shoulder-checks him in the gut, knocking both of them down. Martin takes advantage of my distraction and punches me in the jaw. I fall away and he stands. He looks back and forth from me to Becki and jumps at her. He grabs a handful of her hair and breaks for the door. I still can't see straight.

Jesse is up also, holding my sword, running for the back door. I look back and forth between them. I can’t let Martin do what he is going to do with the girl, not after I’ve worked this hard. I chase them out the front door.

Go to Chapter 58

Here in this Sorrow Chapter 9

2011-10-08T05:24:00.000-07:00

Chapter 9

Shannon was the first to run over and kneel beside Christian. She put her arm around him as the others joined them. She helped him to his feet and asked, “Are you all right?”

Christian looked down and wiped the spit off his chest distastefully. He ran his hands over the rest of his body.

“Did he do any face shots?” Andy asked, reaching over to check for damage around Christian’s eyes.

Christian batted his hand away gently. “I’m fine,” he snarled. He slipped out of Shannon’s grasp and stumbled to the car. “Let’s go,” he said. He yanked the door open and fell into the driver’s seat.

Andy laid his hand on Christian’s shoulder. “Chris, do you want one of us to drive?”

Christian batted him away, harder this time. “I said I’m fine!” he snapped. “Get in the fucking car!”

The other three looked at each other and got in.

“It’s okay, Chris,” Clark said. “You couldn’t have beaten him. You did more than any of us would have. We would have all run away.”

Andy and Shannon chuckled wordlessly, staring out the windows.

Andy leaned against the front seat. “Besides, your going to get even more damaged at the show tomorrow.”

“You don’t all have to comfort me,” Christian said in a low voice, staring at the dash board. “Just drop it, alright? Just leave me alone!” He started up the car and put a Misfits CD in the discman. He turned the volume up so that no conversation was possible.

The rest of the trip was quiet. He dropped Andy off first, followed by Shannon. When the car rolled to a stop in front of Clark’s house, Clark lingered in the back seat for a few seconds.

Christian stared at him in the rear-view mirror for a minute. “I have to get home, Clark,” he said at last. “If you have something to say, spit it out, alright?”

Clark hesitated for a minute, staring at Christian’s profile, breathing slowly through his nose. “Are you okay, man?” he asked.

Christian nodded.

“Do you want to hang out tonight?” Clark asked slowly

Christian shook his head. “Not now, maybe later.” He turned around and looked Clark in the eyes for the first time the whole trip. “Give me a call later, maybe we’ll do something. If not, I’ll be by tomorrow morning. Bring everything for the show. I’m not running around town any more than I have to. I want to get right on the road, and don’t want to go to everyone’s houses... especially if we have to waste time with detention.” He smiled.

Clark clapped him on the shoulder. “All right then. Maybe I’ll see later.”

Christian waited until Clark was inside, and then slowly drove away. At the end of Clark’s street, he jammed on the gas and sped the two blocks back to his house, parking in the street. He got out and went in through the basement door, turning on the lights as he went. The dim illumination revealed a finished basement with a ragged couch and two gold velvet chairs. He went to the stairs on the other side of the same wall and listened up them. The muffled jibbering of the television wafted down from beyond the door at the top. “Mom?” he yelled up the stairs.

“Yeah, Chris?” came a muffled voice from upstairs.

“I’m home!” he tossed his backpack into the chair and fell into the couch face down.

A couple seconds later, the door at the top of the stairs opened. “Your father needs you to work tonight,” she called from the top of the stairs.

He picked up his head and sighed. “I can’t I have homework.”

After a pause, she said, “As long as you do it.”

“I will.”

“How was school?”

“Fine,” he said quickly, twisting around and sitting up. “I need to borrow some money.”

She walked halfway down the stairs. “If you’d spend more time at work, you wouldn’t need to borrow money.” She reached the bottom of the stairs. “What do you need money for? Why don’t you use your own”

“I got mustard on my coat. I need to get it cleaned. I need all my money for the show.”

She sighed. “Oh, Christian...”

He got up and walked over to her. “Sorry mom,” he said exaggeratedly and hugged her. When she squeezed him back, he groaned in pain.

She took a step back and looked at him suspiciously. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice low. “Don’t tell me I can hug you hard enough to hurt you.”

He looked away shamefully. “I got in a fight at school,” he mumbled. “Some kid beat the hell out of me because I told a teacher he threw mustard at me.”

“Did he?” she asked, holding Christian at arms-length.

“Yeah,” Christian said meekly.

“Then why doesn’t he pay to get it cleaned? What happened when you told someone?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?!” she exclaimed. “I should call that school in the morning and have something done about it...”

“Mom!” Christian cried. “No, just let it be, I don’t want any more trouble with that guy.”

She sighed again. “How much is it?”

“Ten bucks.”

She pulled a bill out of her pocket and handed it to him.

“Thanks mom. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I won’t tell your father you were fighting. He’d throw a fit.”

Christian let go and went back to the couch. “Thanks, mom,” he said.

“Go take your coat down so you can get your homework done. Your father will want to see it if you can’t work.” She paused. “He might want to you to work tomorrow.”

Christian sighed. “I can’t work tomorrow, I have the show, remember?”

She shook her head. “You wanted to be a real employee, you can’t go making your own hours all the time. Someone will have to cover you tonight. You might have to work tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m going to the show right after school. I have tickets, and everyone is relying on me for a ride.”

“You’ll have to discuss this with him,” she said.

“There’s nothing to discuss!” He got off the couch. “I’m going to this show, and that’s the last word.” He opened the door and went down the hallway to the outside door. “I’ve been planning this for a long time, and nothing is stopping me.”

His mother came to the hallway door. “If you can’t work tomorrow, then go in tonight. Your father will let you do your homework there if it isn’t busy. You could also just do it in school tomorrow.” She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms.

“No!” Christian exclaimed. “I’m not going in tonight.” He went outside and slammed the door. He got in his car and sat there for a couple minutes, he head inches from the steering wheel. When a tear rolled down his cheek and dropped in his lap, he started up the car and backed out of the driveway.

NOWAR!

2011-10-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

NOWAR!
Scrawled sloppily in white paint
On the train trellis,
An unmistakable message,
One the president is sure to see
The next time he is driving
Through this run-down section of town
Or maybe the next time he visits
That dive bar you sprayed it on down the street

    This man, this brutal war-criminal
    Who has already declared he won’t listen
    Even if hundreds of thousands
    Or more
    Are screaming against him
    In cities across the nation
    Surely he will have a change of heart
    A brief foray into human decency
    When he sees this message

“The Road to War”

With hot breath
The serpent hisses
Paving the road to war with
His hateful speech
His nation cries out in unison
With the world
Against his actions
But he will not be moved
Will not

Relent
From the set course
Will not

Change his mind
Even though his willing victim declares
“Much blood will be shed on either side”
Firing his rifle in the air

“These are very dangerous times”
Declares the serpent’s patsies
Ensuring that this is necessary
The only question remaining

Who made it this way

“Osama on the Glass”

One more bogus terrorist tape
To keep us living in fear
The words of a terrorist
It might be authentic
he might be alive
Then why has there been no voice print
There would be no question then
But those questions are necessary
To sell Operation TIPS
To a populace in need
Of a false sense of security

“Even in the Tumultuous Chaos of the Racist-and-Greed-Fueled Battles Between Israelis and Palestinians Who Have Made Themselves Too Blind With Arrogance to See the Horror They Guiltlessly Spread, a Murder is Still a Murder”

I watched the Daniel Pearl execution video
On the internet the other day
It was even more disturbing than I expected it to be
Not the hack-and-slash the papers made it out to be
The gore its self limited to a few seconds
But they had the horrific audacity
To make him tell the world this will not be the end
That the would be seeing more of this
With images spliced in
Of dirty, frightened Palestinian children
And Bush shaking hands with Sharon
And Israeli tanks in the streets
To vindicate a murder
And it was hard to look into this man’s eyes
This man, who must have
Known
He was not going to get out of there alive
And the weight of the world was on his shoulders
Like the hands that held him down
While they separated flesh, muscle and bone with a machete
But the most disturbing part
Was that while he talked
He chuckled
Only once
But I found that to be the single most stomach-turning moment
Far beyond that of his dangling, severed head
This man
This doomed man
Who could not have been naive enough
To think he would ever see his wife again
Or even once see the baby she carried
He had the resolve to laugh
Just once

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 56

2011-09-23T05:46:00.000-07:00

Jesse

It actually costs more to have me working in the afternoon than it does to close the bar. I calculated one afternoon when I was doing absolutely nothing. We don't get a lunch-rush, and not even the hard-core drunks don't get out of bed until about 3pm. They have usually already eaten when they arrive, or would prefer to drink a Guinness instead. The best they would get out of me is a frozen pizza, or maybe a cheeseburger. I don't even know how to turn on the fryer. Tammy and Chris are here again, and neither has mentioned our altercation. They are sharing high times with to other drunks and waiting for the Iceman to arrive.

I’ve always been convinced this place was a front. I’ve tried to ferret out any drugs being hidden, but my hungry nose has always come up empty. The egg-shaped man in the suit doesn't seem completely out of place when he comes in. Usually, these customers only want to talk to Kevin.

He takes a seat at the back table, which leads the drunks at the bar to believe he might be the Iceman. If he hears them, he doesn't acknowledge.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask in a tone of voice that I hope conveys that I'm not coming to him. He looks familiar, but I don't think I know anyone with a beard that thick.

"No, I'm okay," he says. "I'm waiting for someone."

Is it the bum from the bus?

Mephis Tyr comes in and waves to the egg-shaped man on his way to the bar. How did I not smell the demon before? We make eye contact and he smiles. He ambles to the other end of the bar by the cash register, leaning on his elbow and wrapping his knuckles for service.

I walk slowly. His smile is forced and unfamiliar. “Can I help you?” I ask weakly.

“Do you know how to make a Manhattan?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. "If you've never made one, I'll just take beer. Let me know beforehand, please." He tries to look surprised, but I can see through it. "You're the kid from the bus stop!"

“I know who you are,” I whisper. “Please let me go.”

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “And two champagnes... three champagnes. Would you serve champagne to a sixteen-year-old girl? It's for a celebration.”

"No."

"Two champagnes," he says.

I’m having trouble getting the words out. “I don’t want what you think,” I say. “I rejected it all, I just want to live out my life.” I smile weakly. “I’m getting married. You all win, I’m not going to fight against you. I just want to live out my life and go home.”

Then he chills my bones. “You ain't got a choice in the matter. You got a job to do." I feel like running now, but he puts a cold hand on my forearm. “Stick around, the fun is about to start.” The smile broadens. “Do you know how to make a Manhattan or not?"

"No."

He rolls his eyes. "Give me three champagnes. Wait to see who the guest star is this episode.”

"We keep the champagne in the back," I say quietly.

"Hurry up. The boss is going to be thirsty." He joins the bum in a suit and I go in the back room to hide.

Go to Chapter 57

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 55

2011-09-19T04:39:00.000-07:00

Anton

Pete Stringer is the kind of guy you don't want to know that many details about. He graduated the middle of every class he's ever been in and always followed a career path with the closest money-to-danger ratio. His willingness to sit out jobs to do paperwork immediately endeared him to the SpectraCom bureaucracy, and he quickly rose in the ranks. "Fucking freeze!” shouts Pete Stringer, whipping his piece and pointing at me like an action hero. “Mutha-fuckin-freeze!” Pete Stringer keeps the weapon aimed a moment, and then does a victory dance. It would be easy to gut him right now, even without much of a cutting-tool sharper than his belt buckle, but we are both equally surprised by the flaming sword tip that erupts through his sternum. It retracts in time for Pete Stringer to face his killer.

“Sorry, Pete,” Martin says, or maybe Abraxas. Whomever is speaking, they step in close so that Pete Stringer can lay a hand on the shoulder of one, or the same, or even the other, who also underestimated Pete Stringer. The decorated SpectraCom agent sticks his gun under the chin Martin grew and blows apart the head in a bloody mist before Stringer falls down and dies himself. Martin is mostly headless, and the rest of his face is fallen on. The fire on the sword goes out.

“Anton, run!” Becki screams and pulls me back. I hold my ground.

“It’s okay,” I say between deep breaths. It will take a long time to put that back together.”

Go to Chapter 56

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 54

2011-09-16T04:38:00.000-07:00

Becki

Some people have come out to see what is going on, but I don't hear any fire alarms. Anton has my hand and we are running. I shout, “That man was from my record company!” Anton doesn't stop. Someone like him could never understand the importance of a record executive or tour manager.

Every time I slow, Anton tugs me a little harder. “You’ll be back on stage tomorrow if we don’t put some serious distance between those two.”

I stop, and when he tries to pull me, I hold my ground. “Should I go with him?”

Anton looks at me. He is smiling, but only a little.

I take a step back. “They'll follow me everywhere I go, won’t they? Should I go back? My songs make people happy. Is it wrong to deny that?"

"Becki, we don't have time to discuss the responsibilities of an artist..."

"A nine year old girl showed me the tattoo of my name she got on her thigh. How does a nine year old girl get a tattoo? I don't even have one yet!"

"Fine," he says. "I'm going without you. Go back, be the biggest star you can. If you don't end up fat, you'll at least die of a drug overdose."

He turns, but I grab his shoulder and ask "Am I doing the right thing to walk away?"

Anton shrugs. “What do you want?”

We run to the stairs.

Go to Chapter 55

Here in this Sorrow Chapter 8

2011-09-09T05:48:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8

Clark looked over his shoulder nervously as he and Andy crossed the parking lot.

“I told you, fuck-head,” Jim yelled from ten feet behind them. “Mind your own business, or you’re going to get your ass kicked too.” Ben Tramer and Nick Caufield laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You think Christian is coming back?” Andy asked, looking over at Clark, careful to not let his head turn too far.

“I hope so,” Clark answered in a mumble. “If he doesn’t, these guys might take us as a proxy.” They came to the edge of the school property and Clark craned his neck and strained to see down the street. “I’m just afraid Christian is going to try and fight them.” He pointed down the street. “Let’s walk down the street a little farther. Maybe they won’t follow.”

They started walking down the sidewalk past quaint houses with sprinklers running in the front yards and dogs barking in the back. Jim, Ben and Nick continued to hang about ten feet behind them, laughing and talking loudly. Clark and Andy tried to act casual, but their rigid stances and Andy’s stumbling betrayed them.

“He’s late,” Andy said, looking at his watch. “Maybe we should just call for another ride.”

“Who are we going to call? Your mom?” Clark asked. “No way, Christian will show. He’s not going to let these guys scare him away.”

“Yeah, and he’s going to get the shit kicked out of him!” Andy exclaimed. “If we aren’t here, he doesn’t have to stop. If we leave now, we save Chris a lot of pain and suffering.”

“These guys will just do this again tomorrow,” Clark said.

“If he doesn’t show up, fag,” Nick yelled, “Then we’re going to beat the shit out of all four of you tomorrow.”

“Figures that the guy who lives in the trailer park is willing to beat up a girl,” Clark said.

Andy shook his head. “Why the fuck won’t they just leave us alone?” He spun on his heels to face them. “Leave us alone!” he cried. “Just get the fuck out of here!”

Jim, Ben and Nick stopped, and Clark looked on nervously.

Jim pointed a stubby finger at him. “Don’t push me!” He advanced slowly on Andy. “All we want is Duke. I just want to teach him to respect people. If you want to take some kind of issue with me, then I’ll deal with you too.”

Andy let out a desperate sigh. “You fucking asshole! After what you did, you want to teach him a lesson? You started all of this!” He took a step forward. “You have a lot of nerve!”

“McCarthy, you little shit, are you trying to get your head kicked in?” Jim yelled, starting towards Andy.

“Shit,” Clark said, pointing down the street. “Here they come.”

Christian’s maroon Corsica rolled to a stop in front of them. Christian rolled down the window and smiled nervously. “Looks like a party,” he said with a quiver in his voice.

“Come on,” Shannon said, leaning across Christian. “Get in and let’s get out of here.”

Andy got in the back and slid over for Clark.

“Don’t leave so soon!” Jim said, running at the car. He grabbed Clark’s shoulder and pulled him away. Ben took hold of Clark and kept him at bay. “We waited a long time, Mr. Tardy. At least talk to us.”

Christian shook his head. “No way. Let Clark go.”

“I don’t think so,” Jim said gravely. “Get out of the car.”

Nick stepped forward and kicked the door closed, leaving a large dent in the panel. “You don’t need to leave yet,” he said in a low, empty voice.

“I don’t want to fight,” Christian said.

“We aren’t going to fight,” Jim said. “But if you don’t get out of the car, we’re going to kick Golding’s ass.”

Christian sighed and stared at the steering wheel for a moment. “Fine,” he whispered as he turned the car off. “Fine, I’ll get out. Just let Clark go.” He turned off the car. “Just let him go,” he repeated.

Ben shoved Clark towards the car, slamming him against it. He fell to his knees, struggling to catch himself on the door handle. Jim, Ben and Nick burst out laughing as Clark got to his feet.

“Clark!” Shannon ordered. “Get in, let’s get out of here!”

“No,” Christian said. “I’m not running from these assholes. I don’t care if they beat me up, I’m not running away.”

“Chris?” Shannon said, putting her hand on his arm as he got out and stared Jim in the eyes. She sighed and shook her head, and then followed Andy as he got out of the car. They leaned up against it, both looking tense.

Jim pointed at them. “What’s this, your crew? Are they going to take care of us if we start kicking your ass?” He laughed and punched Nick lightly.

