Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the Fruit of thy womb, Jesus
In a dying city that was hazy with oxides, the acid rain eroding buildings to rubble, a beggar was busy digging for food in a back-alley dumpster. He'd been evicted as a result of a mortgage crisis that had left thousands of blue-collar workers out of work and, in many cases, homes as well. Doubling his misfortune was the fact that he'd lost his job due to upper-level cost cuts, which eventually lead him to renounce the hustle and bustle of society and take his chances out on the streets. It was without bitter reproach that he thought about his misfortunes. He always reminded himself that he still had air to breathe and people good enough to offer him their belongings.
His search for food was interrupted by the sound of a woman's heels clacking down the street. As he turned to look at her, a car sped by, and a passenger shouted an obscenity that made her twitch in his direction. Her motion caused several pieces of paper to fly out of her purse, but she hadn't noticed them because she was intent on not letting the incident rattle her and continued walking as she'd done before. When Eddie saw that she'd dropped her things, he rushed from out of the alley to see if they were important.
There were two pieces of paper he picked up; one was a letter written by her grandfather, and another was an envelope that contained $10,0000 in cash. Now, any sensible beggar would have kept the money for himself, but Eddie immediately called out to the woman and notified her of her droppings. As he approached, she spun around and startled him with a can of pepper spray that was aimed at his face. Her fearful expression transformed into amazement after the beggar showed her what she’d left on the ground.
“Are you an angel or an idiot?”, she asked.
“Neither”, he replied. She was dressed up in tightly bound leather that was cut far too short for any decent woman. Her hair was wild with curls, yet still retained the symmetry required to please the eyes. The bones of her face protruded in painful angles that reminded Eddie of a nurse he’d seen in a 70s movie. On the cleavage above her bosom, the sinkhole of her vest revealed a tattoo of a heart nestled between the curves of her breasts. She caught the glance he gave at her chest, deciding to introduce herself as Jezebel.
Due to his courtesy, she offered to buy him a drink, but he declined, saying it was too late for drinks and that he needed to get to bed. She insisted on redeeming him, so he consented to her wishes.
She took him to a tavern on Broadway, where a goth-rock band was playing. Purple light illuminated their faces as they got to know one another better. Jezebel revealed to him that the letter from her grandfather was the only thing she had to remember her family by. He’d written it before his death, saying that he’d always be there with her in spirit, through her trials and errors. Eddie pointed out that since she still had the letter, a piece of his spirit was still with her on an abstract level of thought. She looked at him strangely and asked him how such a seemingly benevolent and intelligent man had come to live on the streets.
He told her that he’d been fifteen credits short of earning a Phd in engineering, but quit because he felt that he couldn’t do as well with a Phd as someone who was more ambitious and worthy of the honor. Similarly, he’d declined promotions at work because others had needed the money more than him. Material possessions were not something he desired. When he finally came to the part about losing his home, she rolled her eyes.
“Don’t you have a family to fall back on?”, she asked.
“My parents disowned me for sleeping with a man, so I left my city and came here. The strange thing is we didn’t even do anything wrong; he just needed a place to stay for the night. I let him into my bed and my mother found us together. She didn’t believe me when I tried to explain the misunderstanding. Instead she quoted Leviticus and condemned me, like we didn’t share the same blood.”
“Oh honey, I’m sorry,” her voice melted. “That must have been so hard for you. Here, have a drink. It’s on me.”
He declined and started talking about his father instead. “My father, he’s a brilliant man. He knows every verse of the New Testament by heart. When he found out, he was so ashamed of me that he told everyone I wasn’t the saintly prodigy I had appeared to be. They had big plans for me, but they all came crashing down that night, and my reputation in ecclesiastical circles was ruined. A month later he wrote to me, asking for my forgiveness, but I couldn’t face him after he hurt me so much, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“You poor baby. I’ll make it all better,” she said, touching his arm and looking into his eyes.
“You will?”
His smile disarmed her the same way that painful rock songs did in the 90s. He then knew that he should be going, lest he find out that this strange woman had ulterior motives. But she held onto him and drank more shots in his company, until it became apparent that she could no longer function properly. She kept offering him alcohol, and each time he declined, opting to drink from his glass of water instead. She asked him why he didn’t drink and he said he couldn’t hold his liquor well and accused himself of being boring.
“Don’t you dare think that not drinking is boring, because it’s not,” she practically yelled.
“I think we should get going, Jezebel. I can walk you home if you’d like.”
“I can’t believe you’re not going to have a drink first! Oh, shit... Never mind me... I’m just terrible. I forgot you were Christian, I’m sorry.”
