by Keith Crews
CHAPTER FOUR
BLACK
(1)
The bitter expression upon the barkeep’s narrow face suggested that he’d been cheated of a delicious meal. Angelo had returned to the Last Chance Saloon on his own ticket while there was still plenty of time left on the dream meter. But there was more than just an indignant look inside the barkeep’s inhuman eyes, there was fascination.
How had the hitman removed the spiritual blinders from his eyes?
How had he defied the magical influence of Scarlet Red?
It was impossible, but the man in the full length leather jacket had done just that.
What did it mean?
Was it significant?
Throughout the ages the barkeep had encountered more than his share of willful souls, but this son of a bitch wasn’t entirely human.
He couldn’t be.
Even a full-fledged fire demon, or an archangel would’ve had difficulty riding out blood from the Devil’s herd, but this man had done so with relative ease.
How?
The barkeep regarded the essence of Angelo’s soul, searched the hitman’s spiritual aura with a discerning eye. Nothing in the hitman’s color suggested anything out of the ordinary, in fact he appeared quite common. But then he wasn’t common. There was something extraordinary about this death merchant, this deceiver.
The bartender kept his eyes on Angelo while his fingers touched the cool smooth surface of Final Black’s shot glass---the final drink that blinded all. Despite Angelo’s early arrival, the hitman was nonetheless primed to receive Final Black, and when its dark potion touched his lips, it would be over forever.
No one, but no one had ever asked a question of Final Black, and no one ever would.
So said the ancient parchments---amen.
The barkeep would have eons to discover the source of the hitman’s uniqueness. After Final Black, Angelo would be locked into the spiritual paddock with all the other lost souls, and there the hitman would feed them until his light dimmed into a tiny black dot.
Yes, there was absolutely nothing for Boondocks to fear from a mere mortal. The barkeep, Sartomonius and the servants of the purgatory-like-world were crafted by the immortals. They were at the top of the food chain, and as such, they did not heed nor give thought to the peculiarities of their prey.
(2)
Despite the fire’s heat, Angelo was still quite cold, although he was warmer than before, but that rise in body temperature had nothing to do with the hearth fire, but rather Angelo’s defiance of Scarlet Red. Intuition told the hitman this, and it also said that the fireplace along with Boondocks wasn’t what it appeared to be. The Last Chance wasn’t so much a product of smoke and mirrors, but rather a chameleon adept at camouflage. Again this knowledge was instinctual. However, the nature and purpose of this town, along with the creatures within remained a mystery.
What drove and motivated such entities?
The answer to that question would surely court madness.
The barroom mirror looked docile, although Angelo could sense its unseen malevolent eye watching him. Those liquor bottles on the shelf had returned to their ordinary state and no longer burnt like candles, nor coiled like serpents as they had while Angelo was under the influence of Scarlet Red---a clever deception.
Angelo could tell that the barkeep felt short changed. The milking had ended prematurely, seeing as the cow had kicked over the pail, but the game was hardly over.
Final Black remained unchallenged, the third and most dangerous drink of the evening.
If Angelo tasted of its sour nectar, would he be able to repeat his previous performance with an early departure?
The hitman was deep into the drinking game, and he doubted the barkeep would simply let him walk out of Boondocks before finishing.
Besides, where would Angelo go?
The winter tundra and the freezing wind waited outside to encase his bones in ice. No, there would be no skipping out on the bill, he was here for the duration. He would have to bear Final Black regardless, because therein lay his salvation: a third answer to a final question with its guarantee of safe passage from Boondocks.
However, the language of that agreement felt provisional, not to mention that a creature that enslaved souls to service its appetite may lack honor and integrity when it came to such agreements. Some folks were just sore losers, and solemn oaths were seldom made of oak when fashioned from cheap brands of morality.
“Back so soon?” the barkeep asked.
Angelo nodded as he considered the barkeep’s intention. The barkeep looked pissed, but of steady mind. Angelo thought to ask him what he meant by “back so soon,” but feared that might constitute a second question.
“My question,” Angelo said in a decisive tone.