Christian continued to stare in his eyes. “What do you want?

Jim pursed his lips and looked like he was about to scream. He exhaled hard and said politely, “Why were you trying to narc on me? That’s not very nice.”

Christian’s head snapped up, his eyes ablaze. “You want to talk about nice? You got fucking mustard all over me! I have to take my coat to the dry-cleaners now!” He reached out and snatched the collar of Jim’s shirt. “You motherfucker, you have a lot of nerve telling me what’s nice!”

At first, Jim was too shocked to respond, but recovered and grabbed Christian’s hand, squeezing until Christian winced and let go. He held up Christian’s hand and pushed him away. “If you have a problem with something I’ve done, then you come to me. We can talk it over and reach an agreement, like men.” He paused. “Just remember that you’re the one who wanted to act like children.” He took a step back and punched Christian in the stomach.

Christian doubled over, clutching his mid-section. He fell to his knees, gasping.

Jim put his left hand on Christian’s shoulder. “You like that? Do you like that, you God-damned faggot?”

Christian struggled to his feet and stared into Jim’s eyes. He batted Jim’s hand off his shoulder and sneered. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he growled. A broad smile crossed his face, and he spit in Jim’s eye.

Ben and Nick fell silent as Jim raised a finger to his face and wiped off the gob. “That’s twice, shit-head,” he snarled, landing another blow into Christian’s stomach. As Christian dropped, Jim fell on him, raining a flurry of blows. Christian tried to struggle away, but was pinned by the weight of his attacker. Ben and Nick kept Clark, Andy, and Shannon back as they struggled to help Christian.

After several long minutes, Jim got off Christian and stood up. He adjusted his shirt and rubbed at his bloodied knuckles. “I hope you learned your lesson, motherfucker,” he snarled and spit on Christian. “If you ever pull that shit with me again, I’ll put you in the fucking hospital, you understand?” Christian rolled over and got to his knees. Jim chuckled and pushed him over with his foot. Christian refused to relent, getting back to his knees. “God,” Jim said. “Don’t you ever give up? I just kicked your ass. Stay down!” He shook his head and kicked Christian in the stomach.

“Fuck you,” Christian snarled, fighting to his feet. “You’re fucking dead!”

Jim feigned terror. “You psycho little freak. Do you think I’m the least bit scared of you and your little friends?” He waved Ben and Nick to his side. “If you pull any shit tomorrow, we’ll be here at the same time, same place. If you try to leave early, your tires might be cut again, got it?”

Christian stared hatefully, but said nothing.

“Good,” Jim said. “Have a good night.”

Budger

2011-09-02T17:51:00.000-07:00

Dr. Filth hung around enough feminists to know his views on gender roles were outdated, but he did not agree they were oppressive. He believed everyone should have the freedom to do anything that does not hurt another consenting person. He'd fight tooth and nail to protect a man's right to wear a yellow flower dress, but Dr. Filth was not above chuckling when he saw it in a Buffalo bus station at 6am.

Dr. Filth judged men by their actions, and it was cutting in line and nothing else that made Dr. Filth decide he was going to scream at the transvestite. Dr. Filth had been on the road for a month foiling a villain that commandeered a train to drive it into the White House. The Super Hero Gang refused to pay enough to fly home, and Dr. Filth was not about to spend another minute on the rail.

Hitting a girl was out of the question, but a Tranny was by no means a woman until after the operation. In school, he'd been told that most preferred women sexually, but Dr. Filth had found that to be untrue in practice. Fighting a gay dude was not on the same level as hitting a girl, but all the gay dudes Dr. Filth knew where tough as nails. That's why it takes a full pack of rednecks to bring one down.

Budging was a known mortal sin from elementary school. While some would be squeamish, Dr. Filth was a superhero. If justice meant having his ass beat by a man in a yellow dress, that was the job description. The Tranny hadn't even tried to look the part, with pancake makeup smeared over three-day stubble and a shiny bald head under the pink granny-cap and yellow veil. If the Tranny thought he was accomplishing any deception, he was seriously deluded, and Dr. Filth was not about to call him 'she.'

The transfer in Chicago hadn't been until 2, and Dr. Filth had stood in line nearly an hour before he'd gotten on a bus. Before that had been sharing seats and had only a few naps in the previous day and a half. Waiting for the new bus to depart, Dr. Filth made conversation with an African missionary to the United States introducing people to Christ using Batman Versus Predator. Dr. Filth tried to explain that most religions gave superheros a free path to heaven, as long as they didn't kill. The missionary argued there was no wrong in Batman killing the Predator, but Dr. Filth held firm that the creature had committed suicide in dishonor, and that even in the sequels Batman had not killed any of the aliens.

Whether or not Batman could kill Aliens was still a matter of debate, and the Missionary first asked to sit with Dr. Filth. Dr.Filth wanted only to listen to a Faith No More album and go to sleep. The Missionary asked for Dr. Filth's address to come live in his home, for extra time to educate, but technically, Dr. Filth was homeless, and the barracks of the Superhero Gang were designated 'undisclosed,' as even the police could not know where these vigilante outlaws operated. Eventually, Dr. Filth gave a fake email to the Missionary and went to sleep with his backpack beneath him. He took inventory of his possessions every fifteen or twenty minutes until the Missionary reached his destination near the New York border. The sun was coming up as the bus pulled into Buffalo, but that half hour with a few other people on the silent bus was the best sleep he'd gotten since he left home.

She was married when they first met, soon to be divorced. Dr. Filth helped her out of a jam at 5am one morning, speeding across flat states, aimed for the desert. Her husband was the singer for a prog-rock band called Sado Massochrist, and she was only leaving him temporarily. South through Ohio and across the Midwest, spending the first night in a motel on the banks of the Mississippi River. Dr. Filth held Eva Lorraine in his arms as she cried herself to sleep. The second night, hey got drunk and she fucked him until he couldn't move. Their affair would not last, he'd been told, so Dr. Filth made plans to leave. The next day she was cold and icy as they arrived at her new home in the desert and at night he didn't feel welcome in a sleeping bag on the floor beside her. He bought bus tickets to Oregon the next day.

Chloe Isis was with a group of tree-sitters called Lapis Exillis, who were set up to fall for a terrorist logger cell in the Pacific Northwest. Dr. Filth assumed Chloe was in danger. When central command got wind Dr. Filth had become a superhero, it took a week of sleeping on a cot to prove he could be trusted. Chloe Isis hiked two days out of the woods to meet at a punk rock show in Eugene. She found her car ripped open by a bear and mangled beyond recognition.

The window was smashed, seats chewed, and a guitar in splinters. Campers kept food in white buckets that the bears learned to pop open, so campers learned to lock food in cars. The bears learned to look for the buckets through windows of cars and pop open the car. This taught the campers to hide the food in trunks or under blankets. The bears in turn learned to pop open any car they come across for a search.

The punk rock show was broken up by the loggers, but Dr. Filth was able to expose the agitators and save the day. Chloe feared the event was a distraction and needed to get back to her tree. Dr. Filth drove Chloe's car to Olympia where it could be repaired and donated to the cause. With the loggers defeated, Dr. Filth was almost out of money. The Lapis Exilis kids couldn't afford to pay, and the Superhero Gang would only spring for bus tickets home.

Seattle to Metro City was a few hours short of four days by bus, and Dr. Filth had only a few more hours until he could sleep in a real bed. A friend in Syracuse made up a guest room and promised to roast endless meats to make up for the vegan diet Dr. Filth had subscribed on the last week in Olympia . He couldn't find any work himself, and beggars couldn't be choosers. Even the chain stores in the mall required a resume, and Dr. Filth didn't know how to write one of those. His welcome grew thin after he broke his toe coming home from the bar one night, and could no longer contribute to the commune. The train theft was the last straw

Dr. Filth didn't care that the bus from Chicago got in too late for the connection in Buffalo. The next bus departed in less than two hours, and the cafe was not only in operation, but open. He'd squirreled away five bucks emergency money for coffee and a sandwich. Dr. Filth needed only to check his ticket at the counter and he could drink as much coffee as he pleased. He'd waited much longer than two hours on this trip. he could waste a couple more if he had coffee.

Patiently, he'd counted down the bus riders that had come to check their tickets ahead of him. There were quite a few for this early, but none seemed to be taking the bus Dr. Filth wanted, so he could probably score a pair of seats to himself again. Only seven remained ahead and the process seemed refined. Only five remained until Dr. Filth could be stamped and processed and move on to the Black Gold. Only three remained...

And the Tranny ran to the front. Was it politically incorrect to fight a Tranny for this? Dr. Filth wouldn't swing first, of course. If the interaction remained verbal, he knew he had the moral high ground. Plus, the Tranny's pipes bulged like yams. If the confrontation became physical, Dr. Filth would be in his right to defend himself, and not likely to win. However, this budger stood between Dr. Filth and coffee.

"Excuse me," Dr. Filth said, then a second time more sternly when the Tranny failed to acknowledge. "We are all standing in line!" The Tranny looked over his shoulder, annoyed with Dr. Filth. That made Dr. Filth step out of the line. He convinced himself he'd be readmitted. "You can wait like the rest of us."

The Tranny looked again, and this time recognized. "You're Dr. Filth!" he said with a smile. "I saw you on TV with Stupendous Guy!" The rest of the line was looking now, and it was Dr. Filth's turn to blush. Before he could affirm he was that very icon, the Tranny said, "Who ever heard of a superhero that can convince himself anything? You look like a dirt bag with those dreadlocks." Then to the desk clerk. "Which way is the bathroom?"

The clerk pointed, and the Tranny walked away, giving Dr. Filth a savage look. Dr. Filth did not watch to see which bathroom she used.

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 53

2011-08-22T05:45:00.000-07:00

Anton

I have only a moment to savor my ultimate victory before we are interrupted by a knock. Becki looks at me, nervous. There shouldn't be anyone that could get so close without my notice, and even though I know I locked the door, this normal man opens it regardless. He has a SpectraCom black jacket and hat with yellow badge. This is Pete Stringer, whose job is to make sure SpectraCom receives only good press. Normally, even the most mean-spirited thug would be dead before he knew I was looking at him.

However, Abraxas crashes through the floor-to-ceiling window and entangles me in the heavy curtain. Becki screams and by the time I’ve gotten my head free, the goon has snagged her and slammed the door. I break free of Abraxas and tear off the curtain. I have bigger concerns. In Martin’s hand is a broadsword that ignites with a flame the color of blood.

I barely dodge his charge that cuts in twain both the flat-screen TV and the entertainment center that holds it. “This isn’t what you want, Abraxas,” I say.

“It’s exactly what I want,” Martin says, circling me. We both know that even the sword doesn’t give him much advantage. He needs to be careful if he wants to survive.

“To be human? Was that the only way you could figure me out?” I feint to his left and then try to grab his sword arm, but Abraxas stays out of reach.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

The entertainment center is burning. The fire alarm sounds and the sprinklers turn on. It’s enough of a distraction that I can grab Abraxas and throw him through the cinder block wall into the hallway, where people from other rooms are already congregating in hopes of a panic. Martin gets up quickly, but not before his sword sets the carpet and a chair on fire. This causes screaming.

I don’t give Abraxas a chance to take an offensive, jumping through the hole and pounding my fists at his face. People are running back and forth past us, and I’m having trouble keeping control as I’m pushed and shoved, making him wave the sword more wildly. I smash Martin’s head into the wall and a mirror, but he catches my collar and yanks me to the side. I stumble and fall into an old woman that aborted all her chances at a legacy.

Martin jumps on me and I flip him through the door of room 2440. The terrified couple inside are in town to stand at the window of "Good Morning America." They stamped Martin to get away from the burning sword, and I dash for the stairway. Only a few people have realized this is where they should be instead of waiting for the elevator, and I can hear Becki screaming over them. She isn’t far away.

I leap over the banister to the next landing and down again to the next floor. I see her head pulled out of view before Abraxas catches me. The metal banister pops like a string against the burning sword, but I am able to avoid and slug him in the mouth, breaking Martin’s jaw. The injury doesn’t last long and slows him down even less. I dodge three consecutive swings with the sword before he is able to kick me in the stomach and bring me down with an elbow to my temple.

“Anton!” Becki screams, further away than I’d like her to be. I duck away from Abraxas and over the rail to the next floor, but he lands on top of me and throws me through the fire door to the twentieth floor. I’m braced for his attack when he jumps through the hole and I reverse his charge, putting his head through a small table for flowers by the door. I pick him up by the jacket with both hands and bash him against two walls and down on his head. If I can get him to drop the sword, he’ll be much less likely to do any permanent damage. He’s holding on much longer than I ever would have given him credit to a human body. I drop on him with my knees and punch his head into the floor, and stand up to throw him again. Abraxas lands five yards down the hall. Fire alarms sound now. People are looking out of the rooms. Two plush chairs sit by the elevator. I throw them both, but Abraxas cuts them down in the air. The wreckage ignites.

“You can’t keep this up forever,” I say, hands on my hips, catching my breath. “Not with Martin’s body. He’s got to break some time.”

“I won’t let you have her,” Abraxas says. He is calm, despite the screaming people on both sides of us. He leaps and misses me with the sword, but connects with a punch that puts my head through the door of room 2042. People inside turn on the lights by the bed. Martin roudhouse kicks my neck and the door gives way. I land in a heap of splinters and debris. He picks me up and throws me to the foot of the bed. I kick up with both feet to deflect when he jumps to impale me. He lands on the bed, which catches fire before the man and woman under the covers are able to fight free.

They are the Jones's, and they have come to New York for a craft show in Rockefeller Plaza. They scream and dodge the burning blade that ignites the headboard and end table as well. The man tries to attack, and Abraxas cuts him down without noticing, which does not provide me with enough time to get a good grip around his neck. I flip him over my back and crush the desk, narrowly avoiding a slash of his blade. I’m better prepared and get behind him, entangling his arms in a full-nelson, smashing him through the heavy glass window.

Abraxas catches the window frame, glass protruding through his hand, and nearly pulls me out with him. I ruin the jacket sleeve on a shard larger than my hand, but the wound is none-too-spectacular. I bash his nose with the heel of my hand, but he is still swinging that sword. “Don’t you ever give up?” I ask, pushing his shoulder and peeling his fingers off the window frame.

“Would you?” he growls, and I don’t have to answer, because I finally dislodge him from the window. He doesn’t fall before he can grab my jacket, but he does have to drop the sword to do so. It lands in the parking lot below, skewering the front seat counsel between a new father and the first hooker he was about to kiss. He was so close to losing his fingers that he orders her out of the car and remains devoted to his loving wife ever more. Luckily, he gets out to take a walk before I raise my fists over my head and smash them on Martin’s face, hard enough that he tears the lapel of my jacket and can’t see enough to grab anything else. Abraxas lands on the same car, tearing a hole in the roof that leaves him sitting on the driver’s seat with his feet over the hood. His bones knit fast and he stands up, collecting his sword. Luckily, he can’t fly.

Room 2042 is completely ablaze, and the woman has made the correct choice to abandon the husband. Turns out he wasn’t all the way dead. I’m not going to burn with him either. Taking a deep breath, I leap through the flame to the hall, which his full of smoke. Fire hurts.

The smoke alarm is going off on five floors, so the stairway has more people. Still, most are waiting for the elevators, which are still moving but are no longer stopping at the affected floors. Floor fifteen sounds as good as any place to start looking. Stringer is a heavy smoker, and will not be able to get the fighting girl very far without anyone noticing.

I hear Becki screaming as soon as I open the door. Domestic abuse is quite acceptable in a place like this, as victims can't assign guilt through a heavy door to residents who should have done more than wait for security. They are at the elevator when I come around the corner, and Stringer heaves Becki over his shoulder when he sees me. She catches herself in the door of the elevator when Stringer tries to get inside. He pinions her inside, but Becki’s kicks keep Stringer from pressing any buttons until I’ve already reached inside the car. Stringer kicks me in the face but isn’t able to push me out of the car. We wrestle and he drops Becki, who kicks him the side as soon as I get Stringer under control.

The whole event wouldn’t have lasted more than a second longer if Abraxas didn’t cut open the bottom of the elevator and punch his way through the hole. Stringer is faster than I gave him credit. He recovers fast enough to get out of the car before one of Martin’s swings cuts through the ceiling and the cable. The rest of the car looks like a kiddie-sitter class cut it up for paper dolls. Not a moment too soon, I grab Becki around the waist and leap hard enough to shoulder through a larger hole and grab the dangling cable as soon as I feel the car fall. Martin tries to follow, but I kick him in the face to keep him inside as the car plunges out of sight.

The cable, composed of thousands of metal wires that are unwinding at high speeds and shredding my jacket and the flesh underneath, is suddenly free of an enormous weight and is flying around and unwinding at high speeds. I have all my wits to keep Becki on the inside so I take the brunt as we smash off the concrete walls. Becki does not splatter like an egg. I feel like I did.

A red light grows brighter in the distance, bouncing left and right until it becomes Abraxas using the flaming sword to propel himself from wall to door. When he reaches us, I kick off from the wall and drive him with my shoulder through the wall to Floor 17. It hurts me really bad to fling my body in such a way to ensure Becki comes out unharmed.

Martin is not moving. I hadn’t been entirely positive that Martin’s body would give out after consuming Abraxas. Apparently I can hit him hard enough.

“We don’t have very long,” I say. Becki is staring in shock. I take her hand and have to yank to get her attention. She is fixed on Martin, who lays spread eagle with that sword a few inches from his hand. The fire has gone out. “Come on,” I repeat. “He doesn’t give up like that.”