“What does my not wanting a drink have to do with religion? I simply don’t drink.”
She stared into space as if she’d forgotten where she was. Eddie took her hand and led her outside. It was cold, so he held her close.
The city was buzzing with victory that night. The home-town Sea Devils had defeated a conference rival and set a Guinness World Record for the loudest crowd in a stadium ever recorded. Jezebel and Eddie stumbled over empty bottles, squeezing their way through jazzy crowds that were uninhibited in their actions. People danced in the streets, cops patrolled every intersection, and music blasted from the bars of local favorites all through the night.
Suddenly Jezebel pushed Eddie away and spewed, “You’re not a serial rapist, are you? If you try anything, I’ll gut you!”
Eddie looked at her in disbelief. Her bloodshot eyes revealed a disturbance in her soul that the alcohol had unleashed from deep inside her. Something about the woman wasn’t entirely right.
“Jezebel, it’s me. I returned your money, and a letter from your grandfather. I’m just taking you home, remember?”
They continued walking, this time in awkward silence. Through the light of the dim streetlamps she looked into his face and became captivated by the resolve beneath its eroded exterior. He was homeless, yes, but the man carried himself like a King of Kings. It was as if her entire world had been put on pause, yielding to his powerful movement, until it swaggered away from the scene. But she wasn’t going to let go just yet, not until she got a chance to drag her fingers down those broad shoulders and reward him for his chivalry.
“Can I just say something?”, she asked innocently. “You have the most...”
“What?”
“You’ve got it.”
Eddie smiled and looked away. He knew he could have her at the snap of his finger, but his conscience thought better of it. Using a woman’s inebriation for his gratification seemed to be disgraceful, even though she owed him something for returning her things. He’d never taken advantage of a woman like that before, and when she asked him if there was anything she could do to return his favors, he said that she didn’t have to do anything at all; her company was rewarding enough.
“You must catch a lot of women with lines like that,” she said.
“What are you talking about?
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend like you don’t know where this is going.”
Eddie became quiet as Jezebel thought to herself, maybe he’s had little sexual interaction, much less with the opposite sex. Sounds like he’s lived a sheltered life out home with his parents. How lucky I am to have been gift-wrapped this perfect man? But no, it can’t be. Perfect men don’t exist. He’s playing you, fool. Look at the way he doesn’t look you in the eyes, and the way he nervously stumbles through his words, as if he were trying to hide an ugly truth. I can’t read him; he must good at poker. Even worse, what if he... Oh God... no!
“You are really creepy, you know that? You really are a serial rapist.”
He looked at her for a long time and shook his head. “What is wrong with you?”
She laughed and said a lot of things were wrong with her. “I don’t even know you, and here you are walking me home. I’m sorry, I’m just a little tipsy. A woman can’t trust anyone in the city when she’s alone. Like you can’t trust your parents anymore. But you know what? My parents are shit too. I didn’t run away from them though. When they saw how much money I was making because I was an escort, they beat me and sent me off to boarding school. I hated it so much that I ran away and came right back to them, saying, “Give it to me!”
Then she looked straight into his eyes with such an intensity that his blood became ice. Her drunkenness had suddenly been consumed by some demon that was simultaneously built of grief and driven by lust.
“Suffering teaches us the most important things in life, Eddie. This is the only way we learn.”
She stopped in front of the gate and took hold of his hand, staring into his eyes with that same passion.
“Let your parents hurt you. Welcome them, embrace it. Tell them, ‘Without your incompetence, I wouldn’t be as strong as I am today.’” There was another awkward silence, as calm as a falling leaf. Then she shouted, “Give it to me, Eddie. Give it to me!”
Love is pain. There is nothing that elevates us so high and rejects us so harshly. It teaches us how to depend on ourselves, and we could not love ourselves if the love of someone else hadn’t drawn the illusion of it. Its invitation is subtle, and if we can’t recognize it then we’ll never know how much it could have changed us. Eddie missed both signs. He mistook Jezebel’s invitation for drunken horniness and had no clue as to how suffering could be good for someone. Unless it was to teach them about Christ, which a whore certainly could not.
“Are we done?”, he asked.
She realized that he hadn’t been playing her after all, that his actions had been genuine and that he’d expected nothing from her in return the whole time. She brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed it tenderly, thinking she’d been lucky to cross paths with such a rare man.
“Thank you”, she said, letting go his hand and turning to go inside.
