There is a Paraguayan bakery on the corner where I buy my coffee and breakfast. They have fresh pastries but I eat the day-old stuff that's hanging around; fifty cents for a twisty, sugary thing filled with sticky, orange guava paste. I buy the last six and cram two of them before I even pay, two more as I walk out the door and the last two on the walk back to the apartment where I hole up. The coffee is fair, black and sweetened with whatever I grabbed before I left. A packet of Dominos or some Splenda or Equal or what-have-you. It makes no difference to me. My sense of taste is as dead as the fire that burns in most men's hearts. These days I only see the bottom line. A number that decrements by dollar bills each minute I'm still alive. I figure seven big jobs, twenty little jobs. That's the idea. That's the fuck you money I require.

I'm already a millionaire, on paper. And by "on paper" I mean bearer bonds and stacks of twenties buried in coffee cans, stuffed into couch cushions, hidden under floor boards. Seventy-five thousand cash hidden around the drain of my shower beneath the floor and I'm eating stale food from the corner market. My refrigerator is filthy, uncovered food lies in heaps. My stomach is bulletproof and I never get sick. I don't have visitors, ever. I don't care about hygiene these days. My freezer is a bank vault, my shower is a safety deposit box. My walls are storage lockers, the space beneath the floorboards is my gun rack. Everything hidden away, tucked away, concealed. When your job is to not be seen, it becomes second nature to hide. Everything.

That was before the kid.

Tags: darkpages, fiction

 The shop bears an inscription above the doorway:

Deus ex machina. God from the machine.

In this case, la machina... a very expensive, very shiny espresso maker. God, one would assume, would be coffee.

"How long you been awake?" he asks me, hands jitterbugging along the paper on the table.

I brush the question aside and call for another plate of french toast. 

He says he's been awake for four days straight. He sees things in his dreams, so he prefers not to dream anymore. I tell him this isn't healthy. He looks at me as if to say, "Duh."

Me? I feel a bit worn, a bit frayed at times but he's unraveling before my eyes. I can see the red veins around his iris, the tremor in his upper lip, his fingers, his tense body posture. I ask this guy if he's using and he says, "No... no, no drugs. Just the bean."

Two vampires on skates roll in. I ignore them as best I can.

"So, bad dreams. Yeah." 

He orders another demitasse of espresso. Dark, rich. A shot of artificial adrenaline. I dive into my french toast and ponder the inevitable follow-up.

"You're the only one who doesn't?" he asks me and I say yes around a mouthful of lost bread, butter and faux-maple syrup. The kind that comes in little plastic pods with the peel-off lid and the diabetes-inducing contents.

"Millar's on the East Coast, so's the Roach, I hear. I don't talk to either of them much, though I know they've tangled in this recent past. The others? No idea where they are. But yeah, I'm the one who got the permanent No-Doze."

He looks forlorn. I toss him my ace card, to keep him interested. "Of course, there's rumors of a second round of test subjects."

He looks up from his coffee, thick with Splenda.

"Mister Rote. I'd... I'm really in a bad way here. If you can just give me a name, a lead... anything!"

I write down a phone number on corner of the paper tablecloth and tear it off. 

"You call this guy. You ask him about the Dark." I hand it to him.

"The dark?"

I pull the paper away, catch his eyes and fix them with my own. "Capital D. Man means business. Don't go during the nighttime."

The guy takes the paper and stuffs it into a wallet full of newspaper clippings and business cards and receipts but not much else.

"What happens at night?" 

I shake my head, hoping he'd have at least enough to cover the tip. "That's when he sleeps."

At least he paid in advance, I think to myself.

The vampires were giggling at something on their cell phones when I left. Something funny. Funny to vampires.

Tags: darkpages, fiction

The Darksiders pulled up on bikes and skates outside Grand Central and descended, rolling down the ramps to the main concourse where the ticket sellers and guardians were located. The guardians were in boots and bullet-resistant vests but the Darksiders carried crossbows slung over their shoulders and knives in their boots, belts or hip sheathes. Below and off to the sides of the concourse were the trains, and with them, the Engineers. When the Third Rail rallied them to his cause, nobody expected they'd become such a threat. But here they were, making sure the juice flowed and the trains made their stops on schedule. Darksiders elbowed their way through the zombies flooding the concourse, ignoring the guards and the booth drones. Each was jacked up on bean smuggled out from the Darkside fortress, Baruir. 

Darksiders: the Queens of the Bean, gangs of Eastern European bloodsuckers and the odd ghost or two from Ireland, all looking for something that goes down easy. There'd be no blood on the tracks of New York, so long as everyone got their fix.