“So be it death merchant,” the barkeep said as he fixed the hitman with a gaze that could burn through stone. “You’ve paid your fare to Scarlet Red…ask your question, and then let us have at Final Black.”
Angelo nodded, snatched a glimpse of Final Black, and then set the barkeep in a direct line of sight. Question two would have to be in accord with question one if he were to get any results.
“How do I get back to my old life?” Angelo asked.
“The Avalon,” the barkeep replied without hesitation. “Lie down in the cemetery of the ancients and let those of fair judgment pass sentence upon thee…if thee dare.”
If thee dare?
At least the answer wasn’t entirely cryptic. If there was a small town called Boondocks in the middle of nowhere, then surely there could be a cemetery called the Avalon. At the very least, Angelo had a destination, all he needed now was a direction and a means to travel.
Both Angelo and the barkeep regarded Final Black.
It sat on the bar like cancer in a shot glass, the blackest shade of black Angelo had ever seen. It had the same effect as staring into a high watt light bulb which invariably left a hole in your vision. Slowly, Angelo let his icy fingers wrap around the shot glass. The hitman expected that drink to weigh a thousand pounds, a quantum singularity brewed inside a cosmic still, but it came away from the bar with ease.
The drink hovered before Angelo’s discerning eyes like a retinal eclipse.
If such a beverage could cut a hole in his eyesight, then what would the drink do once inside of him?
Brown had shown Angelo his distant past, Scarlet Red had shown him the days immediately thereafter.
What would Final Black show him?
The answer to that question was just a quick toss away.
“Take your fill death merchant,” the barkeep said in a voice that sounded impatient. “Have at it with due diligence, fates damn you.”
Angelo regarded the barkeep with an easy smile and a quick cordial wink. “Here’s mud in your eye.”
And with that said, Angelo drank Final Black down in one swift knock.
(3)
Final Black tasted like empty air. No, less than empty air, empty air would’ve at least been something, this drink was absolutely nothing.
Angelo inspected the shot glass.
There wasn’t a lingering drop of Final Black to be found within.
The glass was sat back down onto the counter. Angelo peered into the mirror. No out of body sensation swept over him. Those trusty snakeskin boots around his ankles kept rooted to the floor. Still, his cold hands braced against the bar for balance. Anticipation was the only impression afforded him, the quiet pause before impact. Surely, Final Black would be the most formidable drink of the trio, and as such its bite would be fiercest.
But nothing happened.
The fire continued to crack and snap its spent embers, and the barkeep continued to regard Angelo with a perturbed vexation.
Was the barkeep’s annoyance based on the fact that Angelo had not fallen through the looking glass as he had before, or was it rather a form of patient malice in the face of the expected?
As far as Boondocks
went, everything appeared to be normal. No, that was incorrect, the room had grown noticeably dimmer.
Had the oil lamps and the hearth fire burnt down, or was Final Black stealing his eyesight from the inside out?
Angelo’s eyes narrowed as he inspected the bar’s surroundings. The height of flame inside the grate as well as that of the lanterns was still quite tall. Plenty of light spilled into the room, but still it had grown darker by a significant factor and continued to do so.
But why was that?
The answer visited upon the hitman with a sinister realization.
Boondocks’ wooden walls and floorboards were transforming into a smooth black unyielding rock, a purgatorial rendition of a medieval dungeon.
“Behold, your fate death merchant.”
Angelo looked at the barkeep, but it was not He who had spoken. This voice was deeper, angrier, and seemed to come from the depths of the mirror.
Angelo fell back a step and in one fluid motion drew Thunder and Lightning. He targeted both the barkeep and the mirror, gun triggers poised. The bitter frost remained inside the hitman’s limbs, but his motion was both rapid and graceful. His body had either grown used to the cold, or the cold wasn’t what it actually appeared to be either. Perhaps that misery too was made from smoke and mirrors, another form of spiritual bondage to keep him incapacitated.
“I’ve drank my fill of your poisons!” Angelo said in protest. “We had a bargain! Grant me an answer to question three and then bid me safe passage from Boondocks, goddamn you!”
A gruff laugh filled the saloon with sour notes, as both the unseen source that resided within the mirror and its evil minion the Barkeep shared in merriment.