Go to Chapter 54

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 52

2011-08-19T05:44:00.000-07:00

Becki

I don’t talk to Anton for the rest of the cab ride back to the hotel. I turn on the TV as soon as we are in our room so I can think of something else. Instead, every channel has pictures of me. They alternate between sad music and weird montages of my songs. Soundbites piece together the story as I cycle the stations.

"Tragedy today/Becki Murphy/Becki Mur/tragedy/singer was killed/kidnapped from her/kidnapped and murdered/body has not been/Becki Murphy/concert tickets will not be refunded/Murphy’s parents could not/tragedy/Becki/kidnapped/.directly, but an official statement thanked the public for all the support."

I turn back to the channel that mentions my parents.

"They said that Becki would be happy to know that so many people cared about her, and that all she ever wanted to do was make people happy..."

I turn off the TV. I can hear Anton moving around in his room, turning off the lights, going to bed.

I go out to the balcony and stare down over into New York City. I’ve heard so many bad things about this place, and I see now that it’s true. When my tour was coming here, one of the roadies said, “Every second someone dies, and it’s usually in New York.”

Far below us, horns are blaring, people are yelling. People are thinking about me dead. They are reading articles with quotes from my parents who hate each other. They are sad because I will never release another album. They want to know more about me. People that didn’t care before will now watch specials about me on television. The whole world will love and miss me now, instead of the millions that did yesterday.

I hate them. I truly hate them with all my heart. I want to scream when I hear my name mentioned and rip up every magazine with me on the cover. I want to cry every time I’m recognized. I want them to have never known about me in the first place. I want them to never see me again. I want to never feel their eyes again. I want to be dead.

I kick off my shoes through the iron rungs and watch as they seem to fall forever. I lose track before they hit the pavement. I’m crying pretty hard as I climb over the railing.

There is so much I’ll never see.

I take a deep breath and lean forward.

The sliding glass doors open and I manage to catch myself. I expect a hand to fall on my shoulder, for him to catch me. If I fell, would he save me? Does he still have wings?

Instead, after a long period of silence, he just says, “Suicides go to Hell,” and goes back inside.

I get down off the rail and stand there for a long time before going in as well. I think about the swamped autograph signings, and the one where a riot started because I left before everyone was through the line. It didn’t matter that the signing went an hour longer than scheduled, and some people had been through the line three or four times. I think about the rumors, the websites, the rip-off artists trying to copy my career. They can have it! I think about the people that clog the streets around my house when I’m home, to the point where my neighbors want to move because of me. I think about the people that come at night to steal things from our lawn while I’m away on tour. I think about the people I've never met detailing my childhood on television. One family petitioned to have us kicked out of town because we were creating a public nuisance. I used to play with their kids when we were little. That one made me cry.

I think about my parents, forced to smile at each other in magazines, unable to work out their problems because my record company thinks it would be bad for my career. I’ve heard people describe themselves as feeling like a piece of meat, but it wasn’t until now that I know what they meant.

When I come inside, Anton is cutting lines of cocaine on the glass coffee table. "You had me worried for a minute," he says and snorts a line with a $100 straw.

“Anton,” I say, and he pauses before doing another line. “You can grant me any wish?” I ask. “You can do anything for me, if I commit this murder?”

He shakes his head. “Well, there are some limits to my powers, but I doubt you will ask me for anything I can’t grant you.”

“I don’t want my name to be famous anymore,” I say. A weight tears free in my chest with the words and I feel like I can stand up straight for the first time. “I want people to lose interest in me. I want no one to buy my album ever again. I want people to try and sell my used albums, and get so frustrated that no store will buy it that the discs are broken and thrown away. I want to be forgotten. By next week, I want the world to not care about me at all. I want to go home, see my parents, and try to find the life we used to have.”

He raises his eyebrows and nods. “Asking for big things, huh?” he asks as he paces back and forth a couple times. “Changing the opinion of the whole world, that’s a big one. I’m impressed.”

“Is it too much?” I gasp, terrified that the one thing that could give worth to this ordeal would be over the top for even the Devil to accomplish.

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “I said it was difficult, I didn’t say it couldn’t be done, especially in turn for you murdering the Savior.” He chuckles and puts on his suit jacket. “That’s why I chose you and not some thug off the street. Most other people would be asking for the opposite. You know how boring of a wish that is to grant?” He inspects himself in the mirror behind the dresser. “Besides, just look at history and see how many times I’ve changed the world’s opinion. I’ve just never had to change it so quickly.”

I hardly hear him, whispering the word, “Murder.” It doesn’t even sound so distasteful anymore.

“So you’ll do it?” he asks.

I nod solemnly.

“Good,” he says. “Now get ready to go, you can sleep in the car.”

Go to Chapter 53

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 51

2011-08-15T05:43:00.000-07:00

Agent Martin

The lower levels of the tenement reek of urine. The door on the third floor is cracked and has chipped paint. My knocks alone should be enough to tear the door off the hinges. I tap my toe while I wait.

The giant black man wouldn't normally look so fearful, but he just found the corpse in the back room, and the girl he was working with fled the scene. I flash him my badge. “Barney, I’m Special Agent John Martin, FBI, and we need to talk." He stares at me, eyes going past, so I grab his hand to focus him.“Barney, I don’t have much time, I need you to stay with me.” I smile and say. “We can make this easy if you tell me about the man who was here. I'd like to come in, please."

“The Don... The Don, he’s dead.”

I push him gently on the chest and he backs up a step. “Barney, I don’t care about the Don. There are more pressing issues at hand, and I need you to focus.” I push the door closed behind me and guide Barney toward the couch. "The girl was here with him? Where can I find him?”

“The Don... The Don...”

I slice off his nose with a serrated dagger that is now in my hand. He wails, clutching his bleeding orifice, falling to his side. “Damn it, Barney, I told you, I need you to focus.” I put a foot on his chest and start to press. “Was there a girl with him? A pretty girl, she had blonde hair, looked a lot like that singer.”

“Girl,” Barney moans.

Barney's ribs crack and poke into his major organs. Barney screams. “I can take this information from you, whether you know it or not. It's in here, soaked into your body, and will hurt a lot less if you tell me what I want to know." When he doesn’t answer quickly enough, I take off one of his ears, making him cry harder.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

I didn’t want to be mean to poor Barney, didn’t really have the time, but I know he has what I’m looking for. I heft the giant of a man up and slam him down on the wooden coffee table, affixing him with leather straps and slicing off his clothes. He tries to fight, but even if his body wasn't wrecked it wouldn't do him any good. “This is the last chance to talk, Barney.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!” he screams and cries.

In my briefcase, there is a cage full of white mice and a metal bowl with leather straps on it. I put the mice in the bowl and strap it around Barney’s stomach, and then take a blow torch out of my briefcase as well. I doubt Barney can see what is happening through the blood in his eyes, but the skittering on his stomach must be making him wonder.

I light the torch and put it to the metal bowl. The temperature within rises quickly, driving the mice into a panic. They dig first at the bowl, and then into Barney’s softer flesh. Then they start to gnaw. I turn off the fire to give the mice a chance to enter his guts. Barney is screaming so hard he is coughing. I wait until he is quiet, muscles so taut I think he will pop.

"Can you think of anything?" I whisper in his ear. "Did Eleazar say anything at all?"

Barney rolls his head to the side and releases a raspy exhale. Only one eye is open. "Upstate," he says, barely able to form the words.

I leave him tied to the table so the mice can finish their meal. Some will eventually chew their way out his flanks and survive this terrible ordeal. Barney wasted enough of my time.

Go to Chapter 52

Here in this Sorrow Chapter 7

2011-08-12T05:43:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7

When they got to the rusty maroon Corsica, Christian got in, tossed his coat and backpack into the back seat and unlocked the passenger’s door, turning it on. Shannon tossed her handbag behind her and buckled her seatbelt.

“I’m glad to see you cleaned it,” she said, leaning over the seat to peer down at the floor. “I’d hate to be curled up in the garbage for two hours.”

“I did it last night after I dropped you off,” He said. He put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot, narrowly clearing the rusty gold Honda Civic next to him. “It took me an hour.”

She chuckled. “There were certainly enough fast food bags and soda bottles!” She looked over the back seat again in awe and said, “My god, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the floor. How much did you make in can returns?”

“I filled up a whole garbage bag. It’s in the trunk,” he said, turning on the CD player. The Exploited boomed out of the stereo and he turned it down. “Where are we off to?”

“It’s fucking hot out,” she sighed. “We should have brought Andy with us so we could use his pool.”

Christian smirked. He pulled up to the entrance of the parking lot and looked around. “Your hair would turn green,” he said as he pulled onto the road.

“That would kick ass!” She pulled a lock of her hair in front of her eyes. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do next.” She pulled her legs up into an Indian-style sitting position.

Christian looked over at her. “Swim around in chlorine until it changes?” He smiled. “You should keep the pink for a while. It looks good.”

“You think so?” she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Yeah,” he sneered. “It’s sexy.” He licked his lips exaggeratedly.

She raised her eyebrows. “You think Michael Graves will agree?”she asked, running her fingers through her hair like a fashion model.

“You gonna try to hook up with him?” Christian drove with one wrist draped over the top of the wheel, and his other arm out the window.

“Oh yeah, baby,” She said, picking up a Misfits CD off the seat. She looked down at the band photos on the back. “He’s a sexy boy.”

“What about Jerry?”

“Yuck! That would be like doing it with my dad!” She tossed the case back on the seat. “I can’t believe we’re finally going to see them.”

“Maybe you could sweet-talk him into going to the prom with you,” Christian said, elbowing her. “Then Clark and I could go as zombies.”

“You're going with Clark?” she asked. “You really want people to think you’re gay, don’t you? Besides, I thought you wanted to go to the prom with me?”

“Of course I do,” Christian said. He turned up the stereo as “Don’t Pay the Poll Tax” started. “You want to just go to the mall?”

Shannon mulled it over for a few seconds. “We might as well. There’s nothing else to do.”
Christian chuckled. “We could always go back to school.”

“Okay, Andy,” she said with a laugh.“I can’t believe those two wouldn’t cut. They’re both such mamma’s-boys.” She rolled her window down and hung her feet out. “Now, I can understand Andy going into school on Friday. There is no way his mom would let him take the day off. What about you? Why are you going in?”

He looked over at her and looked away. “I have stuff I have to do. I figured I’d take advantage of being alone that day. I didn’t count on Andy being there.”

“What could you possibly have to do?”

“I have to work in the computer rooms,” he said, his voice a monotone. “I have to get my psychology paper typed.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “I thought you weren’t going to do it.” She jabbed her finger into his shoulder. “Who are you and done with my Christian Duke?”

He shrugged. “I changed my mind. You know, I might as well graduate. I’m just going to go in and work on it all day. I’m not even going to any classes.”

“What a change,” she said sarcastically, punching him lightly in the arm. “I bet all your teachers will be disappointed that it came so late in your career.”

He smiled. “Everyone needs goals.” The music stopped and Christian looked down at the discman on the seat. “You want to change that?”

Shannon picked it up and put the Exploited back in its case. She dug through the stack of CD’s and replaced it with TSOL.

“Good choice,” Christian said, as “Superficial Love” started playing.

“So, have you decided what you’re going to do when we’re done with school?”

Christian looked over at her for a moment. “My dad wants me to work in the gun store this summer, but I don’t think I will.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll move somewhere and be homeless.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. “The singer from one of the bands that came here last year told me that San Francisco is the best place in the world to be homeless. Besides, I’ve never even been off the East Coast.”

Shannon grabbed his arm. “You should come out to Berkeley with me. It's just across the Golden Gate. We’ll get an apartment. You can work while I’m going to school.”

“So you want me to support you?” he asked with a laugh.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “I’ll work too. I just don’t want to go out there alone.”

He pursed his lips and sighed through his nose. “I’ll think about it.” He came to a traffic light at the entrance to the mall and stopped.

She shook her head. “What have you really got here?” She asked. “Andy and Clark will be gone, and would you really want to live with them, anyway? I’m way more fun.” She paused and her voice lowered. “Or you can stay here and work in your dad’s gun shop.”

He sighed. “I’ll think about it. You know I can’t stay here.”

“You have to come with me. Andy and Clark are both going to be in Florida. They’re going to only be about two hours from each other.”

“Maybe you should go to Florida,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” she said in a low growl. “Have you ever been there?”

Christian shook his head.

“Oh! It’s disgusting!” she cried. “My family went there when I was thirteen, and I hated every minute of it. The whole state is like a giant theme park in Hell. All the people that live there are like animatronic puppets, existing only for the pleasures of the tourists.” She shook her head. “The whole place is so fake, it’s all too good to be true. I don’t even want to go and visit Clark and Andy there. At least I haven’t seen how bad California is yet.”

Christian nodded. His face was drawn and he stared at the steering wheel. “I’m going to have to figure something out. I don’t think I have a lot of choice in what I do after school.” The light turned green, and he pulled into the mall parking lot.

“What do you mean?” Shannon cried. “Are you going to let your parents force you to work? You really are turning into Andy!”

He circled around the back of the mall and claimed a parking space near the door. “No, it’s just... I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me this summer.” He turned around and made sure the back doors were locked. “Maybe I’ll just be an outlaw. I’ll go out on the lam, living by my wits.”

“And why are you going to be running? Why are you going to need to be an outlaw? Somehow, I don’t think the cops are going to chase you cross-country for spray-painting ‘Misfits’ on a wall.” She got out of the car and locked her door.

“No!” he protested, getting out. “I’ll do something real. I’ll kill the president or something.”

Shannon laughed. “You’re going to kill the president, huh?” She cocked her head, mulling it over. “Well, it’s a step in the right direction. Just make sure you get him before they get you.” She smiled. “And don’t worry, if you ever need a place to hide-out, you can always count on me.” She punched him lightly in the arm.

Christian laughed. “I was hoping so, because Clark would run his mouth and blow my cover on the first day.” He furrowed his brow. “And Andy, he wouldn’t even let me near his house.” He pushed open the doors to the main entrance and held them for Shannon.

She smiled and bowed to him, insisting on holding the next door. “Oh, man! He would freak out! He’d be all worried that the pigs would tell his mom about the Victoria’s Secret catalog he keeps hidden under his bed.”

Christian shook his head. “No way. Since he turned eighteen, he’s dedicated himself to the real thing. He has made me drive him down to the porn shop at least once a week. We went at midnight on his birthday. He even used the booths. Talk about uncomfortable for me waiting was.”

“So gross, Chris!” she cried, slapping his shoulder. “You loved every minute of it!”

“I’m the only one who knows.,” Christian said. “He won’t even tell Clark” Christian took a deep breath. “I’m going to get my ass kicked later.” He looked over at her, and then at the ground.

“Just stay in the car. Andy and Clark will meet us out front,” she said, rubbing his arm. “Those fuckheads won't do anything in front of the school. Don’t worry about it.”

Christian shook his head. “I’m so sick of Jim,” he said. “I just want him to die. I just want all of them to die.” He curled his lip menacingly at an old woman that gasped at them.

Shannon was sarcastic. “Don’t say that!” She looked out the window. “It’s not like they deserve it or anything.” When Christian stopped to look at sunglasses in a display case, she grabbed his arm and dragged him away. “That’s the last thing you need in your wardrobe, more black! And that’s coming from me...” she trailed off when she saw caught the sad look in his eye. “What?” she asked.

“I just wish the school would blow up, or something. I’d be willing to die if I knew Jim Smitt was in Hell.”

“Now really don’t say that,” she said, punching him in the arm. “I’d pay a lot of money to be at his funeral, but I’d never trade my life for that piece of garbage.” She leaned against him and said, “I think you’re letting the music go to your head.”

“Music doesn’t make monsters,” he said. When they passed a giant clock suspended above them, he looked up at it. “We don’t have to be back for three hours. Want to go see a movie?”

She looked up at the clock. “What do you want to see?” she asked skeptically. “I don’t have much money, and I want to save it for the show.”

Christian waved his hand. “It’s on me,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?” she asked, gabbing his hand.

He nodded and smiled. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” she said, leaning against him. “You rule, Chris,” she said.

His cheeks turned red and he looked away. “I do my best,” he said, putting his arm around her.

The only movie playing was a romantic comedy. They took seats in the back talking loudly. A couple in the middle of the theater yelled to be quiet three times but never looked back. Half way through the movie, the couple left. Christian and Shannon stayed until the end, still laughing when they exited the side door of the theater into the parking lot.

As Christian looked around, his smile faded. “God,” he whispered. “There’s no one around. It’s like the whole world is dead.” He looked around again slowly, and then gave Shannon a grave look. “Did you ever get that feeling?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What feeling?”

“That everything’s gone, that there’s nothing out there,” he said. “Look around, look around and listen,” he said, waving to encompass the whole parking lot. “There are all these cars, but nothing else. No people, no noise, no life. It’s like a zombie movie. This is a major cultural center, and nothing!”

She shook her head. “This is hardly a ‘major cultural center,’” she said with disdain. “It’s the fucking mall, Chris.”

“How can you say this isn’t a cultural center?” he asked. “How many lives are centered here? It’s not just the mall-rats.” he pushed open the doors and they walked back inside. “This is the place our parents go to ‘do things.’ When we were all younger, this was the place we would go to hang out. We can buy clothes, entertainment and food. If there was a place to sleep, we wouldn’t have to leave the mall. We could have our own little colony inside and never have to worry about mother nature again. When the world gets too polluted, we can just seal off the exits and never have to worry about a thing again.”