Tags: darkpages, fiction, strangepages

The first celebrity I ever saw was at a record store appearance. A late 20's heavy metal brat who looked older, eyes behind a pair of round shades, hair long and disheveled. He was drunk, or stoned, or both, and mumbled something to me while he scrawled his initials on the CD I handed over to him. There may have been times before when I met someone famous and recognized them for who they were, but I don't remember those times. I just remember the strange feeling in my gut as I watched the wretch struggle to sign his name. He wasn't really a celebrity. A minor one, at best. A wanna-be, more likely than not, cast out of a bigger band to try and eke out a living on his own. To his credit, his new band wasn't named after him. But he wasn't THEM. He wasn't someone to look up to with any measure of wonder, respect or envy. He was, despite his retinue and record sales, just some guy. A guy with a guitar who got real lucky.

The first celebrity I ever killed was Russell Crowe. Academy award winning actor, movie star, a true celebrity. That is, someone whose very existence is celebrated. By the media, by the public. By fans that yelled his name as he walked down the red carpet of award shows or movie premieres. By those that begged for autographs as he ate dinner. By those who sent frantic letters to his publicist, praising or cursing his name. He was important, famous, vital... his every movement charted and photographed in an attempt to sell shitting tabloid magazines. He was, yes, a celebrity. He was a celebrity and I shot him through the head.

Now, this is not true, of course. Everyone knows how and when and where he died. But in my mind I was the one who put the bullet between his eyes. His bold stare sighting me down the barrel as I sighted him. The pull on the trigger of the rifle, the "pop" of the gun as it spat out the bullet. The neat hole it left in the photograph pinned at the far end of the shooting range. It was quiet after that. I was the only one present, having tipped the attendant a twenty to let me stay after hours for a little while. The photo was one I brought from home, blown-up to a grainy, pixelated size from a low-resolution picture I downloaded from a website. I knew that if I was to save this man from fame, I'd have to get use to the fact that I, we had to kill him.

The deed was done while he was on set. A few months before he landed a role, the star role, of an action film based on a popular comic book character. He was in makeup, his hair white and thinning like it was in The Insider. A bit heavy, bulked up to fit into the black and grey costume he was required to wear for the role. It wasn't flattering, but it wasn't meant to be. Still, despite his size he was hardly soft or flabby. I knew from my research online and from reading the trades and watching entertainment news reports that a regimen of weights and boot camp-style training kept his bulk from turning to fat. He weighed a bit more than was healthy, his muscles blown up to an almost absurd degree. His costume was in ragged pieces for this scene, a line of red-colored glycerine swapped over his eye and up his nostrils. The big action scene. The finale.

This is why you should always research a part. To make sure it goes off without problems, to see it to the end. We knew we had one chance to make this happen and we waited and waited for the perfect moment. At this point, there was no turning back. Principal photography was complete. Just one more shot to go. The scene where he emerges from wreckage of a monstrous tank, actually a scene that occurs in the middle of the movie, but shot out of sequence. The rest would have to be completed with CGI or stunt doubles. It would be okay. We knew it would be released. We knew it would be a success. A defining moment in a long and celebrated career. He would not use a double. It was a point of pride. This was his genius. That was to be his legacy. Another demi-god, felled from hubris. A poetic end to a poet's life.

The group had many discussions about the particulars of the assassination but in the end it was decided to look like an accident. A malfunctioning device that used compressed air to eject him from the vehicle would be prepped at the wrong pressure. The tank would release, pushing a piston that would tear through the catapult "sled" and puncture his heart and lungs. In the best case scenario, his death would be immediate, his spinal column sheared in half. Worst case, he would linger for days, weeks on life support. It would be tragic either way. It would be a glorious end. Yes, we agreed it was terrible. He may have years, decades of good work left in him. But why not go out on a high note? Why leave it to chance, to age, to the excesses that come with fame? Drugs or gambling or sex or illness. Scandals or addiction. Old age, shitting the bed or mumbling in senile dementia. Wasting away from colon cancer or emphysema. Dead at 60, at 70, at 80...

No, we decided. This would not do. Our heroes deserve to die on the battlefield, with honor, and in perfection of their craft.

We would save them from themselves. We would kill for them. Our shining, burning stars.

Tags: fiction

This guy Billy Sweet and I are standing on the corner of Washington and Irving (and yes, we both get it) when it happens: the smell is what hits me first. Burning electronics and exhaust. That poisonous, plastic smell. Big Bill just watches, his big, gnarled hands shoved into his front pockets like some hayseed walking his fields. He doesn't care. I do, this is my moment. Death is in the air, as strong as the smell of the car about to spin out of control. Maybe the gas pedal is stuck, or the brakes failed. Maybe the steering column got locked up or the little Honda's over-sized pre-amp fried some important fuses. II'm not a mechanic, I'm a repo-man. Kind of.