“No question has ever been asked of Final Black, death merchant,” the barkeep explained with sadistic entertainment. “For in order to bear Final Black to the end, you must serve an eternity in service to Sartomonius. So say the ancient parchments, amen!”
Final Three was a paradox, Angelo could see that now. The only way he would get an answer to the final question would be to carry Final Black inside his belly until the end of time. Only then would his fare be paid in full, at which point, he’d be free to ask any question he wanted.
But he’d never get there, because tomorrow never comes.
Knowledge from Final Black was infinitely expensive, its interest steeper than any nasty mafia loan shark’s, and Angelo had unwittingly signed into the contract when he drank from the first shot glass of Brown.
“Get out Little Capone!” Vincent’s voice shouted from inside Angelo’s head. “Get the hell out of Dodge before it’s too late, capisce!”
But it was too late.
If this were the natural world there would be familiar rules of conduct: a hammer dropped against a bullet anvil made an explosion, and if someone, or something stood in front of that explosion, they fell down.
Did those rules apply on this side of the rainbow?
Did Thunder and Lightning still possess worth, or were they merely novelties to a quaint little reality in which science dominated the laws of physics?
Nothing was for certain, not Boondocks, the Barkeep, Sartomonius, and yes sad to say, even Thunder and Lightning. There was a doubt that suggested the gun triggers would not blast off a powerful round when pulled, but rather make empty clicking noises. Hell, maybe even a little flag popped out of the barrel with the word “Bang!” written upon it.
Angelo hesitated, to have Thunder and Lightning let him down in this most dire need would be unthinkable.
The confident glare in the barkeep’s eyes spoke to a certain inevitability, that many souls had come to Boondocks before Angelo, and each and every one of them wound up inside the animal paddock. There was no escape, because no one ever had.
So said the ancient parchments, amen.
Angelo’s eyes narrowed and as his thoughts gave way not just to cold blooded murder, but to a state of mind that could only be described as death incarnate.
“Listen fellas,” Angelo said in a calm even voice, mindful that a man who could control his temper was far more dangerous than a man who couldn’t. “I don’t think you realize who you’re messing with.”
More laughter tittered through the dungeon passages and stoned archways of what had once been a saloon.
“Your fate is sealed, death merchant,” the barkeep assured arrogantly. “Demons and angels combined would be hard pressed to thwart off the fangs of halfway hounds, let alone a lowly man-thing. Relinquish your assertions of freedom and submit to feed us your soul!”
From the darkest corners of the dungeon, things stirred, shuffled and hissed. Eyes of scarlet and amber stared out of the shadows, hungry eyes that wanted to be fed.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Angelo crooked a smile, an act of defiance that enraged the barkeep. The hitman however, remained steady.
“Oh, I’ll feed you,” Angelo replied. “I’ll feed you all the poison in my heart.”
Thunder’s trigger was pulled and the hitman was not disappointed.
(4)
A loud report erupted from the Howitzer as a hole the size of a fist ripped through the barkeep’s chest. Shock shaped the barkeep’s facial features as he examined the gaping wound with blood stained fingers. He regarded Angelo with wide eyes that were bereft of disdain and malice, but rather held a mute wonder.
How could this be?
How could a mere mortal man inflict such damage upon a minion of the House of Despair?
It was impossible, wasn’t it?
Guns weren’t supposed to work inside Boondocks for the drinks rendered such physical manifestations of the lower order inert, and primed souls for processing. But here, the death merchant had not only suffered their unholy fruit, but thwarted off the effect of their magical toxins as well.
How could that be?
If only the barkeep had three questions to ask, then perhaps he might find an answer. But he didn’t, and as his knees gave out from beneath him, his essence both physical and metaphysical, dissipated in a wispy cloud of icy gray smoke.
(5)
It had been a good shot, dead center.
But the best thing was the expression on the barkeep’s face, those wide questioning eyes that conveyed their shock and surprise. Angelo understood in that all too brief second that the guns had done something extraordinary, and if they could do that, then they, and perhaps he, could do even more. Suddenly, Boondocks wasn’t a place built so much on absolutes as it was upon misplaced assertions. There was leverage to be had here, and although Angelo didn’t know to what extent, he would use it as best he could.