“Oh yeah?” Shannon said. “And where are we going to get money? Where are all these things that we buy going to come from? Your master plan has a flaw.”

“First of all, it isn’t my plan, it’s society’s. There are several options there. First of all, we could build bigger and better malls, where goods could be produced right within. The other option, is that we continue to become more like ants. We’ll live inside and never see the light of day. Just like ants, we’ll have a lower class that has to live in the harsh climates to get products for the higher classes. We’ll work different jobs inside the mall, and the higher your class, the less you’ll have to work.”

“And how is your class going to be determined?” poorly feigning seriousness.

“Why, the ones who own the stores, of course,” he said. “If you are in possession of where the product is stored and distributed, people are going to be giving you money for it, so you won’t need to work. You would have people working for you, selling your goods, and you pay them. Life will continue on as normal in the mall, but your bosses will be your leaders. It could even end up with wars being fought between stores, people dying for a new pair of GAP jeans. Or armies from bigger malls could come to absorb the smaller malls. This is the eventual progression of our capitalist society.”

“Now you sound like the crusty punks,” she said, laughing. She pointed to the pet store. “Let’s go play with the puppies,” she grabbed his hand and dragged him into the pet store, to the big pens where three black lab pups romped in an open box. Shannon reached in to scratch, and the dogs chewed her fingers and yipped. “They’re so adorable!” She cried. She picked up one of the black dogs and looked in its eyes. “I want one so bad, but my mom would kill me!”

“The hell with her,” Christian said. “‘Break all the fucking rules and go to Hell with Superman.’”

“‘And die like a champion.’” She picked up a dog. “I wish you had your coat,” she said. “We could just steal it. No one is looking.”

Christian smiled. “This weekend we will,” he said.

“Really?” Shannon cried, putting the dog back with its litter-mates. “I’ll tell my mom that we found it wandering on the street. She won’t be able to make me give it up!”

Christian reached down and scratched a few of the pups and smiled at Shannon. As he stood up, his eyes settled on a small clock hanging on the wall. “Well,” he sighed. “I guess it’s time to face the music.”

Doom City

2011-08-05T05:05:00.000-07:00

“Doom City”

The warmth has brought out everyone
but now the night chill has sent them to the bar
Everyone is in here tonight
I’m at a table by the door
Talking with a regular that claims he knows James Taylor
He has a clay sculpture
Whose mutant head comes off
And has been toyed with by everyone
There had been talk earlier
About a collection for Darrell
Who was arrested here last night
For beating a skin-head
Darrell has a heart of gold
But a fist of stone
And that’s what gets him in trouble.
I’ve been quiet all night
Most of the people here are acquaintances
I tell them “hello” when I see them and shake their hands
I’ve had occasional conversations with most of them
But I only have two or three friends here tonight
I push my pint glass back and forth on the table between my hands
My liquor has was gone a while ago
And all the ice has melted
it splashes with each push and occasionally spills over
On my hands
A pretty girl sits down at our table next to me
She looks drunk
And probably stoned
I ask her if she is a local or a student
The locals hate the students
And the students hate the locals
I never figured out why
And I don’t believe in it
But I don’t feel like being scorned by this girl
Just because of my tragic birthplace
She tells me she is a local
But goes to school here as well
I invite her into the conversation I’m having with Kyle Fire
About Burroughs and other semi-obscure literature
But she hasn’t read any of it
Or even seen the movies
I make small-talk on the side with her
She seems nice
Not one of the sleazy girls you would meet in the bars down the street
She keeps telling people her name
But each time I miss it
Over the din of the bar
The life of the city
No one can find a happy medium on the juke box
It goes from Dylan to the Beatles to Guns N Roses to Shania Twain
Everyone says this bar has the best juke in town
It still doesn’t match the charm
Of the monotone lady
That sang and played keyboards at the Royale
But the Royale is gone
Up in smoke last year
Everyone wants to replace it with this bar
But it’s just not the same
Life really revolves around the bars here
That’s why it’s called the Parlor City
I read a quote last week
Someone passing through said
This is
The kind of city where writers are supposed to grow up
I guess that’s good for me
But why all the other lost souls
That flirt about
And linger here
I know so many people that will never leave this place
It makes me sad
Because I know they can never achieve here
But then again
It’s so hard for me to leave as well
It’s so easy to be a big fish
In this little pond
I’ve been trying to escape
For over a year now
But it’s too hard
I’m too scared to go
I know it so well here
As cliche as the back of my hand
And it knows me
It doesn’t want me to go
But comfort is the murderer of creativity
So I know I can’t stay
Or I will always be here
The big crisis lately
Is the graffiti being sprayed on the walls around town
The mayor has vowed to stop it
I’m sure the idea of positive encouragement
Trying to get these “criminals” to help beautify the city
Has never crossed his mind
It’s hard to get flowers to bloom in cement
It doesn’t mean I won’t try and damage it
As much as possible
Before I leave
Because, if I can’t beat ‘em
I’ll just have to hit harder
I won’t allow myself to believe
That all hope is lost here
No matter what the city keeps telling me

“Cavalry Cemetery Six and Twenty-Two”

Two walkers pass me as I sit on the rock
Their brows are sweaty and their plump bellies protrude
The woman looks and is puzzled, but the man is unconcerned
There are birds singing on all sides of me
One in the boughs of a pine tree on my right
It mixes with the far-off obscenity of a car alarm
And the destructive progress of a constructive vehicle in reverse
The air is cool and the breeze is gentle
And I wish I could sit here forever
A statue among the grave-stones
Silently watching time pass
People, cars, life
I can see the highway in the distance
Multicolored glossy ants racing across it tracks
They are all people I will never know
Never meet, never hear their stories
Would I want to?
My mother used to sled down this hill
In a bygone time when this land was wild
Before the grocery stores, before the highway, before the motels, before the mall
It seems perverse to me,
To think that someone would come along and raze the land like this
But I buy into it every day, so I guess I have no right to complain
Still, I look at the expanse of the field
Soon to be leveled out for more bodies or more buildings
(skeletons either way)
And I wish I could see it when the whole hill was like this
In a bygone day when the land was wild

Scene Politics

“I hope you like your little rave scene, ‘cuz it’s dead,”
She said to me, roughly grabbing
The stomach of my shirt
‘Cuz she couldn’t grab any higher
I looked at her with half a smile
I like punk rock, heavy metal, country, folk, lots of stuff
But not techno
And I was only here tonight
‘Cuz my friend set it up, and let me in for free
And gave me a badge for half-off drinks
I only stayed this late
After they stopped serving
‘Cuz I was talking to a couple girls
Who seemed interested
And were long gone now
And I just wanted to go home

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 50

2011-07-29T05:39:00.000-07:00

Jesse

The sky is black. The lights in this little city are enough to wipe out the stars, but the news report said the snow was coming any minute. Kevin will make me shovel it tomorrow morning. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, just standing against the pole. I could catch a city bus across the street, it runs until midnight. I could ride to the end and see where it takes me. I could take it to the Greyhound station and ride as far as my funds permit.

I’ve got some money in my bank account that my mother set up, and I haven’t touched it in a while. I could set up wherever I go. A job and a new life and I would be free. There would be no Courtney, no Eva, no Pete, no Messiah, no knowledge of that the Devil is coming for me.

I run across the road to catch the next city bus when I see it pull up. The driver thanks me for my fare without looking. I fall into a seat near the middle across from the second door, and stare out the window. He is wearing dark sunglasses and has all the lights in the bus turned on. I wish I brought a book.

The bus is mostly empty. A couple kids from the college are pressed against each other in the sideways seats across the aisle from a pear-shaped woman also wearing dark sunglasses, waving her arms to accompany her animated conversation with the driver about the price of gloves. In the back by the heater is a bearded man with his hood up. He sits in empty doorways around town and asks for spare change. There are a lot of empty doorways in this city. I sit in the forward seats so he can't make eye-contact. The homeless here are desperate and cold, and no more invitation is needed to start hassling for money.

I don't want to be a Messiah. I want to be a normal guy with normal problems and normal feelings. I don't want the weight of the world heaped on my shoulders. How could a loving God do this to his own son? I want the world to forget I even exist, to get on with their lives. No more discussions about Heaven and Hell, no more talk of God and the Devil. Die, and be buried, and get on with it. Everyone should just live their lives and enjoy. Stop worrying about what comes after, and try to enjoy the brief moments we have here.

The driver pauses his conversation to bark, "Front and Main!"

I have nowhere to go. I was not wanted in this world. I am very much not a Messiah for the new millennium. I was born the by the accidental conception of a poor, coke-head mother who loved beer, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. There was a joke when I was born that my father was either her coke dealer or Stephen Tyler. It might have been both, but only the first was willing to admit it. He proposed to her, but they never married. Instead, she cleaned up her life, and he got busted for something never disclosed to me, and to the best of my knowledge, is still imprisoned in some Texas hell-hole. My mother tried to give me a good life, but sometimes I had to choose between clothes on my back, or food on the table.

The driver barks, "Front and North!" The drivers are equipped with microphones for the loudspeaker, but this driver only uses that when he is engaged in conversation with a passenger closer to the middle of the bus.

All the time, I had lingering hints of who and what I was. I would perform miracles, but had no control of them. If I was hungry, nothing happened. If someone else was hungry, I could give them food. If I tried to eat it, it turned to ashes in my moth. I had visions of the dead leaves blowing through the streets of a weakened Heaven, the sad faces of angels. I could free people from disease with a touch, and I was faced all through history by people that have made the same claim as me, and have been locked away and ridiculed.

I don’t have what it takes to be God.

"Front and Clinton!" barks the driver.

The college kids are talking about Becki Murphy. I pretend not to listen. “Did you hear what happened?” They notice I am not listening when I raise my eyebrows at the news. I hadn't heard she was dead. I don't care, I guess, but I can't help but care for a moment. They continue talking, giving me the occasional irritated glance. I thought someone told he she was sick, when did that change to a kidnapping? Whatever. Things like this happen every day, it’s not any more special when it happens to someone famous. I have a hard time believing there was an "army" of dead cops though. These college brats will repeat anything.

"Clinton and Oak!" barks the driver.

“Isn’t that sad? She had so much potential,” the girl says, like Becki Murphy was a relation of hers. The boy has a Black Flag tattoo, and I'm fairly certain he was never a member of Black Flag. I continue to stare out the window.

"Clinton and Mygat."

The boy pulls the yellow cord to request a stop.

"Clinton and Jarvis!" barks the driver and the college kids got off the bus.

I'm first alerted by the smell that the homeless guy has moved to the seat behind me. It's a pungent mix of grime, snot, and booze from a plastic bottle. I turn around sharply to make sure he's not about to stick a knife in me. I can feel his hot breath on my neck.

“She’s not dead, you know,” he whispers in my ear.

I pull away from him, looking disgusted. “What are you talking about?” I can't find the words for anything else.

“The little girl,” he says, spraying me with rancid spittle. “She’s alive. It’s all a lie, all a lie.”

I really want to get off the bus, but I don’t want to risk him following on the street. “That’s nice,” I say, thinking about the stop coming up. The walk isn't that long, but would be no fun in this cold with the jacket I'm wearing. I’ve got a couple bucks on me, if my phone wasn't dead I could call a cab. I would probably stand in a parking lot as long as it would take me to walk. I turn away and stare out the window again, but his head is still practically perched on my shoulder. “Excuse me,” I say indignantly, knowing it won't do much good.

“Are you afraid of her?” he asks. He is smiling broadly.He grabs my hand, and his eyes go blank. I haven’t shown him anything, but I can see that he knows me. The bus stops, and I wrench my hand away. He whispers, “Thank you,” and I run off the bus.

Inside, the heat was set at eighty degrees, but outside has dropped another ten while I was riding. I wish I was wearing long-johns. I'm at the bottom of a steep hill lined by neatly-rowed houses, the edge of the suburbs. I'm not even sure how to get back home without tracing the bus route that I don't think is remotely direct. I might actually be screwed.

Almost as soon as the bus pulls away, a gold Lexus stops beside me. The automatic windows hum as they roll down. Is this how male prostitutes get picked up? I bend over and look through the window.

“I thought it was you!” Mephis Tyr says in a practiced cry. “Talk about coincidence!” I teeter between being creeped out and impressed that he is actually driving an expensive car. You can't drive a car like that living in the State Hospital. Maybe he killed a doctor. At this point, any kind of familiar face is welcome. “How’s it going?” I ask. Should I make it clear now that I'm not giving him anything but money in exchange for a ride home?

He laughs. “Well... I’m in a bit of a bind here, I took a wrong turn, and another, and got myself turned around, and some bad directions, and next thing I know, I’m here, and I don’t know where here is. Do you know where here is?”

I chuckle. “Yeah... I actually grew up around here. Where are you going?”

“Where were we the other day? Downtown? I need to go there.”

“Me too, can you give me a ride?" My mind formulates a strategy for serial killer avoidance.

He pats the leather seat. “Hop in.”

I get into the gold Lexus and pull the door closed.

“The seats have warmers,” he says. He is clearly mimicking the reaction of someone else. His inflection is wrong, like he isn't sure why a person would be excited. “The switch is on the floor next to the door.” I find it with my fingers and flip it on. “So what are you doing all the way out here?” he asks, putting the car in gear and pulling back onto the road.

“Just riding the bus,” I say absently. “Turn here. We’re not actually that far from the highway, just going the wrong way. Some nut-case started going on about Becki Murphy getting killed, and I needed to get away from him.”

He snorts. “I heard about that on the radio. What a joke! With her voice, she did the world a favor!”

“Turn here,” I say. “That girl couldn’t sing if her life depended on it. She wouldn’t even have a career if wasn’t for all that time in short shorts when she was fifteen. Turn here. They could have at least gotten someone to lip-sync over her, like Milli Vanilli.”

“The FBI roots out pedophilia everywhere but the record industry. Decline of the West, the New Roman Empire. Our society is becoming more decadent by the day. You can see it everywhere.” He looks at me with a gleam in his eyes. “You’ve got to love it.” This guy probably has some good weed.

“Sure. Turn here,” I say. “This a company car.”

His laugh is the closet to sincere I've heard from Tyr so far. "I'm not bringing my Ferrari onto these salty roads?" He laughs until he sees I don't understand the joke. "This is a nice car though. My work is almost done here. I can't wait to drive my car again.”

“I would love to be out of here,” I moan. “Right here, the highway.”

Tyr drives up the entrance ramp and in that practiced excitement, he says, “Oh! All right, I know where we are now. It’s a good thing I found you, or I would have been wandering all night long." He looks over at me, his dark eyes gleaming in the orange street light. “Why do you want to leave town?”

I shake my head. “Do you ever want to just go someplace that you don’t know and start over. You know, start a whole new life?”

“Never,” he says, and I’m not that surprised. “I make the best of my situations. I like my life.”

“Must be nice," I say, folding my hands in my lap. "I feel trapped.”

"Like a rat?"

“Tonight, I was thinking of just taking all my money and catching a Greyhound," I say. "I will ride it as far as I can, and starting a whole new life wherever it takes me.”

“What are you running from?”

“Something that keeps getting closer and closer.”

“I face my fears.”

Cliche. “If I tried to explain, you wouldn't understand.”

“Try.”

“Too much for me to bear. .” I shake my head. “I wish I didn’t have to worry about all this. Is your boss hiring?”

He laughs, sounding like he had done it hundreds of times before I got in the car so he could get it right. It still doesn’t sound authentic. “Employment is very limited,” he says. “You need a lot of special skills, and not everything is really on the... up and up.”

“At this point, I wouldn’t really care. Take this exit.” I drum my fingers on my knee. “I guess I can’t really explain it, you’d have to know my situation.” I laugh again. “I’m getting married, I think.”

He doesn't understand the joke. “Congratulations,” he cries, missing authenticity by a hair.

“I wouldn’t be so quick. You’ve never met her.”

“Then why marry her?”

“Turn right here. That’s a question I’ve asked myself so many times. I want to live a normal life, be like everyone else, and this is the only way I think I can.” I shake my head. “In the last week I met a great girl at a party and then proposed to a girl who's been breaking my heart since high school. I hate my life.”

“Because of your engagement situation?”

“Left here. My love triangle is the just the tip of the iceberg, really. I’ve got more shit going on than is fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“The whole Universe isn’t fair.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs, and for the first time, I hear emotion slip into his voice. “I do have one secret wish, one desire that’s never been fulfilled.”

“What’s that? Turn right here.”

“I haven’t been home in... longer than I remember. I haven’t seen the land of my birth for years. Sometimes, I get so close, but it’s always pulled from my grasp, and I’m left wanting. That is the most painful feeling you could imagine.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“It’s the most beautiful place you can imagine.”

“Your boss can’t get you in?”

“His clout goes only so far.”

“This is my paradise right here here.” The car pulls up to the curb. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, opening up the door. “Good luck in getting back there some day.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll need it.”

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 49

2011-07-25T05:37:00.000-07:00

Anton

Becki and I catch a cab outside the hotel to a place in Alphabet City not advised for romantic walks in the cold. We're dropped off in the driveway of a building more bunker than garage surrounded by chain-link fence. Heavy steel shutters block the doors. I hand the cab driver a hundred dollar bill and don't wait for change. After he drives away, we go to the apartment building next door. It has two heavy locks, but that's not the kind of thing I worry about. The stairs stink of urine, vomit, and weed. She doesn't ask and I don't answer any questions. On the third floor a gold plate proclaims “Don Juan Films.”