So, right... the car. A thousand pounds of metal, rubber, glass and plastic thrown sideways, skidding on two wheels and transforming from vehicle to projectile. It hits the divider, jumps the curb and hurdles the guard rails. Now it's like Gamera, spinning and spewing smoke. The Civic's windshield spiderwebs when it hits the oncoming mini-van. It blows out as the driver is thrown like a rag doll through a haze of powdered, chunky safety glass. Bill lets out a low whistle, real Farmer Brown-like, and spits. I'm sprinting over the torn-off fender and other bits of debris. The body is half-in, half-out. The legs are still in the Civic while the body is halfway through the windshield of the mini-van. I don't need to see the blood spattered woman at the wheel to know that Mr. Civic has shuffled off the you know what.

All the traffic on both sides has stopped. Someone must have dialed 911 because I can hear sirens, police and rescue vehicles already on the way. They'll be too late to save Mr. Civic. Miss Mini-van is in a sorry state, all bloody and stiff with shock. A baby is crying in the car seat behind her and that's the only other sound. The siren gets louder, replacing the shriek of the infant. Mom is gone. The lights are on but nobody's home. Her hand absently fumbles for her seat belt but her fingers are too dumb to find the release button. Where's she going to go? Her door is smashed in. They'll cut her out and carry her away on a stretcher. Don't worry, the kid will be fine. The kid is with us.

The emergency crew ignores me as I crawl around the two wrecks. The smoke is clearing, the fire (or whatever) is out. I pick my way through the debris and clamber in through the back. My body moves through the solid frame of the van, brushing past a layer of paint, steel and wire. And from here I can easily get to the kid. My hands pick at the latches and buckles and gently, gently free him from the car-seat's restraints. Not the kid. The kid stays put. But the other passenger, the one not visible to most folks. He comes with me. His body looks about a two months old but the eyes, man... the eyes are mean and mad and wise. He's been under for a long time and you can see he's pissed. So close, pal. But you had to jump into this little fleshy shell. Should've waited for something a little more substantial.

Mr Civic. watches all of this with silent amazement. He sees his bifurcated torso leaking out onto the hood of his totaled car and he's got this curious expression on his face. His face, not the face of his now dead body.

I scoop up Junior and carry him out the way I came in. Mr. Civic's name is Charles but I'm calling him Mr. Civic from now on. Just like Bill's last name isn't Sweet and my name isn't Barton.

Charles... Mr. Civic, that is... he walks over to me. He says, "What happened?"

I shrug. "Car wreck. Yer dead."

Junior is scowling and wriggling in my arms. Bill is just perusing the crash site and looking down the shirt of the Mini-van Mom as paramedics cut her out of her seat. Another is moving to the car seat when it happens, part two. The gentle "whuff" of the Honda being engulfed by fire. It races over to the van through a trail of fuel running between the cars. The firemen launch into rescue hero mode but fate is tricky. The wind shifts, the stars move out of alignment and then the pop/bang/sizzle as the fuel ignites and turns the pair of cars into smelly metal fireballs. Junior is toast. The mom freaks out now, her mute shock gets dialed up to raving hysteria and mad, choking sobs.

Bill picks his teeth. "Got the kid?" I nod and hand the squirming infant to him. Oh, if it could talk I bet it would be raising a holy stink about this.

Mr. Civic stands there, looking confused, staring at the work crews as they hose down what's left of the kid, the van and the Honda.

He says, "What about me?" I notice the little things. The delicate hands, the raw patch of skin around his nose, the scuffed boots, a small hoop in his left earlobe.

I shrug. "You're old news. Junior here comes with us. Gotta send him back. You're on your own, pal."

He says, "What am I supposed to do now?"

I shrug again. "Figure it out. You have more than enough time. We'll be in touch."

We head out along Washington, walking along the roofs of the stopped cars. Bill's got the baby under his arm like a stack of library books he needs to return. I have a spring in my step. Another job well done.

...

Reaping is serious business. You can make a good (pardon me) living staking out the mortal world for miscreant souls out to raise hell, but for most the job is all about the prestige. You get the cleanest souls sent back for processing and early release. The dirty ones need more time and work. The true bad-asses, the escapees... that's where the fortune and glory lies. Hitchhikers tag along for the ride, peaceful and quiet-like. High-jackers are less subtle, preferring to take over the body. Different strokes and all of that. But after a while, even the most peaceful soul tends to act out on all those impulses, seeking a little heat and light to go with the flesh and blood lifestyle. That's when they're vulnerable, when they make mistakes. And just like real dicks, sometime you have to commandeer a vehicle to chase down a target. That's when the job gets complicated, and even fun.

I mean, if it wasn't fun it'd be work, right?

Tags: fiction, rpg pitch
Current Location: Seattle
Current Mood: tired
Current Music: Dethklok, "The Dethalbum"