Royally Flushed
The industrial zone hiccupped heaps of smog into the atmosphere. Freighters cawed at the morning sunrise, as if they’d drifted into some flooded farmland in which the cackling of roosters echoed off the sides of eighty-story barns. The skyline yawned and moaned, fell out of bed, and stumbled into the roaming traffic of the planet’s grid. News from across the oceans and continental divides ran through cables that were so small that people didn’t even notice them.
On the third floor of an uptown building, a man woke up to one of the worst hangovers he’d ever had. He could hardly remember what happened, but he was pretty sure the Sea Devils had manhandled his most hated team, and the party that followed had been worth what he felt this morning. Then he remembered, today was the day to pay Ikon Industries the money he owed them for helping to fund his campaign for mayor.
Much to the protest of his fifty-three-year-old body, he got out of bed, slowly making his way to the safe hidden in his closet. The combination he’d chosen was both the year and the number of victories he’d had during the record-setting peak of his career as an attorney.
When he opened the safe, the money was gone.
In a secluded area of 5th street, an undercover cop was speaking to a drug lord when he got a call from Attorney Brickowski. He nearly dropped the phone when from out of its speaker came his hysterical shouting.
“Listen to me you swinehead. I don’t care what they’re paying you, but I’ll double it.”
The attorney slammed the phone on him. The cop nonchalantly took a sip from his coffee. He turned back to the crack dealer saying, “So, how much did you bet on that game?”
Greed is the greatest weakness of poker players. If you simply wait for a good hand, you’ll win more often than not, even with a lot of bad luck. In life we are dealt hands all the time. Some of us are blessed with immense talent and fortune, and some of us aren’t. But if you play your cards right, there’s no telling how many treasures you’ll win. Half-decided by fate and half-decided by choice, the paths we follow are forever shifting on infinite hands and infinite pots. Our debts are checked by wisdom, our credits are gilded with courage. Even the bluffers, gifted with the ability to read faces, could not get ahead without the courage to strike. The laws of poker, like life, are governed by the powers of each card in our hand. It’s as if they could take on personalities of their own, in a hierarchy that mimics monarchies of the Old World. Godly Aces, Handsome Jacks, a pair of sibling sevens, deuces wild with glee; the King of Hearts cheating on the Queen of Hearts with the Queen of Diamonds, the Joker smiling behind his back as she drives a sword into the side of his head for revenge; the Ace of Spades smug and haughty in the courthouse above the Royal Castle, dictating the other 51 below him. All are subjected to the rules of the game, forever bound by its contents. Alone they are powerless, but with a clever player they can move the Earth.
Blackjack stared down his opponent like a lion on the prowl. Across the table, Attorney Brickowski nervously straightened his suit after seeing his hand. Jack had a slight edge in chips, but they’d both played well enough to knock out the other players, who were now watching the two finalists from around the table. Chief of Police Dexter, slouching against the wall, was precariously eating a piece of pie he’d been desperate enough to buy at the discount bakery. Another was a famous convict, the former vice-president of Ikon Industries, who’d been rich enough to buy his way to freedom, but not enough to stay in the game.
Brickowski had a good hand- a same suit king and queen combination. This was the type of hand that could get him out of the hole and earn back the money he’d lost. Blackjack had bluffed him twice before this hand, but he wasn’t going to let it happen this time. He raised him $800. Jack immediately re-raised him $1,200, which deflated the attorney’s spirit. This time he simply called.
To hell with this one-eyed cyclops, this game is mine, he thought. Jack stared at him with his left eye, but the covered one on the right was ironically more intimidating as it hid behind the patch he wore. It matched his long, dark dreadlocks. Jewelry adorned a chain-necklace that dangled between the V-neck of his red, cashmere coat.
The river came: a joker, a two of diamonds, and the Ace of spades.
Brickowski’s eyes lit up but darkened quickly enough so that Jack couldn’t detect it. The two words that are the Holy Grail of poker rippled through his mind: royal flush. He re-checked his hand, just to be sure. The King and Queen of spades grinned at him from their mystical turrets, coaxing him into the foolhardy bliss that all gamblers know as that feeling. It’s a feeling that infects reason like a virus, replacing it with an irrational emotion whose flames are fed by the fires of greed. Bring home our Jack, the Royal couple whispered in his ear. Only he could hear them, and if anyone else in the room suspected something, they might have looked excited about the pending upset.
There was however the possibility of Blackjack holding an Ace and a deuce in his hand. Better to play wisely at this point. Reluctantly, Horace Brickowski checked his opponent, and the buccaneer re-checked him. The Jack of Hearts fell on the turn, and Brickowski did all he could not to scream in agony. What cruel trick of fate was it to draw an off suit of the card he needed for a royal flush? Nonetheless he’d drawn a straight, which was always a safe bet to win.