“Death merchant!” wailed the unseen presence within the mirror. “Lay down your arms and submit your soul! There are far worse fates to be had than being corralled into the herd!”
Angelo did not hesitate.
Lightning released a shell into the looking glass, to which the barroom mirror stretched inward and then rebounded outward like a trampoline. The bullet ricochet, grazed Angelo’s temple as the mirror reflected the bullet back towards him.
The hitman would not make that mistake again.
Angelo’s attention turned to the shadowy corners of the room where terrible eyes continued to regard him with dim witted and malevolent fascination. They were the halfway hounds the barkeep had spoken of, and judging by the sinister scarlet light inside their glowing eyes, they were no doubt vicious mindless creatures.
Beasts such as these only considered one thing: to feed.
To the rear, the Last Chance’s door remained. However, it was taller, sturdier, and now barred by a rugged crossbeam that was thick enough to hold off a juggernaut set on a castle siege. Bullets from Thunder and Lightning would have little effect on such a formidable obstacle, seeing as their ammunition was in short supply. Where those frosty sectional plate windows had once stood, were now arched portholes closed off by rusted prison bars. Again, for lack of bullets, the guns would be unable t
o breach such lengths of metal.
The way out was shut.
Beyond both sides of the mirror, stone passageways led past dozens of solid, iron door, jail cells where souls were bled of their vitality until their spiritual light dimmed to darkness. There was a vast reservoir of misery to be found inside of Boondocks, and although this prison was not in actuality the Lake of Fire, Angelo felt it nonetheless qualified as a close suburb.
The voice within the mirror bellowed out a strange dialect, a master issuing a command to his attack dogs to kill, and that’s exactly what those beasts within the dim shadows struck out to do.
(6)
Within the low amber glow of torch light, Angelo could see the halfway hounds. There were four in total, big as prize bulls, fiendish creatures with wolf like heads surrounded by black manes of putrid tendrils. The hounds’ slimy lips were pulled back by guttural snarls, their crooked jaws pitted with jagged teeth which gnashed and snapped. Festering quills protruded from their greasy gums. Eyes of red-amber burned pyres atop their wide grunting snouts. Their rugged bone skulls were festooned with giant tumors.
The hitman marked them well with his guns.
They moved quickly on sturdy haunches of hairless hides, pushed forward on broad shoulders in rapid gallops. Hooves clattered across the cold wet stones, filling the dungeon with the dangerous energy of a wild stampede.
Angelo only had a second to react.
The howitzers held twelve bullets each, and Angelo had already burnt through two rounds. Eleven shots aside made for twenty-two hits, and that may not have been enough bullets to take on this brand of the devil’s herd. Logically, given such a predicament, the best option would be to run, but where? The doors behind were barred shut and those cellblock passages offered no guarantee that they might lead to a rear exit. Unfortunately, there was no time to debate the issue. The only avenue open was forward, and that’s where Angelo would have to go.
The hounds drew in from the four corners with efficient speed, but the hitman was quicker. He jumped upward, braced a hand upon the bar counter and threw his feet towards the wicked mirror.
The hounds converged, smashed into the bar counter like a pack of angry football players. The counter shattered into lengths of splintered wood under their immense weight as they collided and fell into a clumsy pile of bodies. For a second, the hounds were disoriented, perhaps knocking the wind out of each other, but they were recovering with preternatural speed. It was in that brief lick of time that Angelo got a good whiff of their sour breath. The scent was reminiscent of the odor inside of Uncle Vincent’s mystery room: death and decay, both old and putrid.
The hitman rallied, blasted a dozen rounds at point blank range into one hound’s skull. The fiend howled, recoiled and then lost its stride as its diseased head tossed off large wet divots of flesh and bone. The beast slumped, rolled its fiery eyes back into its skull and then fell dead.
The remaining trio gathered their footing, bucked against the fresh corpse of the hitman’s handiwork and immediately gave chase.
Angelo turned and raced past the mirror that had caused him such misery, but not without first catching a glimpse of his own reflection.