I knock and wait, then knock again. I almost knock a third time before the door opens. A shirtless black man opens the door. Becki has to crane her neck to see his face, and he's at least half as wide as he is tall. “What?” It's the warning bark of an angry dog.

“I need to speak with the Don,” I say pleasantly.

“Why the fuck do you need to do that?” Barney has tree-trunks for arms, and he crosses them on his chest to make sure I see them. He was a pimp until he found his way into the Don’s service renting talent. He also faithfully knocked around anyone that asked too many questions. Everyone is good at something, and Barney was good at kidnapping teenage girls and keeping them prisoner a few days until they signed consent forms to appear in the Don's movies. Now, as Don Juan’s bodyguard and main star, his job is mostly the same. However, he gets to go on camera and do the only thing he ever enjoyed. Lately, he keeps the pimping to a minimum, and only for "Money Contacts."

I sigh, but keep smiling. "Just tell him Anton Lazarus is here," I say. "He will want to see me." I look down to indicate Becki when she is looking at Barney's feet.

Barney looks her up and down and closes the door.

Bumping Becki with my hip, I say. "If he doesn't let me in, I will unravel his intestines and make him eat them." Becki fights back a chuckle. "That way, he could die knowing it was impossible to digest his last meal.” She looks at the kickplate to keep control, but I a snicker escapes.

Barney returns and unchains the door. He has white smudges under his nose. He leaves Becki and I in the lavish living room, himself going down the hall where techno music is playing. Becki tries to sit on the couch, but I stop her. "You don't want to do that."

We stand around several minutes before a door past the kitchen is slammed and the Don enters wearing a bright purple shirt and sunglasses. He speaks with a Russian accent that I know is fake, full of grotesque with rumbling 'r's. "I really did not anticipate I would receive another visit from Mr. Eleazar. The men in the F.B.I. told me you were dead."

"Did you keep in regular contact with that type of person?" I ask.

The Don is grim-faced. Since last I saw him, he's shaved his head shiny-bald to look like Anton LaVey in a photo shoot. He looks like a madman. He can't hold the expression. He laughs and embraces me. "Tony, it's good to see you." He pats me on the back and steps away. "Come back to my office. We can sit on the good furniture." We go through the kitchen down a dark hallway. The office is lit only in black light, and one small terrarium for a python that can barely move in its confines. “I thought we finished our business. Did you not have the film which you so badly needed?”

“Yes, I do,” I say, my voice high and inviting. It’s a sadomasochism film that will keep a President from instituting polices that would feed millions of children worldwide in a program that paid for its self. My film assures he is drummed out of politics and commits suicide at the foot of his mother’s grave. It’s too bad, he's a really nice guy. “It will work perfectly.”

“Then why do you return?” Don Juan asks, turning on the computer at the desk. The screen lights his face white. While he talks, he edits 'Blood-Girls in Heat,' his newest masterpiece. "If you are a satisfied customer, why are you coming back to me? And more importantly, who is this lovely young lady you bring along?"

“This is the friend I told you about.”

"Really?" The Don looks up to reassess Becki. "This?" He nods his head. “She has looks, we could turn a profit, but she's not worth the money you've been talking about.”

Becki gasps and sits up straight. I put my hand on her shoulder to calm her.

"I was giving you a good deal with that offer," I say. "Luckily, I've got the vision you lack. I'm talking numbers that will make you shit your pants."

She pleads, "Anton, no, this is not..."

"I said be quiet!" I say. "I'm talking biggest star in the entire world, and I'm offering you a deal."

The Don chuckles. "I don't have the money for makeup to make this a Becki Murphy! I don't even care if she can sing."

"Can Becki Murphy sing?" I ask.

"Hell no!" The Don tries to seem absorbed in his cutting. "When that one drops a couple brats and the coke gives her crows feet she'll be forgotten, and you've got not better hope for this. You have got to be crazy, Tony."

"Anton, we've made a mistake," Becki says. "I've made a mistake..."

I look her in the eyes. "I told you to trust me," I say. "The Don won't do anything to hurt you." I smile at her and him again. "She needs some convincing as all."

"Barney has reasonable rates."

"Not like that. You made a movie that will teach her everything she needs to know, and I have been unable to find it."

He still seems unsure. “Why does she need to be taught? Is she that bad?”

I shake my head. “Young, Midwestern girl, strong religious upbringing. She wants to be in the business, but has never seen one of these movies. She is a family friend, and I said I knew the best director in the business.” I draw my crocodile leather wallet and drop the last ten bills. They spread like a geisha fan and the Don counts it with his eyes. “I thought I’d bring her here and show her some of your work, maybe meet one of your stars if possible.”

"Barney has reasonable rates." The Don waves the bills under his nose, and folds them into the breast pocket. “You pay this much money to watch movies?" He waits for a response and repeats, "Crazy man." He turns the monitor to face us. "I just finished archiving all the old films onto my hard drive. I even found a movie I made with VHS!"

That's the one I want to see. 'Princesses of the Nazi Regime.' The movie opens with two blonde women, nude. They are nude save for Nazi arm-bands. They have a blonde surfer tied to a bed. The word ‘Jew’ has been scrawled on his chest in blood that looks fake. The girls are taking turns whipping the man with riding crops while the other fucks him. He is begging to be released. I turn it off right as they begin the razor blade scene, leaving the rest up to the imagination. “Thank you for your time, we need to be going.” I stand up, and help Becki to her feet. Her face is stoic, devoid of any expression. “I'll call you soon.”

“No. You go,” he says to me. “She stays with me.” He gets out of his seat. “She needs her... screen test.” He comes around the desk to Becki.

I laugh nervously. “I’m really sorry, sir, but we have some important business to attend to. We really need to get going...”

“So you go,” he says, gently caressing her neck and hair. Her faces tenses, and she looks like she wants to scream. She has learned to obey me at least. “I will be gracious enough to offer a finder’s fee if you leave immediately. Otherwise, I will need Barney to escort you out.”

I hold open my jacket, revealing the gun. “I don’t think so.” He laughs. I figured he would. “Becki, look at the door,” I say. She closes her eyes, and I allow the Don to see every life he has broken. In my eyes he bears witness to every life he has broken at once, and I bleed it in his soul.

The Don can no longer find his breath, and is shaking his head to clear his eyes. He sees addiction and suicide, loss, and regret. There are tears and prisons and dark nights in the cold. Calls are made late at night to families, and friends try to forget. The Don slumps into the nearest chair and watches while I call a cab. He will be dead within the hour. I don't notice when Becki opens her eyes, but she watches him without speaking the entire time. The Don doesn't understand he should call Barney for help.

We go out to the front hall to wait. Barney is on the couch watching wrestling. He heard nothing. “Evening, Barney,” I say, taking a seat next to him, too close for his comfort. Becki tries to sit in the chair, but I wave for her to stop. "You don't want to do that."

“You done with the Don?” Barney asks. His voice rumbles in his chest.

“Quite done,” I say, grinning. I need to leave a clue. “Do you spend any time Upstate, Barney?” I ask.

"What you trying to say?" He stretches his shoulders until the muscles crack.

"We're headed Upstate," I say. "I know you'd know that. It's cold up there."

“I ain’t never been out of the City,” he mumbles.

“That’s depressing.” I raise my eyebrows at Becki. “Shall we wait for the cab outside?” She says nothing.

Barney doesn't object to our leaving, and resumes watching the TV. We go down to the sidewalk but don't speak during the five minutes we wait. The car has been recently washed, and the back seat smells of disinfectant. A television gives cab-riding etiquette and New York news under gouged plexi-glass mounted in the front seat. There is little traffic, and the driver lets the car race at full speed through Lower Manhattan, ignoring pedestrians and a few lights.

“Anton,” Becki says. There is no emotion in her voice. “Why did you show me that?”

I’m quiet for a moment. “I told you that your father was an embezzler. I told you that your mother had an affair. Your record company paid them a lot to stay together, so you would not need any time off, and so you could have the happy family illusion.”

“Do you have to talk about this in front of a stranger?” she wails.

"The cabbie is a Serbian Ex-Patriot who once raped a woman, impaled her infant on a sword, and then raped her with the weapon." I wave to the driver when he looks in the mirror. He does not react. "He can't understand a word we say."

“I know my father is a thief," Becki says slapping her thighs and looking at the floor. "I know my mother is a slut. You don't have to keep telling me!”

“Now I’m going to tell you the cause,” I say, glaring out the window. “The woman in that film was named Helen Leggs. "'Nazi Princeses' was her first film, and your father's favorite movie. She had a long and illustrious career. The first time he stole from the company was when Helen Leggs announced her return to adult film. She offered any fans the chance to be in her movie for a fee of $10,000. Your father convinced your mother and his coworkers he was attending a conference and put it all on his business card. When he arrived, he couldn't go through with it, but he already had the $10,000. That was how he discovered how little attention was paid to the company finances. He kept the money and stole a lot more."

Cars are backed up near the Park. A pizza delivery driver edges his way in front of our cab, and the driver rages. When he notices Becki cowering from his voice, he waves to her and smiles in the rear view mirror, saying something soothing. She doesn't respond, but I indicate with my expression we accepted his apology and he should mind his own business.

"He confessed to your mother a year or so later, when he thought he was about to be caught. She was more concerned with the film and didn't believe he did the noble thing. Have you wondered why Uncle Jack hasn't been around? Your father thinks the affair is over, but he's wrong." I roll down the window and let the cold air sting me. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to.”

“Why?” she demands. "You were ready to sell me to that guy, and you expect me to trust you?"

"Didn't like what he said about you?"

"When did you call him? How long had you been planning to show me off to a pornographer?"

"That man is dead now," I say. The driver does recognize that word, and it always catches his attention. He listens for any other words he may recognize.

"And what if his bodyguard heard what happened?" Youthful vigor is so amusing.

"He would be dead too," I say softly. "You need to see these things because tomorrow, I need you to hold a gun and know you are doing what is right. If you don't your sinful mommy, your sinful daddy, and most of the rest of the sinful world is going to spend all of Eternity with me, and I’m not going to be in a good mood.”

“Find someone else,” she snorts.

I chuckle. “Sweetheart, you promised me tonight. Tonight’s not over yet.”

She says nothing.

Go to Chapter 50

Here in this Sorrow, Chapter 6

2011-07-20T04:43:00.000-07:00

Carla Franke
I wish Andrea wasn’t going back to Florida after we graduate. She’s such a cool girl, there’s no one like her at all around here. Everyone else is so boring, either talking about their cars (many of which are up on blocks), or what they bought with their parent’s money. So boring, so ordinary. There are people here that haven’t even been out of New York State. We’re ten minutes from the Pennsylvania border, and they haven’t even been there.

I want to travel so much as soon as I graduate. I just want to hitchhike cross country. My mom said that I’d better not even think about it, but I’m set to go. As soon as I finish with the graduation parties, I’m gone. Andrea said I could come stay with her and her boyfriend if I wanted. I really want to go out west, to see the Pacific Ocean, and the Northwest, but I’ll probably go south to visit Andrea first. think

I have study hall this period, and no one really bothers the seniors if they just wander the halls. As long as we don’t disrupt any classes, and there aren’t many on the basement floor. We walk down here for a while, just talking. She’s done so much, been in the Florida Keys, walked on the beach, gone to Jamaica, and then moved here. RZHS must be such an unpleasant change for her, going from the luxuries of Florida to Upstate New York.

Jim Smitt and Nick Caufield are down by the computer room when we get down there. I stop and talk to Jim for a couple minutes. I’ve known Jim since we were in elementary school, and even though he’s kind of a jerk, I don’t mind him. He asks me if I’m going to the party after the baseball game tomorrow. Ashley’s parents went away, and her older brother bought her a couple cases of beer, so she’s having a party to celebrate the game. I don’t have anything else to do tomorrow, and my parents don’t really care if I’m out late, as long as I get to school, so I can’t imagine that I wouldn’t go.

I know that Nick likes Andrea, but she can’t stand him. Every time he tries to talk to her, she just gives a quick, one-word answer, and pretty much ignores him. Around Christmas time, when I first started hanging out with Andrea, Nick kept asking me to hook him up. The first time I told her about it, she just looked at me, like she couldn’t believe what I was saying. She told me that she thought Nick was one of the most repulsive people she’d ever met, and she’d rather date Ted Bundy than Nick Caufield. I told her that Nick wasn’t that bad a guy, he was just kind of messed up over what happened to his sister last year. She said that didn’t make him any nicer.

Clark Golding and Andy McCarthy come out of the stairwell and walk by. Jim says they have to leave, and start walking after Clark and Andy, so Ashley and I go upstairs.

Follow Carl Gallian.

Here in This Sorrow, Chapter 6

2011-07-19T04:42:00.000-07:00

Carl Gallian
Alex Brown is such a stoner scumbag, and I wish I never had to talk to that filthy son of a bitch again. He owes me thirty bucks though, and I don’t plan on letting him off the hook about it. That and he hangs out with Steve Joyce at this crack house downtown, and they get the best weed. They took me with them once. That was the time that Steve Joyce tried cocaine, which he claims he hasn’t done since. I had never been so scared in my entire life. One of those fucking niggers wasn’t wearing a shirt, and had a fucking gun tucked into his pants!

The bell rings, and I have to go to Health this period. I ask Alex if he has my money, but he tells me it’s out in his van. I tell him that I’ll come out and get it after school. I’m pretty much resigned to the fact that I’m never going to see my money again. I asked the son of a bitch to get me some weed the next time he was downtown. He told me that those niggers had lost all their supply in a big drug bust, and he couldn’t get any. I took this to mean that he had smoked (and probably snorted) away all my money, and hasn’t been able to get it back.

I stomp off, going downstairs to where the Health room is located between the boys’ locker room and the nurse’s office. Mr. Peters is standing outside the door, greeting people as they come in. He’s such a funny little man. He’s kind of like Bob Saget in Full House. I say hello to him and go in, taking my seat in the back.

The rest of the class trickles in and the bell rings. Mr. Peters is one of the most animated people I’ve ever seen. He’s almost running around the front of the room. We’re learning about child development (which I’ve heard I’ll be learning the exact same material next year in psychology). Next week, we have to carry around a sack of flour like it’s a fucking baby. I remember the first time I saw that shit when I was a freshman. Me and my friends laughed so hard over people organizing ‘babysitters’ and shit. For fuck’s sake! Kelly, my girlfriend, who isn’t taking the class until next year, when we’re seniors, is so excited about the whole thing. She offered to babysit it anytime I needed. I told her she could have the thing all week, because she would need to get ready for if we ever had real kids. She hit me for that. I guess it’s not that bad, it’s only a week.

When the bell rings, Andrea Cummins is walking by. She tells me how Tim Boyle dumped his girlfriend last night so he could get with her. When she shot him down, Tim went running back to his girlfriend and told her he was so wrong. The dumb bitch finally gave in and let him have sex with her. He had been trying so hard to get in Jen’s pants forever. He should have tried dumping her a long time ago.

Andrea goes off with Carla Franke, and I go upstairs to math.

Follow Jewel Peterson

Here in This Sorrow, Chapter 6

2011-07-18T04:42:00.000-07:00

Jewel Peterson
I’ve always thought that Storm was such a nice guy. I think if I brought him home though, my parents, much less open-minded than in the hippie days when they named me, would throw a fit. I’ve always wanted to talk to him more, but he used to hang out with John Parker all the time, who I can’t stand.

I went on a date with that arrogant fucker. He was so sweet, said and did everything right. Then he let slip that he had already rented a motel room for us! After I turned him down, he still told all his friends that he slept with me. After three months, I still haven’t been able to shake that rumor.

I go out in the hallway, where Annie Stenta and Carrie Power are sitting on one of the benches. Annie is all crushed-out over some junior. It’s one of those stoner kids that sits at the edge of the parking lot and smoke cigarettes (and probably more) at the beginning and end of the day. She said she was trying to call him all night last night, but he wasn’t around. She’s telling me just how great he is, and how he loves to read poetry and books. I’m surprised this guy can even read.

I’m sick of hearing about this Steve guy, so I go farther down the hall to talk to Alex Brown, who I’ve had a crush on for like two years now. Alex is a total Dead-Head, someone my mom and dad would have loved for me to bring home at one point. Now they would just say, “He’s definitely on drugs, and we know, because we were like that.” He’s got it all, dread-locks, sandals and a VW van. When I first told him I was named after the song, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” he said, “Far out!” and laughed for several minutes. He was probably stoned at the time.

I never smoked weed before, but I’m willing to try. Not that I’d ever do as much as Stephen Joyce, or even Alex, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. I mean, I’m sure you can’t really get addicted the first time. In Health class, they called it the “gateway drug,” and if you smoke marijuana, you’ll end up in the street with a heroin needle in your arm. I think that’s a little extreme.

I ask Alex what he’s doing after school, and he says, “Chillin’ like a villain,” all drawled out and cute, like he’s stoned right now. I ask him if he wants to hang out or something, and he says, “Sheeer.”

As I walk away, Carl Gallian starts talking to Alex.