This time he put $1,600 on the tableBlackjack raised him $2,000. What the devil was he doing now? Did he have a jack, or was he going for a straight? Even if he had a jack, it was possible to draw a King or a Queen on the flop and beat his three-of-a-kind, if he had one. Or was he bluffing again? Jack, Jack, bring us the Jack... He couldn’t back down this time. Not a chance in Hell. Instead of calling him, he re-raised him four grand, which drew gasps from both spectators. They called the others into the room, for the pot was brimming with coins and catastrophe. For the first time all night, a bead of sweat appeared on Jack’s forehead, and it took him several moments before calling Horace’s re-raise.
The flop came as the dark prince of the deck peeped out with his single eye at the gathering crowd, who all cheered with excitement upon his deliverance. ‘Twas indeed, him alone, the one that Brickowski’s Royal couplet had called for, the illustrious Jack of Spades. Flush! a man called. Straight flush! officer Dexter returned. Four of a kind! drawled a drunken swindler. V.P. Halimart told them all to shut their mouths and let the gentlemen play.
The two players bore into each other’s souls like demons in a staring contest. Tension like this only came once in a lifetime, and in many lives it never comes. Brickowski suspected that in the worst-case scenario he had four of a kind, but there was an incredibly slim chance that... No, it wasn’t possible. He’d never seen it before. Only one thing could beat a Royal Flush, and if Jack had it, it was certainly the work of the Devil.
“Eight thousand”, he called.
The room buzzed with anticipation.
“All in”, returned Jack.
The room burned with disbelief.
He’s bluffing, he’s crazy; could he really have it? No, it can’t be. Not this time. I need this money, dammit. No one’s going to stop me, not even a cold-blooded pimp. If I lose this money, I’m toast. They’ll sue me for everything I own, and more importantly, I’ll lose the election if I never get that money back. What will my family think of me? Bernadette, Josie, Alex... Dear God, help me out here, just this once!
“I’m all in!”, shouted the mayor elect. The crowd erupted in unison.
The attorney showed his cards, and amongst the noise, the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence of a man drawing a royal flush drove them all up the wall. Many assumed that he’d already won. But Jack held up a finger, and in that agonizing moment the attorney knew what he had. He tossed his cards into the air as if he didn’t care about Horace’s hand, and the two cards landed on his chips with a grace that sickened him. He’d had two jacks the whole time, not just one. He’d beaten his Royal Flush with a jokers-wild five-of-a-kind. The mayor-elect nearly pulled the hair out of his skull in frustration, screaming at the rotten fates of Poker for putting him through such a heartbreaking ordeal. He looked at the flop again, checking to see if the impossible really had happened: to confirm that this wasn’t a nightmare and that he hadn’t just lost another 20 thousand dollars. The one-eyed Jack of Spades silenced his parents, proving his devotion to the black baron smirking from across the table, who seemed to personify the card and all the trickery it resembled.
“That there’s been my card ever since I lost my eye. Hand over the chips, old man,” said Blackjack.
Someone from the crowd contested the winnings, saying that nothing beats a Royal Flush, not even with wild cards.
“House rules, son,” said Dexter. “In the event of such an unlikely outcome as this, it’s up to the dealer to decide whether five-of-a-kind beats a straight flush. And we’re in Jack’s territory.”
Jack just sat there and smiled. Brickowski pushed all his chips into the pot with a slowness that rivaled a snail. The casino spun around him; the laughter of drunken witnesses to his humiliation sharpened the disorientation caused by his loss. Nearly fainting, he drowned a glass of water and let the overflow fall on his clothes, as if he didn’t even notice. He walked out of the place knowing that his life was over.
Dear Tommy,
You said you’d come online last night; I’m worried about you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Your words move me, steady but surely, like planets around their orbits. I’m drawn to you spiritually, mentally, and physically; spiritually in the sense that you are more mature than boys my age, mentally in that we have so much in common that we could almost be related by blood, and physically... well, that speaks for itself. Do you feel the same? Tell me you love me, Tommy. It would mean the world to me.
I know I said I was 21, but I’m really 17. Is that bad? It’s only a number, you know. Our true ages are measured on a scale that can’t be seen, only felt. Emotionally I am much older than my body would let you believe. Even though I’ve never been in love, it is such a sensational feeling that I can’t imagine how anything else in the world could be more refined and blessed. Oh Tommy, I hope you are not angry at me for lying. When you said you were 28, I wanted you to like me more, so I said I was older than I really am. I’m so sorry. Maybe I’m just a dumb girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing. Maybe you feel absolutely nothing for me, especially after what I’ve told you.