(7)
The image had been fleeting, caught on the tail end of escaping heels, but still, the hitman had recognized its significance. Angelo’s head was a decomposed mask of rotted flesh, his eyes dim lit pyres that had been bled of their spiritual essence to the point that they were no longer consequential. He was an empty shell, gutted of any semblance of intelligent thought.
That’s what you’ll be if they catch you! Angelo thought.
The mirror’s rendition of the hitman’s future added speed to his feet. He charged down the passageway, boot heels clicking hollow notes upon the floor stones. In the background the rattle of hooves returned with a steady rhythm, drawing closer.
The hall unfolded into a division of choices: left or right. If he could make that distance before the hounds finally nipped his heels, then he could buy a few seconds by out maneuvering them. Angelo dug down, pumped his legs higher and harder. If this didn’t work he’d be done for, in which case it would be best to lodge a bullet into his own brain.
That option opened up an interesting philosophical argument: could the dead die?
If Angelo committed suicide, would he automatically end up in one of the prison cells, or would he go straight to Hell?
It would make for an interesting choice: a lake of fire, or a paddock stall for all eternity? Neither option seemed preferable. They were the sort of morbid choices that put Angelo in mind of one of Uncle Vincent’s peculiar sayings. “If you’re up to your neck in dung, and someone throws a bucket of snot at your head, do you duck?”
It had been a rhetorical question, but as Angelo faced the real possibility of eternal damnation, he began to weigh in the subject with serious consideration.
Would he duck?
The passage split approached and so too did the hounds.
Angelo chanced turning left, banked sharp, and that’s when his boot soles began to slide. For a second he could see himself, sprawled up against the wall under a linebacker pileup of angry livestock. His right heel connected with the raised lip of a floor stone, effectively recovering his balance. He cut harder, hugged the wall edge, and began a one-eighty degree spin as the hounds entered into the turn.
(8)
An elephant on roller skates would’ve been more graceful. The hounds’ hooves rolled completely out from beneath them as they tumbled into the wall with a solid crash. The trio of beasts stumbled over one another, knocked each other down as they struggled to regain footing. The beasts were eager to recommence the chase, and as such, had sacrificed their balance.
The gamble had paid off for Angelo, and he wasted no time utilizing the advantage.
Thunder and Lightning blasted off another six rounds, three aside. The hound on top of the pile screeched, threw back its oily head, its fleshy mane spitting out thick black gobs against the wall as it fell over dead.
The guns were down to ten hard spikes.
The remaining duo kicked and pawed at the fallen hound, squirmed beneath its dead weight. Angelo took aim at the one closest to the wall and fired off a round which missed completely.
Impossible!
How could he have missed such an easy target?
In the hitman’s eagerness to finish off the herd, he had not noticed that a squid like tentacle had emerged from a visor slot within one of the cell doors. The scaly appendage had wrapped its sticky white suckers around his wrist, effectively throwing off his aim.
Angelo had reacted instantly, called upon the free hand with Thunder to challenge this latest threat, to which the Howitzer split the tentacle apart with three well-placed rounds.
Six hard spikes remained.
The two remaining hounds found their balance and reset their charge. The hitman aimed. Three bullets were offered. The first beast collected a head shot, the other, a pair of shoulder wounds. Howls of pain reported their misery, but still the fiends made challenge. The hitman turned and ran, willing his legs to carry him on to the next corner in the labyrinth and beyond the reach of those razor sharp teeth.
(9)
The steady rhythm of hooves sounded uneven, broken. The gunshot wounds had the hounds laboring to keep up. Still, they would overtake the hitman soon if he did not reach the corner’s bend.
Ahead, the passageway’s dim lit torches made it difficult to gauge distance. Angelo could be staring into miles for all he knew, perhaps even eternity. The muscles in his legs grew tired, his lungs worked for air. The race would soon take his heart, and when that happened, he would have nothing left to offer except defeat.
But that was not an option.
No, he would put the hounds to the dust before that end, even if he had to do so with just his hands.
The wall ahead branched into two corridors, a T like junction of choices: left or right. This time
the hitman would bank right, just in case the dim witted beasts anticipated a repeat performance of last time. He doubted the hounds possessed such cunning intellect, but he would alter any predictable patterns just the same.