Follow Storm Johnson

Here in This Sorrow, Chapter 6

2011-07-17T04:41:00.000-07:00

Storm Johnson
If I had to choose between growing up in the ghetto in total poverty, where I probably wouldn’t finish school, or go through this white-bred school, the choice is obvious. However, it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with the racism of these rich kids and rednecks here. Even though my dad is a doctor and my mother is a lawyer, I still get referred to as the ‘poor nigger.’ My family is practically the Huxtables. We have more money than most of the people who pull their bags closer or lock their doors when they seem me in the parking lot. It was hard to deal with at first, when kids who were my friends in grade school suddenly started to believe that their skin made them better. The same kids who used to swim in my pool all summer long started lining up and throwing rocks. The same kids whose houses I used to sleep over at were suddenly telling me I should be lynched. I guess you get used to it though. I guess you have to.

It was a mixed blessing when Jalliel White transferred school here. Before, I was the only black kid in the school, so now he catches some of the flak. He usually gets picked on more than me, because he acts more like the stereotype. However, I get shit from him as well, because he claims I ‘act too white.’ He’s all about African culture, and being against the white man. He’s never even been to Africa though. We talked about it once, back when he still thought that we needed to have some bond between us. He hasn’t even been out of this area! I may have lived here all my life too, but at least I’ve traveled around with my family some. I’ve at least seen some of the world.

The real reason that he hates me, of course, is because of my family’s money. He gets bussed here because he was kicked out of every other school in the area. His father, who isn’t married to his mother, is in jail. I think his mother is on welfare, but I don’t know. One time, he asked me if I wanted to come over and ‘smoke a blunt,’ but I refused. He calls me ‘Urkel’ now.

I go up to the cafeteria, where I used to sit with John Parker, but he recently decided he was a racist. He referred to me as “One of the good ones,” but I still don’t want to deal with that shit. Now, I just sit alone and do my homework. He hangs out more with his sports buddies, like Warren Boyd. If I had to pick out the one person who has given me the hardest time here, it’s Warren Boyd. Warren has been a racist for as long as I can remember, even before the other kids knew what hatred was. His parents made sure he knew.

In elementary school, Warren carried a miniature baseball bats he called his “nigger-knocker.” He knew what that word meant before I did. His locker is four down from mine, and he has a giant rebel flag hanging in it. If I’m at my locker while he’s at his, he just glares at me. Sometimes, late at night, he would drive his pick-up truck past my house very slowly. None of this even compares to the fights.

We don’t have normal fights, he finds me somewhere alone and attacks me. Sometimes, I actually think he’s going to kill me. This is the kind of person John wants to be friends with now.

Jewel Peterson, one of the girls John told me he fucked, walks by and waves.

Follow Kyle Fanningdale.

Here in This Sorrow, Chapter 6

2011-07-16T04:40:00.000-07:00

Kyle Fannindale
Well, I flunked that test. Even after all the help Stephen Joyce gave me, I still fucked it up. It looks like I’m going to be in chemistry again next year. Unfortunately, the way it’s going, it looks like I’m going to have to repeat my Course II Math class too. I don’t want to have to sit through it a second time, but my guidance counselor told me I needed it to graduate. It’s not going to matter soon, because I’m planning on dropping out of school. My band is definitely going to get signed as soon as we start sending out demos, and then I’m going to be set for life.

I have the new Slipknot CD in my Discman as I walk downstairs to my math class. I played the album for Stephen last night. He’s really into metal too, so I figured he would like it. He called it “talentless trend-garbage” that would fade away as quickly as Marilyn Manson. Sometimes, Steve has some bad taste. He’s into that Iron Maiden and Alice Cooper garbage, bands that need to get out of the way and make way for the new wave. I told him he should come see my band, because we would definitely change his mind. At least he’s not as bad as those fucking punk rock kids. Talk about talentless! Oh well, at least Stephen always has good weed.

Steve Valentine, whose brother was making fun of my band and doing jumping jacks the one time we played a punk rock show, is still in the class when I get there. I tell him to let his brother know we’re going to kick his ass, and that we’re going after these punkers one by one. I sit in his seat when he leaves. That kid is a little geek. I think he’s retarded.

Mr. Polanski makes me take off my headphones, even though class hasn’t started yet. He told me that he wouldn’t care if I didn’t turn it up so loud that everyone else can hear it. The guy is such a fucking Nazi.

My band finished making new masks last night. Mine is kind of like the guy from Slipknot’s, a white mask with rope braids. Mine is different though, because it’s a skull. With that done, we’re going to record a demo tape soon. I can’t imagine that we won’t get signed. We’re the best fucking band in this area, and we’ve been playing shows for almost six months now. Any record producer that doesn’t sign us is a fucking crack-head! People are eating music like ours up like mad. It’s the next big thing. We could be the next Beatles!

I hate math class. It’s such bullshit. It’s not like I’m going to need any of this, especially in the music industry. Any math I need to do, I’ll use a calculator. If it’s anything more than that, I’ll fucking hire someone. I sit through the class, pretending to take notes, when I’m actually just drawing skulls an writing Coal Chamber lyrics. As soon as the bell rings. I’m out the door.

That one punk rocker, that Clark guy, is walking along with his geek friend. That Clark guy is one of the kids who was making fun of my band back in December. I should kick his ass right here and now. I’ll wait until I have the band with me, and show him not to mess with us.

I pass by that nigger, Storm Johnson.

Follow Kevin Spade.

Here in This Sorrow, Chapter 6

2011-07-15T04:39:00.000-07:00

Kevin Spade
I was in the locker room trying to plead with Mr. Kazaminski. If I don’t stay after school everyday for the rest of the year, I’m going to fail gym class. I know I shouldn’t have skipped so much, but if you were the only junior in a class with Warren Boyd, you would too. It probably would have been different if I was into sports. Instead, I was the butt of every joke and the target of every “misthrown” ball. I’ve been hit in the nuts more times in this class than in my whole life. I skipped the most during baseball, because Warren isn’t the team’s star player for his looks. He can aim.

It got to a point when I didn’t even bother to defend myself. Sometimes I tried to fight back, but that made things worse. Once, I made a comment about Warren’s crusty face. Him and Ben Tramer kept me in the locker room after everyone left and shoved me in a locker. Neither Mr. Kazaminski or Mr. Field had classes that period, so I was trapped for twenty minutes before someone found me. I’m claustrophobic as it is, and when Louis Thompson found me, I was crying and my hands were bloody from beating them against the locker. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. Warren and Ben each got an afternoon in detention.

It was kind of hard to work out a deal with Mr. Kazaminski, because he likes Warren, and he wouldn’t listen to my excuses. He told me that if I had a problem with someone, I should tell a teacher. Yeah, like that won’t get my ass kicked even more. I took the easy way out instead, and didn’t go to class.

Terry Buchman is walking by as I come out of the locker room. It’s kind of funny, because John Parker was just in there talking about how he had sex with her a couple weeks ago. I stop and talk to her for a couple minutes. She tells me how she was just up in the cafeteria and Mr. Henry started yelling at that Grim Reaper kid. She tells me that the kid started throwing a fit and yelling about Jim Smitt hitting him with mustard. I don’t know who is more frightening, Jim Smitt or that Death kid and his punk friends. I’ve heard some stuff those punk kids talk about, and it’s gross! I’ve heard them going on about heads getting hacked off and people being eaten by zombies. It’s awful! If I didn’t hate Jim Smitt so much, I’d say that kid deserved it.

I have chemistry this period, so I go upstairs to Mr. Holowinski’s room. I pass by Nick Caufield, who lives down the street from me. Our parents are good friends, so he leaves me alone for the most part. Last year, Nick’s sister got murdered. He and Mindy were really close, and it messed him up a lot when she died. At the funeral, it was the only time I ever saw Nick cry. It was after that when he became a real jerk. He used to give people a hard time, but now he’s just mean. I wave to him, but don’t stop to talk, because he doesn’t usually talk to me in school.

I go into class and sit in my assigned seat in the back. Kyle Fannindale is still in the seat in front of me, packing up his backpack to leave.

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 48

2011-07-08T05:35:00.000-07:00

Agent Martin

In New York City, everything smells like Eleazar. The G.W. Bridge is jam-packed, but my car slides between the gaps without stopping to the maze of impersonal titans, like grotesque phalluses pointed hatefully at the Lord. I navigate the streets, a human bloodhound on the trail of the most dangerous criminal the Universe has ever known.

The trail leads to Carlos Menendez, wandering aimlessly through the streets. When his sister fought back, her attackers held her down and cut her tits off. They shouted at her, "You think you a man? We'll make you a man!" After seeing what was left, Carlos couldn't focus on holding his gun or his knife, no matter how badly he wants revenge. He doesn’t even look at me as the Cadillac pulls up along side him and I roll the window down.

Normally, he would hate me, I’m nothing but a gringo, but seeing a switchblade protruding from your sister’s cunt as she draws her final breaths in his arms has largely drawn his attention. “I know who did this. Get in.” I'm barely forceful, but he listens, and I drive back to that ghetto apartment. He is screaming before we even get to the door. I made him carry the brief case with all my interrogation tools, so he can feel the weight of his sins. I have to drag him through the door, where he immediately falls by the corpse of his sister, weeping like a child. I peel him away and get the railroad spikes through his wrists, affixing him to the wall and arrange the three bodies in front of him to keep him focused on the task at hand.

In the bathroom, there is a baby bath for a child that was with its father tonight. I put the tub beneath him to collect any blood, and bring my face close to his, whispering, “What do you know about Lazarus?” His terrified eyes work over the crags of my face, and when he fails to answer in a timely manner, I tear off his genitals. He is screaming and crying, and that makes me want to hurt him so much more. I have to emphasize just how urgent his answers are, so I spread some lye in his wound, and step back as his body spasms in uncontrollable agony.

After a minute or so, I neutralize the lye with vinegar and let him calm. This takes a few more minutes than I am comfortable to give him. I pace about the room, arms folded across my chest, watching the short figure-8 track I’m walking on the floor. He's still sobbing a little when I grab his jowls and shout, "Tell me where to find Lazarus!" The others were well-known associates. I probably could have plugged my nose and found my way to the coke dealers in Virginia, but I can't identify how this one is tainted with Eleazar's stink.

“No hablo ingles!” he whimpers. “Por favor! No hablo ingles!”

“I know when you lie,” I hiss. I pull him by his collar until he meets resistance from the spikes. He wails much louder than I would have thought he'd be hurt.

I don't need him to talk. I can smell the streets, the trash, and the perfume. There is sweat and rotten food. Stagnant water and forgotten garbage cans in backalleys that never see direct sunlight. “Where was Lazarus?" The questions are rhetorical now, I don't even know if Menendez can still hear me. I follow the scents down the road-map in my head, affixing each to its source as we pass, separating them until only Eleazar's stink remains unidentified. I have to look deeper.

He is still whimpering that he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“Why do you insist on lying to me?” I ask in a sigh. I tear off his shirt and make a tiny slice near his left nipple, and meticulously pull the skin from his torso in a single strip, no more than a millimeter wide. The Turkish lictors that practiced this in the past, had to be careful to staunch the blood-flow and to keep the victim from dying. I could bleed him all day though, and not bring him even slightly closer to death. It takes me just under an hour to peel him. With the time frame I’m working with, I probably would have stopped if he remembered a detail, but I need what has been absorbed. A corruption exudes from Eleazar, settling in the skin and muscle. I can see it as black spots in the blood, and the smell is exquisite. Once I have Carlos peeled, I stick him with the hobby knife a few times, just to emphasize the seriousness of my questioning.

The baby bath is nearly full of his blood, so I affix hooks to his lips and cheeks, pulling them taught and pegging them above his head and under his armpits to keep his mouth open. I love the way it distorts his screams, transforming it into the baying of a frightened animal. I still have to crush his lower jaw to get it to hang open enough to pour in the blood. He still has the resolve to try and drown himself in his own blood, still unable to comprehend that I’m not going to let him go until I’m done.

Once all the blood has made it into his stomach, lungs, and down the front of his skinned body, I cast the bath aside. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to hear?” I ask, reassembling his jaw enough for him to talk.

“Please,” he begs. “I don’t know, please stop!”

I drag a bed out of one of the back bedrooms, strip it down to the iron framework, and build a fire in the center of the room underneath. I rip him off the wall and tie him to the bed with coat-hangers. His screams are incoherent. Even as I’m pulling off his roasted flesh from the bones, he pleads ignorance. What I consume will distill inside me and teach my cells its memory. aning, where it has passed. These I distill further, finding their place in the real world, generating a treasure map leading me to a hotel downtown. I knew he couldn't resist luxury forever. Most of Carlos's torso has been reduced to burnt skeleton, I whisper in his ear, “Beg your Lord for mercy.”

His sightless eyes loll toward me and his toughened lips work, cracking apart as he tries to speak. “Jesu...,” he whispers, his tongue breaking apart to form the word. “Jesu...”

I let him meet his maker.

Go to Chapter 49

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 47

2011-07-01T05:34:00.001-07:00

Anton

The bad can blend in New York City. This is no simple Sodom or Gomorrah, it's a pure celebration of the animal. No man is any bigger than what can kill him. New York! New York! If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere!

I’m barely out the door of the hotel when some spic in a bandana offers me crack. He’s joking, but I still tell him that his sister is currently being raped with a switchblade as revenge for the man he killed last night. When I name names, he shoots me and runs off to find the horrible truth. The people that congregate around me to help are shocked when I get up and show that he “missed” while firing six inches from my chest. I walk away like nothing happened.

Down the street, I crouch in the shadows while two black boys mug and beat a very wealthy stock broker. They run off with nearly a thousand dollars between them. They didn’t even need my coaching. When they see me between a couple garbage cans, all the see is an old bum chewing on the maggots that crawl through my beard. I’m not worth the bullets in their stolen pistols.

Three girls dressed all in black make fun of my pin-striped suit as I pass them. When they get back to their expensive Manhattan apartment, rented with their rich parents money, they give praise to me and drink each other’s blood, believing themselves to be witches. The day will come when they bow before me in Hell and nurse my phallus, while it takes the form of a viper and devours their tongues. Until that day, I smile and tip my expensive hat to them, which only makes them laugh harder.

When I’m down by the river, I wave to Harvey Judstone, whose right eye is swollen closed, but he is too drunk to feel the pain. He lunges at me on his hands and knees and tries to bite me. I kick him in the face and he skitters away, yelping like a puppy.

The sun goes down early in New York at this time of year. Don Juan told me to arrive at 8pm, and he is not the type of person to keep waiting. As I walk back to the hotel, I have a spring in my step, and a song on my lips. I pass Carlos, the spic who shot me. He’s too shocked about seeing his sister with her tit’s cut off to notice me. He is also worried about the two additional corpses he left on the floor with her.

I’m back in the elevator with a stock broker who has embezzled over a million dollars from his company. He compliments my suit. I just list off the names of the men who have fucked his wife while he was away on “business” (read: shoving his dick down the throats of sixteen-year-old girls he met on the Internet), but since I don’t explain, he just wonders how I know the name of his brother, two of his friends from high school, and his boss, and why they were on a long list of names he’s never heard. It’s quickly forgotten when he gets to his room and starts wanking to his laptop displaying Teenpussy.com. It will all come to light in three years, when he catches his wife with another man and shoots them both dead. He gets two consecutive terms of seven to twenty for the murders, but the child pornography and statutory rape never goes to trial. He managed to provide enough bribery money to at least keep that one down.

Becki is in the shower when I get back to the room. She locked the bathroom door, but I walk in anyway. “Hurry and get ready, we have someplace to be in two hours.” Before she can say anything, I walk out and watch porno on TV until she comes out, cleaned and dressed up.

“Where do we have to go?” she asks, and the apathy in her voice is so sweet. I can tell I’ve almost broken her.

“Don’t worry about it,” I answer. “After tomorrow night, this will be all over. The morning after, I’ll drive you back to Boston, where you can live happily ever after.”

“Really?” she asks.

I nod and get off the bed. “Tomorrow night, we will be where we need to be, the Messiah will be dead, we’ll all have a couple drinks, and in the morning, we’ll head off to Boston, where you can be reunited with your family.” I walk out through the sliding glass doors and look down on the city. “That is, of course, if you agree to help me.”

“You said you can’t scare a person into Hell.”

I’m so taken aback by her astuteness that it takes me a moment to respond. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m giving you responsibility. I’m giving you the power to save the souls of up to the entire world.” I walk over to her and put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m not threatening you, I’m not trying to scare you, I’m striking a bargain with you. We both have a huge stake, I’m just trying to impress upon you the urgency of the situation."

Tears start rolling out of her eyes and she starts to sob. “But why me?” she asks. “Why does it have to be me?” She falls against me, clutching tightly on my jacket. “I don’t want to do this, I just want to see my mom!”

“In two days,” I snap. “Now wash your face and get ready to go.” I hand her a change of clothes from the closet. Becki returns to the bathroom.

I put on my very expensive stingray boots and wait by the door of the hotel room, tapping my foot impatiently. When she finally comes out, I tap my watch and gently push her out the door. “You don’t want to keep this man waiting,” I say, hurrying her down the hall.

“He must be important if you’re scared of him,” she says, trying to get my goat (pun intended).

I scoff. “Sweetheart, there’s only one being in the Universe that I fear, and if He ever tried to set foot on this planet, the massive paradox would in turn unmake existence.” I jam the button on the elevator to go down. “However, Mr. Don Juan has a bit of an ego problem, and refuses to deal with anyone who doesn’t treat him like the sun shines out of his ass."

The doors open to reveal two brightly-clothed, overly perfumed old ladies. They smile at Becki and me in turn. I look at them and mouth, “Get out.”

“Excuse me?” the taller one asks.

“I said, if you don’t want me to rip out all your guts with my bare hands and smear your blood on the walls, you will get the fuck out of this elevator.” I smile. “Got it?”