This is why I didn’t want us to meet; I didn’t want you to find out my real age. And when you asked to see my picture, I didn’t want you to find out how young I was. Oh, I’m so terrible!
I didn’t lie about anything else though. I really am studying to be a zoologist, and I’m applying to universities all over the state. Hopefully I can get into City University, so that we won’t be separated. If you still want to meet me, that is. You told me your favorite animal is the red panda, and when you asked me what mine was, I drew a blank. Well, it’s like asking a musician who their favorite composer is; they couldn’t possibly choose only one. But I suppose if I had to, it would be the Himalayan snow leopard. It’s as white as a wedding dress and spotted with black patches that look like Oreos. Its eyes are so clear that their blueness looks transparent, like the sky. How I’d like to hold one of their hands in my arms and kiss it on its pink nose. Amazingly, snow leopard cubs do not open their eyes until they are seven years old. Imagine how sensational it would be to finally be able to see the world after seven years of relying on your other senses. I wonder how much it refines their senses of taste and touch, and whether it enhances other senses we don’t even know about. They only exist at elevations over 10,000 feet, you know. Sadly, they’re on the verge of extinction. It must be tiring to always be hunting for food in the snow.
I also love the African lovebird, whose cheeks can be so roseate that it looks like its blushing. They’re really nice to humans- I want one too. Oh! And the alpaca is so cute... ugh, I’m starting to ramble again, sorry.
Well, my darling, I must get to sleep. Please do write your poor friend. I’m worried sick about you, even though it’s probably nothing.
Love, Genie
The Church of Acid
Most people think they are nicer than they really are. These are the people who do seemingly harmless things without considering their effects on others, like a young man parking his car close to a geriatric hospital, or a rich woman buying things that were made in China. It’s an unconscious plague of unkindness that cripples our species. Normally people don’t spitefully cause harm, but if they were more aware of their destructive habits, they’d be more inclined to change them. Ignorance is the true bane of mankind, but let’s not pretend that other animals don’t do it as well.
There are those few who live a life of constant devotion to others, and Eddie was one of them. His devotion was based on doing as little as possible to bother them. He was always self-conscious about his actions, lest he hurt someone by mistake. Unfortunately, this caused him a great deal of social distress, due to the possibility of him saying or doing the wrong thing. Humans are so incredibly sensitive to the spoken word that he practically renounced all communication in order to promote peace in the world. The only times he would speak were when people asked him for help, or when he was 100 percent sure that his words wouldn’t hurt others. Likewise, he always did whatever he could not to make a whole lot of noise, lest someone should be bothered by it. For some reason, humans were especially quick to anger. Back before he was homeless, he would always stay on task and do things without being asked, to avoid the wrath of others and make their environments more pleasant. Lazy people often took advantage of this, knowing they could slack off when he was around. But Eddie didn’t seem to mind. He let them socialize and mill about, so they could enjoy their jobs or classes more, even if they didn’t deserve it.
It was in a little nook in the side of a building that he lay, bundled up in old blankets that protected him from the biting cold, hidden away from ambling pedestrians that chattered mindlessly in the street. The days rolled by, as if time had stopped caring about the past and the future, converging them into the static present instead. Nobody noticed him, nobody cared. They never gave him any money because they assumed he’d only spend it on booze and not use it to better himself. But the saddest thing of all is that Eddie knew this to be the reason, even though he never drank alcohol. He understood why nobody had lent a helping hand, and he was comfortable with it because he thought that they needed the money more than he did. There was always a scrap of food left, a place to rest for the night, or a stray dog to spend time with in the heart of the city. He’d sacrificed his luxuries to help his fellow man, yet he went through life without being honored for it.
That is, until Jezebel came.
He heard her walking down the alley towards him- those same shoes that she’d worn when she’d dropped the papers from her purse the other day. Her smile lifted his spirits out of the doldrums of his existence. When you’ve wandered the city for as long as Eddie has, things get so routine and dull that even a smile can seem like a miracle sent from providence. In fact, he hadn’t felt this good since he’d won a scholarship and given it to the runner-up instead of using it himself. Even though he rarely profited from it, giving to others always made him feel better than anything else.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you... for walking me home that night. And for returning my things. It’s nice to know this town still has people with dignity in it. And I’m sorry, Eddie, for the way I acted.” She looked down to avoid his eyes. “You must think I’m filthy and belong with all the other trash on this sidewalk.”
“No, Jezebel,” he said, picking himself off the ground. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. A woman is not judged in heaven by the clothes she wears, or her occupation.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”, she asked. He’d taken her seriously and she laughed.
“Edward? You need someone to take care of you. Please, let me help.”
Before he could decline the offer, the sound of horns and a commotion suddenly came from down the street. Jezebel became startled and Eddie became curious. He started walking towards the noise, and Jezebel followed him after her intrigue surpassed her paranoia.
It was a mob of Sea Devil fans that had just started a parade. Shards of green and blue confetti fell from towers in the sky. Faces painted with angry hashmarks shouted in unison, moving in rhythm with a marching band that followed them from behind, so that the music and the lyrics blended into a patriotic mantra written for a mission. The mob wore jerseys with the number 12 stitched onto their backs, symbolizing their relationship with the team they represented. Avian-headed hipsters boasted with pride about the rise of one of the youngest teams in American football.
Hey you, hey you
Don’t ya talk about me!
K-I-C-K-I-N-G
Assses up and down the street
Nobody beats us at Century Link!
Nostalgic memories of the season permeated the air above the crowd, as if their chanting had amassed the greatest highlights of the year and projected them onto a movie screen on a building ahead; dilating the mayhem, amplifying the energy of each fan that marched down the street. Helmets crashed, fists were thrown, an immaculate deflection resulted in an interception, the best cornerback in football tooted his own horn and talked trash in front of a national audience, a sophomore quarterback went 18-0 at home in his first two seasons as a professional, the hardest hitting safety in the game put the hurt on formerly fearless receivers, a defensive lineman sacked the greatest quarterback of all-time, Beast Mode ran right over the defense, dragging five men into the end zone, raining skittles all over his victims; acrobatic receivers made plays at crucial moments, then danced around and skipped over defenders that had dived at them in futility. The Hammer of Thor seemed to break open the sky over Century Link stadium whenever the opposing team tried to call a play. The green, the blue, the sea crashing on the shores of the sound nearby brought wave upon wave of unforgettable memories to a city that hadn’t seen a championship team in over 30 years. It had been unleashed upon a caffeine crazed population that had already seen their basketball team stolen away from them. This was their year, this was their time, and not a single person marching in that victory parade ever doubted it. There were fireworks, there was champaign. The Sea Devils had just blown out a heavily favored juggernaut in the Super Bowl, 43-8.
Eddie absorbed the spectacle like an infant watching a clown. The circus of fans marched down the street without a care in the word for what anyone thought of them, blissful in their unity, ridiculous in their presentation. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a man thick in face-paint watching him. Jezebel noticed him as well, and her heart skipped a beat. The darkness of his eyes revealed who he was despite everything he’d done to hide it.
“Follow me”, she said
An abandoned church stood in the catacombs of the International District. Candles were lit on the faces of voodoo dolls that bore their eyes through broken windows and out into the dead of night. A gothic organ played an adagio of haunting gospel music, drowning out the shouting of midnight hooligans and the sounds of their firearms. The altar was a broken mirror of sins unearthed, each shoddy piece of dangling mosaic signifying a return to the Dark Ages that had assembled it. Deep down in the sewers of the city, a mutant energy lifted its ancient head to the sound of the organ, acknowledging the distant anthem of a force forgotten by the world, but remembered by its ghosts. The charisma of a man wearing an eye patch lunged over the rows of benches, greeting each person with the strength of a preacher.
“When the Lord created the world He said, ‘Be fruitful and multiply’, not timid and restrained. We are not like them, we men of the flesh. We use what our bodies were meant for, to the best of our abilities. Our women are the true saints- what bishops could only dream of becoming, for they are the ones that offer us a true convergence with the Almighty. The pathway to heaven lies not in the realm of good intentions, but in the desert of material sensuality. It is through their touch and their touch only that we may enter through the Gates and experience true bliss. Heaven is not an imaginary place in the sky, as they’d have you believe, but here, in the glorious gardens of Earth. Heaven is a state of mind created by the objects of our desire, and we have only to attain our desires if we are to see the light. The women before you love you; they cherish you. Their comfort offers you sanctity in a world full of blasphemy and hate. Give them your blessings, and you shall be rewarded.”
The preacher was interrupted by the sound of a woman dressed in leather and a long-haired homeless man scuffling their way into the church. He paused and regathered his thoughts, suddenly animated by a vision that was to become an exegesis for all the lonely men who followed him. Before continuing, he adjusted the eye patch on his left eye.