I can't tell if the old ladies look at me hatefully, or if that is their permanent scowl, but still do as I order. Ester Williams thinks that all the time she spends in church can redeem how she treats her family. Not that their greed is any less of a sin than hers, but she thinks she should take her money to the grave, while her two sons and one daughter wallow in poverty. Granted, if they worked harder like she suggested, maybe even in this day and age, they could do better. However, when her daughter, Samantha, and her husband Bill had their first child right after Bill broke his leg and was out on disability, Ester could have spared some money. Maybe Samantha wouldn’t have lost that child. Why would she want wealth from slave trading? Ester’s great-grandfather was regarded as one of the most cruel and inhuman slave-traders of his time. After their emancipation, his acts of brutality were regarded as harsh, even by some of his fellow Klansmen.

The elevator doors close and I stare straight forward in the center of the car, so that I can deter anyone from joining our descent. Becki slouches in the back corner.

“When we are with Don Juan, don't say anything unless I ask you a question. Understand? The Don is always looking to take something wrong.” The elevator tries to stop at several floors, but I keep it moving.

Go to Chapter 48

The Unwelcome Nightlight

2011-06-24T05:47:00.000-07:00

Sophia Artichoke was terrified. It was her first night alone in her new house in a new city far from home, and for all she could remember, never in her life had she slept even a full hour in a house with no other person under the roof. Her best friend, Beatrice came with her for the long drive across so many flat and lifeless states, but had taken the most inexpensive flight home that morning. Now Sophia felt as though she could be in a Martian outpost.

She'd taken a job selling SpectraCom's new "Eel Slime Dish Detergent," which was not named for any component, but for its ability to wash all the slime off an eel. Sophia felt a little moral twinge at the thought of the soap being tested on animals, but she was assured that the soap was organic, biodegradable, non-caustic, and the eels were twice a day fed a fish that normally swam too quickly for the eel to catch in the wild. Also, SpectraCom was willing to pay more than anyone at home, and were willing to pick up the tab for her move, reimbursing for services already rendered, of course.

Sophia found a house in the country on a street with only one neighbor. The couple was cordial and old. The offered the use of their weed-whackers and hoses to help Sophia manage her yard without the strong hands of a man. Sophia was sure she was ready for this brand new adventure of living on her own with no support. The unwelcome nightlight was sure to change her mind.

At midnight, Sophia turned off the lights and dragged herself to bed. She noticed first a single flash, sharp and fast, and easily dismissed as her imagination. She may not have even noticed if not for the second flash. By the third flash, Sophia was wondering what was happening. The lights popped every few seconds, but without the precision of a timer. Five seconds apart one time, three the next.

Sophia pulled the curtain closed, got under the covers and lay tense with wide eyes. The right corner bunched around a chair piled high with possibly dirty clothes that had been shoved in a sack and squeezed between two chairs on the moving truck. Through the sliver of exposed glass the bluish flash continued every few seconds.

Was it unreasonable for Sophia to assume it was probably Swayze that found her, and he was lurking in her back yard popping camera flashes? When she last saw her not-so-distant ex-boyfriend, he had a twinge in his eyes she’d never seen when they were together, and in more than a year since she’d first moved, she could not escape him.

That night she'd invited some friends to her apartment for a small goodbye party and unplugged the phone. Swayze had been prank calling for hours, This had gone on for days. A few of her friends knew how far Swayze was going, but Sophia was humiliated to let this be public knowledge.

She’d let him prank as much as he liked, because that meant he was home. If Sophia ever felt nervous he may have left the phone off the hook to pay her a visit, she could answer and he’d be there, ready to screech obscenities.

The few friends she dared call hung out, drank beers, and watched a movie for more than two hours. When only a handful of people remained, they'd plugged in the phone to order a pizza and Swayze was there on the line shouting as soon as Sophia picked up. The phone rang almost immediately after she hung up, and again after the next few times she tried to hang up on her. After five or six attempts, Sophia unplugged the phone again. Swayze was so offended, he found someone to drive him to her apartment.

This was no small feat, as the two had so many mutual friends even before they started dating. The only friends willing to do such a thing were dudes that knew they'd get their ass kicked and have no one to talk to but each other for a few weeks. Dudes like that didn't mind. Such things blew over, and everyone knew Sophia was moving away.

Swayze was a little guy, and the only people he could find to help were little guys as well, but there were several of them, so time was needed to get the situation under control. Several things were broken, including a framed picture of Sophia's grandmother that had been displayed at her funeral. Swayze was also put through a glass table before he could be wrestled out the door. He was cut up pretty bad, but was on enough drugs that he didn't seem to mind. He'd only left when a neighbor announced the police were on their way. Sophia took a tally of the destruction, and consoled herself by thinking of everything else she'd need to throw away to make this move and have a career and be free of Swayze.

Sophia knew it was crazy, but she believed Swayze was in her back yard photographing her house for possible points of entry. Every so often, he was prone to brilliance, and even though he hadn’t previously figured a way to even cross the state line, let alone find physically reach Sophie, it would be in line to ride a bus for three days to have the revenge he swore he’d have.

Even with the blankets pulled over her head, Sophia could see the unmistakable razor-blue light of a camera flash on the frontier where sheet met bed. According to legend, a person can't tell time when they dream, so Sophia repeatedly checked the clock and watched the numbers counting down. Supposedly, turning on the light was another sure-fire method of determining if you are in the Dreamlands, but Sophia could not imagine what Swayze would do if he knew she was awake.

The flashes stopped at 1:30 with no catharsis. Sophia expected the windows to explode, or the house to catch fire. She clutched the blankets at her nose, staring at the window. She did not check the clock. Sophia was already convincing herself this was a dream.

The next day, Sophia woke to her cell phone in another room. Forgetting from fear to set her alarm, she’d slept through her first appointment. Sophia did not need to be told this was no way to endear herself to country-folk. She assumed the call was from a person demanding to know why she was not at their door with samples of dish soap as promised a few days before.

Instead, the call was from Beatrice saying that Swayze was dead. He'd eaten too much ScornFish, put nicotine patches all over his body, and went out for coffee. This time, there was not enough pot smoked or liquor drank to balance his heart rate down to a normal speed. He was left at home by a friend and dead on the couch a few hours later when his roommate came home from work.

Beatrice didn't know what time it happened, so Sophia called Janessa, who had dated Swayze a long time ago, before he started drugs. Janessa also quit straight edge too, and Swayze cared more about booze than their breakup, so he and Janessa had remained friends. Janessa was clearly upset to hear from Sophia at a time like this, but she plugged it up and told Sophia that Swayze had died just before midnight. He'd shit himself. The couch was ruined.

Sophia nearly screamed when she hung up the phone. In her mind, there could be no other explanation than Swayze's ghost having one last torture session in her back yard the night before. She cried and cried, but not because she was sad. Sophia's greatest fear had been that he'd go on and on and never die, and she would never be able to go home again. He was so smart and relentless that Sophia knew he'd fixate on her no matter where she lived, waiting patiently until she did try to return. He would find her then.

She wondered if Swayze had done this on purpose. His roommate was about to move because Swayze had not paid rent in months. He hadn't looked for work, but he had filled out a few papers for financial aid to go back to school. Anyone he could ask for money had stopped answering his calls long ago. With Sophia out of the picture for real, maybe Swayze had nowhere left to go. Sophia tried to decide if she was bothered by this.

Later that afternoon, she updated her online profiles with, "Woohoo! Swayze's dead!" She felt bad immediately, but could not deny the liberation. It felt good to release that chain and tell the world she was right and they were wrong.

The angry e-mails arrived in minutes, but these were people that let Swayze drive Sophia out of their circles and hangouts, and ultimately made her move across the country. She already knew she didn't need these friends, so their complacency had now cost those friends double. Sophia wanted to call each person back to say, "You backed the wrong horse."

She was pleased to receive a few more congratulations than she expected. Sophia wasn't the only one who saw Swayze's dark side. He was gone, truly gone, and Sophia was in a whole new world of endless possibilities. By the time she went to bed that night, Sophia wasn't even thinking about the flashing lights, and she was so exhausted she didn't think anything would keep her awake.

Sophia hadn't checked the exact time the flashing started the first night, but the second night they started again in the same time-frame, just as she'd turned off the lights and was climbing into bed. This time they came in rapid bursts, then waited a few seconds before firing again. Sophia collapsed by the night stand, and if she could find her voice, she would have screamed to no end.

This time, the lights lasted only a few minutes before they turned off for good, but Sophia was sure she heard a loud crash in the front yard. She stayed huddled by the bed a long time, and may have even slept a little before building up the nerve to climb into bed.

The next morning, Sophia called all of her appointments from the day before and apologized. She said there had been a death in the family, which was close enough to the truth, and she promised this would never happen again. A few elderly ladies needed to be placated with extra free samples, but most were willing to forgive and forget.

On her way home from work that night, Sophia bought a dog. She wasn’t picky. She just wanted a big dog. She never had a dog, and didn’t know very much about them, but she now knew she needed a canine presence in her life. Her only other qualification was the loyalty required to mercilessly mangle and maul any marauder or threat.

Sophia named the dog ‘Glenn Danzig,’ because it wasn’t very big, but could probably put any human invader in their proper place. Also, the dog was jet black, so the comparison was inevitable. A few hours at best was all that was needed for the dog to bond with Sophia and by ten that night, the two laid down beside each other. Sophia put out of her mind all her fears and worries for what she thought would be a restful evening.

Sophia had by now convinced herself there was a measure of hope that it might not be Swayze’s ghost returned from his early grave to torment her for Eternity. Sophia had known him long enough to know the raw spite in his blood and that he certainly blamed her for his death with his dying breath. Sophia didn’t want this to bother her, but it did.

It wasn’t like Sophia hadn’t given Swayze plenty of chances. She’d let him back in her home again and again because she did know he was brilliant and legitimately tortured, and that he never meant to be a villain. Sophia suspected he might even love, but more important to him was the drugs leading him to a warm bed and twenty bucks in the morning when she pretended she didn’t see him take it from her purse. After two or three days he’d be buying six packs and then twelves, and his friends would drop by to hang out for the evening. Most were her friends too, so it took Sophia a while to mind. She liked having the pad where everyone crashed.

She never let anyone shoot up, but she knew Swayze did it when she wasn’t home. She rarely kicked him out. He’d either get mad and leave, or someone else would have a couch he could crash on when she asked hm to pay rent. Every so often, Swayze would hold down an apartment for a few months, usually with student loan money, and Sophia tried not to get back together with him if he wasn’t in a productive mode. Swayze always backslid. He always let Sophia down.

She had come here to get away from him. Swayze had not followed her, and he had not come to haunt her, and it was ridiculous to even suggest he may have faked his own death and caught a bus across the country to find her, though it wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept 3 days on a Greyhound. Sophia talked herself into believing that whatever was in her backyard was entirely explainable, and certainly not Swayze.

Explainable, but no less terrible. It could have been a bear, or a bigger kind of bear escaped from the local zoo. It was probably a pervert making a habit of peering through windows, desperate to see Sophia in a state of undress. The threat of alien was ever-present, and whether the supposedly friendly or fearsome variety, Sophia did not want to meet them.

A loud crashing woke Sophia around 2am, but the dog did not pick up his head, so maybe it was a dream. She went to the bathroom, and when she returned, the dog had its front feet on a chair looking out the window. Sophia asked what the dog saw, and it responded looking nervously over its shoulder and whining. It took Sophia a few minutes to work up the courage, but she looked out as well. There was no moon and she could see nothing moving in her back yard. The dog had lost interest and returned to the bed, which assured Sophia whatever Sasquatch, werewolf, or Loch Ness Monster had returned to the woods. Sophia went to bed as well and fought her spot back from the dog, who had spread out. Despite this little fright, Sophia got a good night’s sleep.

The next day wasn’t too bad. She met some great clients, sold plenty of Eel Slime, and had a great conversation with her boss. Swayze was put in the ground thousands of miles away, though he once told her he wanted to be burned. Sophia had regained enough control to think about the good times. Swayze hadn’t always been that bad.

He was in college when she met him, going back and forth between a couple jobs, and writing to magazines. He had so much hope and energy that Sophia was drawn to him immediately. He told her that phrase was cliche. It had been almost two years before they even hung out more than a few minutes at a Rock & Mineral show. At that time, it was enough for Sophia to know that Swayze remembered her name.

Janessa started dating Swayze before Sophia and Janessa were friends, but Sophia didn’t think she was using Jan to get to Swayze, because Sophia didn’t think she had a chance with him to begin with. In fact, it wasn’t even for a couple years after Janessa and Swayze broke up that he even said anything more than ‘hello’ to Sophia. Jan said she was cool about it, but Sophia could tell Janessa was pissed. They didn’t talk or hang out like they used to, and when they did, the situation was always tense.

When Swayze broke up with Sophia, supposedly for another girl, and supposedly for another man, whatever happened didn’t work out very quickly, and Swayze wanted Sophia back within a couple weeks. Sophia on the other hand had made up her mind that things were done.

With a few notable exceptions near the beginning, she did not break down. This would be the first time he cheated on her. According to him, he’d never done it to anyone before, and Sophia wasn’t even convinced he had seen someone else. The sources were too unreliable and few of the details matched up. Swayze had gone pretty far into the deep end and was starting to look like he couldn’t make the swim back. Sophia thought she could help him when they were together, but if he wanted to treat their relationship so trivially, she was going to take the convenient opportunity to lop the problem off at the base.

This did not sit well with Swayze. If he couldn’t have her, no one would. He targeted first their mutual friends he knew were hanging out with Sophia. If they had cell phones he would call an increasing amount of times and leave long messages on voice mail after the phone was turned off. Swayze was a little guy, and didn’t take more than a couple knocking him around that he decided to turn his torments on Sophia instead.

Swayze preferred the phone calls because he could do it while sitting on the couch eating ScornFish. He called her, he called her job, he even called stores where she shopped and had her paged. Sometimes, if he had been drinking, he would go looking for her.

He would arrive unannounced with friends he knew would keep him from getting out of hand. They would come to eat at the pizzaria she worked in. Once, Swayze talked his way into a trip to Sophia’s father’s house. Sophia had been so embarrassed by Swayze’s actions that she hadn’t even told her parents about the breakup. She was tempted that night, knowing that her father would have pulled Swayze apart like soft bread. That’s what Swayze wanted. Then he could press some real charges.

When Sophia bested him there, his new plan took some work. After the fact, he’d been candid about his conspiracy, one-on-one, so he could deny everything later. First, he convinced a few doctors he was mentally ill. Then he convinced a mutual friend to admit Sophia had flipped Swayze the bird when she drove by in a car. Unfortunately, she had, but Sophia was unaware he’d become legally crazy, she simply thought Swayze was an asshole.

He pressed charges for harassment and arranged numerous meet-ups where he could throw a fit. While no one was proud, this was the final wedge between Sophia and all but a few of her friends. They boys still hung out with Swayze, and the girls all wanted to hang out with the boys.

Sophia probably could have beat the rap save for one fatal mistake, the night she ran into him at the bar the night after a lengthy and unproductive session with her court-appointed lawyer. Sophia felt helpless, and lost, and was starting to believe that no matter how wrong, Swayze was going to win. He managed to sway the hearts and minds of aides and advocates and convinced the courts Sophia had been a bad mother. If she was going down, she might as well have some fun.

Telling the bartender she’d made a bet, she requested the most noxious mixture he could mix from the sauces in the kitchen. Most of those sauces were hot, and some were considered suicidal, and there was also some vinegar, and plenty of caustic spices, and the cook mixed these in the same red plastic cups the bar was handing out to Rock & Mineral patrons. She knew he wouldn’t pass up the chance to speak with her if she walked too close. When Swayze took the bait and whispered, “I love you,” Sophia tossed he hot sauce in his eyes. Swayze fell on the ground screaming, and Sophia wrapped her legs around his waist and pummeled his face until the bouncers pulled her away.

Sophia barely escaped jail time, and was slapped with a restraining order that she didn’t care the least about. She bought a new phone and phone number and moved out of state with the boy she’d been dating over the Internet. Swayze was declared sane when the police told the doctors how Swayze behaved on Sophia’s last night.

Sophia didn’t move far at first, just a few hours from home. She knew Swayze didn’t have the ambition or ability any longer to come to her, even if he could find out where she lived. The fear never went away though.

The relations with the boy didn’t last long. He had only been a vehicle, and Sophia thought he understood that from the start. She went further south, and even settled down a while when she got to the warmth. That’s when the letters started. Somehow, Swayze had gotten her address. His letters were easy to rip up. They were words he’d written a thousand times in much cleaner handwriting. Enough time had passed that Sophia could dismiss the letters. She had a different life now.

Swayze too had made life-style changes. These were mainly new highs in his consumption levels, but also included regular access to the Internet. He must have spent hours signing her address to mailing lists. She received junk mail by the bucket full, until the Post Office stopped making deliveries. The Post Office doesn’t pick and choose important letters either, they ship everything back to the sender. Swayze must have known when his own letters came back. By then, he had the phone number to the Rock & Mineral shop she’d opened with her new boyfriend, the man she could see herself marrying. On opening day, Swayze gave the phone number to every call list he could find. By the end of the week, Sophia and her boyfriend had the line disconnected.

Sophia probably could have worked things out, but she was humiliated. Without even telling him, Sophia signed over the Rock & Mineral shop to her boyfriend, found a new career as an Eel Slime saleswoman and left town in the dead of night. She planned this move to rid herself of Swayze forever. She changed her name and changed her history, and didn’t leave a forwarding address. Now Sophia was convinced Swayze had pursed his only option to torment her from the afterlife.