“I know why you’re all here. You’re burning for release: to be absolved from that which the establishment has vilified in you. They’ve taken your need and turned them into wants, things you can control, repress, and beat into submission until the depths of your mind are imprisoned by their rules. This repression is wrong. We are here to cure you of the illnesses you suffer from in a world that abandoned you. Let go, release that beast from within. Your impulses are not meant to be detained; nature cannot be sealed in Styrofoam and wrapped in a plastic box. Let it out. The Lord permits you to spray the land with your seed. Let us not disappoint Him; let us not disobey Him. For if you disobey the Lord, if you disregard the power of nature, your spirit will cease functioning and all that’s left will be a conscience that robs you of power and pleasure: a conscience that eats at you when the golden skin of a minx inflames your lions. Let it go. Embrace those succulent berries that grow from the garden blooming from your desire. Taste the fruits that gave you knowledge and gave you life. Let it go. Hold your woman and pull her close, feel the way she embalms you in peace. Hallelujah! She is touching you, melting you, absorbing you into divinity. Go to that place in the sky of your mind, where the Angels of Lust give you a fleeting taste of the eternity of temptation. Let the Earth erupt with the music of your rapture. Hallelujah!”
And the Earth did erupt with rapture, at least that’s what it seemed like. Eddie had never heard a sermon quite like it. This reverend had conveyed a command so potent that the animism of his voice bounced off the walls and contagiously electrified his audience, not unlike the way his own reverend had done when he went to church back east.
After it was over, Jezebel waited for everyone else to leave. She asked Eddie to stay in his seat while she spoke to the reverend. He watched them from afar, noticing the way she nervously fidgeted when he spoke to her, wanting to know what they were talking about as he glanced at the walls of pure plaster, ruminating on the lost teachings of his faith. He heard the reverend’s voice rise as she left him.
“Let’s go”, she said.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to him?”
“He isn’t what he seems.”
Eddie, baffled by the whole scene, knew that she was dragging him into some underground scheme, but instead of getting to the bottom of it he went along for the ride. It was better not to ask questions because it could mean losing her need for him. That was the last thing in the world he wanted. To finally be someone important meant he had to conceal his thoughts: to finally be needed was something he’d missed after many months of being a nobody. So, she was able to pull his strings with the ease of a puppet, guiding him into a subliminal terminus at the nexus of politics.
Tommy419: hey baby!
Tommy419: sorry i haven’t been online much, work has been nuts
geniekitty1991: omg! <3 you finally came
geniekitty1991: where have you been? is anything wrong?
Tommy419: i lost a crap ton of money this week, so i’ve been busy trying to earn it back
geniekitty1991: oh no! how much?
Tommy419: a lot. more than i think you’ve ever had
Tommy419: got your letter...
geniekitty1991: oh, my letter... are you mad at me?
Tommy419: no of course not, this doesn’t change anything
Tommy419: i just wish you’d been honest from the start
geniekitty1991: i didn’t think you’d speak to me again if i told you the truth
Tommy419: well guess what? i’m 29, not 28. so we’re even ;)
geniekitty1991: hahaha
Tommy419: baby?
geniekitty1991: yes, my love?
Tommy419: now that you told me the truth, are you ready to meet me?
geniekitty1991: ok, but it has to be somewhere secret. don’t want my parents to know about us
Tommy419: of course. you’re almost old enough to move out, anyway
Tommy419: so when do you want to meet?
geniekitty1991: how about this weekend?
Tommy419: aw, i gotta wait that long? Ok
geniekitty1991: it’s only 3 days away, silly bear
geniekitty1991: and i need a haircut! i want to look my best for the best man in the world.
Tommy419: oh i love when you talk like that about me... gimme a kiss
geniekitty1991: hehe *kisses and snuggles*
Tommy419: that’s what i’m talking about!
Tommy419: *wraps his arms around you and firmly grips your butt*
geniekitty1991: hehe
The rumbling of a dump truck woke him up. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. The air was fragrant, uncontaminated, and somehow pleasant. When people walked by, they didn’t spit on the ground and yell at each other. One of them smiled at him. Was he dreaming?
Then he remembered the parade, the church, the party, and finally, the woman. After watching Brother Jack speak, she’d taken him back to her place and had him wash up. He’d put on a suit that she had, presumably owned by an old lover of hers. They’d gone to a classy join uptown, a place where...
They’d danced, she’d drank, and she’d let him take her home, like the first time they’d met. But this time had been different; this time he hadn’t listened to his conscience. That’s why he’d woken up in her neighborhood.
Something fell out of his pocket when he stood up. It was the money he’d returned to her, attached to a note. Anxiously, he opened it.
Edward,
I can’t believe I’m doing this. You are such a good man, and I can’t let you keep living in the streets. So, I am giving you the money, Edward. All of it. Do what you will with it, there is no catch. You need it much more than I do.
I had an amazing time last night, but I cannot see you again. Things are complicated, and I will miss you. Go forth Edward, see the world. Please take care of yourself.
Love,
Jezebel
The words stung him more than they should have. He didn’t feel any joy about what she’d left him; he only felt the pain of knowing he couldn’t be around her anymore. Even her compliments were blanketed by a phrase so carefully placed that he could have sworn he’d heard her actual voice from out of thin air as he’d read it: I cannot see you again.
He looked down at the cracks in the pavement, which seemed to be broken in the same way his heart was. Without Jezebel, the city had even more of the staleness that he’d been used to living with. The streets were still peppered with pollution, but now it seemed to extend into the air and embalm him with its toxicity. Everywhere there was trash, and everywhere he breathed in a poison that plagued his heart in more ways than one. The money didn’t even matter to him; it was farthest thing from his mind at the moment.
As he came up on the intersection of 5th and James, there was a commotion in the square that grabbed his attention. It snapped him out of the spell her letter had cast over him. A man was speaking to an audience, so he stopped to listen:
Silence had never lasted so long. A few seconds lasted for an eternity, as all the spectators struggled to digest everything he’d just said. It was Eddie who first started clapping for him by the sheer virtue of his empathy, because he felt sorry for the speaker after nobody applauded him. A few others clapped, and so did a few more, until the whole of the square erupted with a cheer that took flight over the city like a flock of birds swooping away from a tree.
At once he knew what he was going to do with Jezebel’s money. No politician was going to get his hands on it; he was going to give it to the orphanage on Beardsley street.
Genie in a Bottle
Lipstick on the mirror, kisses sweeter than candy, football players rallying down the hallway. All became lost at the snap of a finger. The cheer competition was over; she hadn’t made the cut. Those golden trifles of what could have been teased her mind while she dressed herself in the locker room. The other girls swarmed about each other, sending their congratulations with hugs and fake plastic expressions, like the pom-poms they’d pounded against each other out on the floor of the gymnasium.
Something in the mirror behind those expressive eyes told her that she, too, would one day become as fake as the rest of them. But not today. Today she was still just a reflection of all the real starlets; those shiny dimes on the dance floor competing for the eyes of horny beefcakes and bored fathers. They could all get raped for all she cared. How ignorant of them to expose themselves to such debasements as the allurement of the flesh and the materialism of joy. It made her want to puke.
It had been a good season though. She just didn’t fit the profile of the elite. Her assignments were restricted to tossing instead of being the tossed: missions only fit for the stouter cheerleaders. It hadn’t bothered her until she’d noticed that all the eyes of the men were on the ones being tossed. Well duh, it was because they were flying through the air. In her mind it wasn’t because they were prettier, but because their proportions made them more fit for flight. They didn’t have her curves- the type of ass and tits that real women had- which was something she prided herself on. And yet they all seemed to get more attention than her, and were happier as a result.
But look, there’s Josie, the blonde bombshell of Jackson High. Creamy thighs as smooth as buttermilk, a straight A machine, the daughter of a state attorney: perfection personified. She’d rank number one if all the boys held an election for who got to be on the cheer squad. Wait a minute, is she really walking over to me? Ugh.
“Hi Lorna. It’s too bad you won’t be able to join us at the state championship this year. We’re really going to miss you.” As she said this, the loud slapping of her lips mixed with saliva made it evident that she was chewing her gum in the most annoying way.
“Drop dead,” said Lorna.
“I’m meeting that boy I met online tomorrow. You know, the one I told you about?”
“I don’t care about your romantic adventures in cyberspace, Josie. Why do you even talk to me?”
“Because you’re a good listener, and I need someone to talk with. All the other cheerleaders are too busy primping themselves or planning their next shop-a-thon.”
“Shouldn’t you be with them? Your dad makes more money than the president.”
Josie slowed down when she mentioned her father. They hadn’t spoken to each other in months, ever since he’d decided to run for mayor. He’d been far too busy for her, planning his campaign and spending his evenings at the office. She wondered if things would ever be the same again. Abruptly she ended the conversation and headed for the bus that would take her home. Little did she know, the man she was set to meet was him, her very own flesh and blood.
To be continued...
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