When she came home from work every day, they would chase each other in the field across the street. The elderly couple came outside to watch. When the sun went down, both girl and dog were ready for bed. Glenn Danzig took his spot next to Sophia, and the dog was snoring in the first few minutes.

Sophia was not so easily at rest. Glenn Danzig didn’t know the horrors that waited just outside the window. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too tired to wake up and defend Sophia should one of those eldritch abominations decide to crawl through the back window.

Sophia stared outside for what felt like hours, but no flashing light came. Maybe she missed it. Maybe she had dreamed everything. Maybe the unwelcome nightlight was scared of the dog.

The next night, Sophia heard a bang. The dog heard it too and did a tour of the house, but found nothing. Sophia let Danzig walk around the back yard to be sure, but was terrified some monster force would loom from the darkness to devour Sophia and her pup in one gulp. The following night, there was nothing, and still nothing the night after that.

The next night, Sophia had convinced herself the threat was gone. If it was Swayze, he’d burned out his powers and moved on to haunt some corrupt doctor or drug dealer. Sophia laid down in her bed with the dog beside her. As soon as she turned off the light there was a flash, followed by a piercing scream. There was a few more flashes, and then silence. When Sophia was sure no more flashes were coming, she crawled across the floor to the window and slowly pulled herself up to the sill. Equally slow and groggy, Glenn Danzig did the same. At least Sophia wasn’t crazy.

Dog and girl stopped with their eyes slightly over the glass, peering out into the darkness. Sophia couldn’t see anything. If the dog could see anything, he didn’t let on. A long time passed before Sophia built up the courage to return to bed. Sleep was not so fast in coming.

Sophia was running ragged the next day. In her sales appointments, customers stared in confusion as she sputtered and spat out words that did not make any sense in the order she arranged them. Shortly after lunch, Sophia’s boss noticed there was a problem when two customers complained Sophia was on drugs. He found Sophia half-asleep at her desk between appointments and advised for her sake and the sake of the company she should take the afternoon off. Sophia apologized up and down, and her boss assured her that there would be no repercussions if the event did not repeat. Sophia thanked him and hoped she had enough gumption to get her butt home and in bed.

The sun was still blazing, but Sophia was confident she would be asleep before her head hit the pillow. As she pulled in her driveway, she noticed her neighbor, Mr. Jenkins was home, puttering in his garage with the door open. At first, Sophia thought she might prefer to think she was crazy than relate her crazy story to another person. Maybe she did imagine the whole thing, or extend a dream, believing she was awake when she wasn’t. Sophia almost went in her house and forgot the whole thing.

But she couldn’t . She’d seen the Jenkins television glowing at all hours of the night, along with the silhouettes of people walking around. She knew they were up late, and maybe they had seen the lights. If they hadn’t seen the lights, Sophia could go on wondering. Maybe it was a sign from Swayze. Maybe it was space aliens. That might even be preferable to some of the scenarios running through Sophia’s mind.

Sophia approached the house cautiouslyMr. Jenkins was big, like an oak barrel, with big tree trunk arms, and a bent Dick Tracy nose, like every Navy sailor she’d ever seen. His tiny eyes perched at the top. Mr. Jenkins face was not accustomed to smiling

“Mr. Jenkins?” she asked as she came up the driveway, waving so he would know she was friendly. “My name is Sophia Artichoke, I just moved in next door.”

“Good to meet you. My wife was going to bake you some cookies,” Mr. Jenkins said. “She’ll be disappointed I got to meet you first.”

“Yeah, good to meet you too.” Sophia smiled and wrung her hands. “I’ve got a question I wanted to ask you, and I was wondering if you could help me out.”

“Sure, anything. What’s going on?” Mr. Jenkins was big and intimidating, but he was friendly. Now he was even smiling, just a little bunched up around his cheekbones.

Sophia inhaled through her nose and licked at her lip on the inside, trying to find the best wording. “I’ve seen this light...”

“My wife is going to kill me!” Mr. Jenkins cried, throwing his big hands on his head and sobbing. “You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell her about this!” He was loud, but laughing. He shot questions at Sophia every time she nodded. “Middle of the night? Quick flashes of light? You must be talking about my raccoon pictures.”

“Raccoons?” Sophia asked.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what was knocking over my bird feeder. I ended up with 300 pictures of raccoons. Thirty years in this house and I’ve never seen a single coon!”

“You mean it was nothing?” Sophia asked.

“Nothing?” Mr. Jenkins sounded more shocked than angry. “It was something all right! You’ve got to see these pictures. There are dozens of them, all over our back yards. You don’t have garbage or anything out there, do you?”

“No,” Sophia lied. She’d brought three bags of half-decomposed melon rinds and coffee grounds that she’d brought from her last house.

Mr. Jenkins didn’t seem to hear. “They were right up on the camera, like they were trying to figure out what was flashing.” Mr. Jenkins slapped his forehead harder than Sophia would ever like to be smacked herself. “Oh, you can’t tell my wife, she’ll be whipping me around the back yard with a chain!”

“Last night I saw flashes and heard a yell.”

Mr. Jenkins nodded, hesitant. He didn’t want to tell. “My wife made me stop putting out the camera. She was afraid she would wake you up. Night after night, I didn’t see any movement in the back yard. I’d go out every so often to look around, but didn’t see any evidence. I thought maybe it was a migrating pack.” He paused and put a stubby finger to his lips. “I don’t know if racoons migrate or not. Anyway, I wanted to know for sure. I set up the camera without telling my wife, and would you believe that damn thing started flashing almost as soon as I closed the back door. Well, stupid me, I yank the door open and go running back out to turn the camera off before she saw anything. I tripped right over my ladder and fell flat on my face.” Mr. Jenkins sighed and put his hands on his hips, looked at his toes a few seconds before back to Sophia. “Do you know anyone that could use a slightly used trap camera, because I don’t want to know what’s in my back yard anymore.”

Here in this Sorrow Chapter 5

2011-06-17T05:32:00.000-07:00

Chapter 5

“I can’t believe you just did that!” Andy gasped as he sat down on the brown Naugahyde couch between Clark and Shannon.

Christian smiled, leaning back in the chair across from them.

Clark was laughing so hard that he was almost falling off the. “He’s going to fucking kill you,” Clark managed to spit out between laughs.

Andy looked out into the main room of the library. The heavy glass door cut the fiction section off from the twenty other kids in the main room.

Christian shrugged. “What’s the worst he can do, beat me up? He was going to anyway.” He crossed his hands on his lap. “I’ve hurt his pride. He doesn’t feel so tough any more.”

“Now he’s going to use you to prove how tough he is,” Shannon said. “You’ve made things worse for yourself.”

“Won’t I have my loyal friends to back me up?” He put his hands behind is head and crossed his feet on the table. “Come on, we’re one for all, aren’t we?”

The three of them shifted uncomfortably.

“Sure,” Clark said at last. “I’d love to have the chance to kick Jim Smitt’s head in.”

“Yeah?” Andy asked. “And what about all his friends that want to do the same to us?”

“They’ll get theirs,” Christian said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clark asked. “You sound like some kind of real Christian.” He giggled. “What’s the matter, Chris, you want to start living up to your name?”

Christian shrugged.

“Some day, we’ll take over,” Andy said. “We’ll be the ones in the positions of power, the smart ones. Then they’ll see what it’s like.”

Shannon chuckled. “Yeah, of course we will. Just look at all the senators that were in punk-rock bands.” She kicked the table they all had their feet on. “Congressman Sid Vicious? Governor GG Allin? President Johnny Rotten? People like us quiet down or die.”

“Some people don’t. Just look at Jello Biafra, and Henry Rollins, and the Misfits, they’re old and still going,” Andy said. “None of them have forgotten they were punk. Some people do stay different.”

“We need to stay different,” Clark said. He kicked at the table mockingly. “We need to keep our edge. We have to stay like this. We will become the next artists, the voices of the people, if not the rulers. Christian, you could be the next Bob Dylan, or Jim Morrison, or John Lennon. You just need to get a band together and start writing songs. We have to keep from growing up.”

Shannon ran her fingers through her shoulder-length locks. “I’m going to have pink hair when I’m forty.”

Christian laughed. “Of course you will,” Christian said sarcastically.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Shannon protested. She reached out with her foot and kicked Christian’s boot. “You think I’m a fake?”

“We’re all fake,” he replied. “You think we’ll all be like this when we grow up? We aren’t really like this, these are just clothes we wear. It’s not something we’ll be doing forever. It’s just a question of who will grow out of it last. If we are still doing this when we’re forty, it’s pretty sad.” He leaned forward. “We’re going to grow up, get jobs, and all that. In ten years, we’re going to be normal, just like everyone else, let alone twenty years from now. The only people that keep looking like this are the ones in the bands making enough money to keep doing it.”

“Not me,” Shannon said. “I’ll stay a freak forever. Punk ‘till I die!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Christian snorted.

“So what? Are you going to be the one that stays the way you are?” Clark asked. “Now that you’ve insulted our integrity.”

“I doubt it,” Christian answered. “Twenty years from now, the Misfits will be a vague memory for me.” He smiled and leaned back. “People like us don’t stay like we are. We get old, we give in.” He shook his head and entwined his fingers behind his head. “People like us don’t win.”

Andy laughed nervously. “When did you become such a cynic?”

“We have to do what we can to make our mark as soon as possible. We need to give it the go before we get old and lose our guts.” He laughed and cleared his throat, peering out into the main area of the library. “I guess I’m just nervous about getting my ass kicked tonight,” he said with a laugh. “I think we should run to my car as soon as school’s out tonight.”

Shannon got up and began to pace the room. “They’re going to be waiting for you in the parking lot,” She said. She paused and pulled a book off the shelf. “That’s if they don’t come to your house and wait there.” She turned the book over in her hands, looked out the glass door and dropped it into her hand-bag.

Christian shrugged. “If they come to my house, I’ll just shoot them.” He chuckled. “It’s not like my dad doesn’t have enough guns there.”

“Well you’d better keep something ready then,” Clark said. “You’ve just made a bad enemy even worse.” He pushed Andy down where Shannon had been seated and put his feet up on the couch. “Best keep something on hand.”

Christian laughed. “I’ll need it for my mom when she sees my coat.”

Shannon dropped another book into her bag. “We should just cut the rest of the day.”

“Yeah,” Clark said. “I’m already going to have detention tomorrow. If I get in any more trouble, I’m not going to the show.”

Shannon snorted. “Go fuck your Nazi parents.”

“They aren’t as bad as Andy’s,” he protested, pushing Andy almost off the couch with his feet.

“That’s true,” Christian said.

Andy opened his mouth to speak, but then shrugged. “My dad isn’t so bad,” he offered weakly.

“You guys suck,” Shannon said. She walked over to Christian and leaned on his shoulders. “Why don’t you guys be men for a change and just fucking cut.” She began to kneed his shoulders, and he melted into her grip. “You already cut one class. You’re going to have detention into next week as it is.”

“That’s true,” Christian said, shrugging. “I might as well.”

“Good.” She looked up at Clark and Andy. “You guys are a bunch of fairies.”

“Let’s just leave now,” Christian said.

Shannon nodded.

“Will you come back and pick us up?” Andy asked.

Christian’s voice broke when he laughed. “And pass up a fight with the baseball team? I bet they’ll even bring their bats! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” He paused and stared down at his hands. “Be waiting in the parking lot right after class. I don’t want to wait around.” He got up and shouldered his back pack. “If you aren’t there when I get there, I’m leaving,” he said as he followed Shannon out the door.

The Salvation Shark, Chapter 46

2011-06-10T05:26:00.000-07:00

Jesse

Courtney found a ride downtown and stopped by my place ten minutes after Eva left. If I can stay awake long enough to keep her occupied, Courtney will probably stay at my house tonight. First, she wants to go for a walk. I don’t know who discovered it, but in the back of a building around the corner from my house, there is a set of stairs that leads to a platform that leads to another platform to a fire-escape up a ladder up to the roofs. Eric showed me a couple months ago. It’s ultra-secret, and no one can be told about it that might cause a disturbance. Courtney and I come up her occasionally to fuck while looking over the city. It’s too cold for that right now.

Court is really stoned, so she isn’t hounding me the way she normally does. I keep thinking of the look of awe on Eva’s face when I told her the truth tonight. What would happen if I told Courtney the same thing? One time, Jehovah’s Witnesses came to her door, and she threw hot coffee in their faces. She made a half-hearted attempt to be a Satanist once, but that fell through when she realized she had to do more than smoke pot, watch television, and fuck random guys.

If I showed her–not just told her, but showed her the truth of my existence, what would she have to say? Would she ever talk to me again? Would she laugh and refuse to believe it? Would she turn around and convert? Knowing Courtney, she would want me to use the power I have rejected for so long, she would ask me to use it, and become the king of the world so that she could be my queen.

All my abilities, miracles I can perform, I could use it. I could make them fall on their knees and worship me as a living God. The faithful could rise up for me, warriors for Heaven. They could enthrone me and enact bloodshed on all of this and save all of their souls by giving vindication to their faith.

But in the end, it would be my soul that would be lost.

These are the things that I can never tell Courtney. I could never have a girl that understood my worries, my fears. I could never discuss these things with anyone, so instead I torture myself with sweet, superficial Courtney. I suppose she means something to me, but I highly doubt I mean a damn thing to her.

“Courtney?” I say, breaking the heavy silence.

She kind of falls against me. “Hmmm?”
“Do you ever think about dying?”

She starts to sit up again, but then falls against my side. “What are you talking about?” she asks.

“Dying... You know, ceasing to exist.”

She is quiet for a moment. “I think about it all the time. I can’t think of a morning when I didn’t wake up and wish I hadn’t.” She sounds sad, like I’ve pierced some vital vein. I think this is the closest thing to a real conversation that we’ve ever had. I don’t like the prospect of it. “Why do you ask?”

“What would you say if I asked you to jump off this building with me right now?” I start to get up.

She looks at me, puzzled, and giggles. “Jess, what the hell are you talking about? You’re crazy, my boy!”

“We could just jump off the edge right now, and our problems are over, just like that!” I clap my hands. “Poof! Gone!”

“A suicide pact? How Sid & Nancy!” She gets to her feet as well and runs giddily to me. “Do you want to get a whole bunch of heroin too?” She laughs. “Now that would be a real trip.”

“No, Court, I’m serious, imagine what it would be like, the last few moments of our lives spent together as we plummeted down to the pavement below us. We would be remembered forever as being together.”

She chuckles. “You’re such a romantic, Jess. Are you asking me out again.”

What am I talking about? This flash of combined brilliance, insanity and stupidity. The words are rolling around inside my mouth like marbles. I don’t love Courtney, I could never love Courtney. She’s addicted to addiction. She’s shallow, she’s superficial, she’s stupid. She sleeps with anyone that comes along, and has broken my heart at least a dozen times. I’ve ended three friendships because the guys fucked Courtney.

I don’t want to spend my last couple moments on Earth with Courtney, let alone years. What I want is Eva. A nectar like that I’ve never tasted. I want to climb off the roof, go home and call her I want her to be by my side. If she were there, I could face the destiny the Universe meted out for me. I could beat the Devil. If I were with Courtney, I would only be beating myself.

“I think I’m asking you to marry me,” I say. “I think I want you to be my wife.” Nice.

I don’t think I could have shocked her more if I did jump. She recovers enough to stammer, “You... You want what?” she is trying to smile, but can’t actually fathom that what I’m saying is real. We’ve never talked about anything like this before. She probably never thought about this before. Courtney is a girl I fuck and do drugs with. I doubt I’m any more to her.

“Four nearly twenty-four years, I’ve felt like an outsider, Court.” I say, sitting down on the rubbery plastic that lines the roof. “Everywhere I go, I haven’t known what to do, or where I’m going. My mom hated my dad, I never talked to him. I managed to pry out of my aunt that he’s in some prison in Texas.” At this point, I can’t even look at her. “I was a mistake, an accident of creation, set to drift in life, nothing but a listless stoner.” I manage to pry my eyes off the ground and look up at her. “You are the only person I’ve ever felt like I belong with, I can’t see anything else that I should do. You make me feel like a normal man.”

Take that, God.

Normal man. If I marry Courtney, that’s all I’ll ever be. No destiny, no future, no martyrdom, no end of the world. Live out this pathetic existence and go home where I can be happy. I can suffer through this farce for a while.

They don’t need me, not on this dirt ball. Faith isn’t a fairy tale anyone wants to believe anymore. Who am I to complain about it, either? It’s a fairy tale I don’t want to believe either. People turn their back on me for the ‘scientific explanation’ every day, when the ‘learned’ answers that science presents are just as far-fetched. How did a rat ‘accidentally’ grow wings? How did a fish ‘accidentally’ grow lungs? How did all of this just happen to happen on the planet just cool enough, and just warm enough to let it happen, unlike the planet before and after? How could it not happen anywhere else in a Universe so vast that we can’t imagine? It seems that the only thing we know is that we are still frightened cavemen huddled around a campfire, spitting out our theories on why the sky is making noise. I’m a tired out Messiah in a time when people are finally learning to reject their messiahs. I just want to be normal. I want to be married to a woman, want to have children that won’t have this burden to bear.

“What do you say, Court?” I ask breathlessly.

She smiles and claps. “Sure!” She throws herself on me and starts kissing me. All I can think about is how I don’t love her.

Go to Chapter 47