But as the wall drew closer, his heart suddenly sank.
There was no T in the corridor, nor an L for that matter, just a heavy iron cell door set within that final wall which turned out to be a very dead end.
(10)
Cell doors lined both sides of the passage and offered no alternate route of escape. Angelo was running straight into a barricade where the hounds would crash down upon him like a truck load of rancid beef.
It was the end of the line.
To turn now might give him enough time to kill one beast, but their momentum coupled with their proximity would ultimately prove fatal. Dead or alive, the hounds would crush him against the door.
The end closed and Angelo prepared for a daring maneuver.
His timing would have to be perfect.
The hitman raised a foot in mid-stride and placed it upon the door, letting momentum carry him up the wall. He was three steps into the climb when gravity began to take hold. His thighs tensed, pushed with all their worth against the door, launching him into an airborne reverse somersault. Below, the last remnants of the herd crashed into the door, and as Angelo arced overhead he let Thunder and Lightning unleash the storm. Two hard spikes found their marks at near point blank range with two clean head shots aside.
He came down hard behind the hounds, but managed to hold onto his feet.
The reckless stunt had paid off.
Upon the passageway stones before the door a hound writhed in agony, its shark like teeth shaped around a bitter howl. The other lay quite dead. The surviving hound’s scarlet eyes grew bright as it battled to right itself up again, but it was hopelessly pinned beneath the weight of its fallen sibling.
Angelo had one hard spike left.
Would he offer it to this beast in a mercy killing?
“No…no mercy for those who are without mercy,” Angelo whispered. “Amen.”
The beast’s scornful eyes slowly faded while the hitman looked on without the slightest touch of compassion.
(11)
The halfway hounds were dead, but the danger wasn’t over. Angelo was still trapped inside of Boondocks and soon other things would come to collect him, perhaps even the thing that resided within the mirror.
He had to get out of here.
He looked back the way he came. He could not assume that Boondocks followed a rational architectural layout. The floor plan of a spiritual prison may very well be erratic and perhaps even changed in size and shape on occasion. Besides, to backtrack would lead him closer to that cursed mirror, not to mention closer to the things that resided behind the iron doors along the passageway. He regarded the dead-end where two tons of rotten beef lay dead and bleeding. A wide curve in the door’s surface denoted a sizable dent. If he had been caught between that door and those charging beasts, the hounds would have turned him into a pancake. His eyes followed the door’s seam, noted that the warp of metal had pulled in from the edges of the surrounding jamb ever so slightly. A rivet had cracked on the lower hinge, but the three others along with the four in the top hinge held firm.
Suddenly, a shrill inhuman scream rang through the passageway.
Angelo turned, took aim with Lightning and its last solitary bullet.
Nothing stirred except the darkness, yet something evil was obviously on the hunt.
The hitman crouched down and contemplated a plan. One bullet wouldn’t be of much use if another hound came calling, in fact it would probably only piss it off more. Brains, not brawn, would be required in this situation.
The squeal returned, except this time it was louder, closer.
Angelo’s eyes searched.
Nothing moved.
The only sign of motion was in the distance, phantom silhouettes which may or may not have actually been there. The hitman stood, regarded the fallen hounds with a hint of regret as he considered his poor state of ammunition.
Could he have killed the hounds with fewer rounds?
He wasn’t sure, but understood that such conjecture was ultimately self-defeating.
The unseen beast returned, its scream jabbing hot needles into the hitman’s ears.
It sounded right on top of him.
Again he surveyed the distance.
Nothing moved, save those strange inconsequential images.
Perhaps the monster was invisible, leisurely stalking up on him, its transparent body distorting the distance with some sort of dark magic. Any second now he would smell the thing’s vile breath as it unhinged its snake like jaws to swallow him whole. He drew back, the carcasses of the dead hounds pressed against the back of his boot heels. It was here that he felt a soft draft touch the edge of his hand, except this breeze wasn’t cold and damp, but rather hot and dry.
(12)
Angelo reeled, expecting to find that the hounds had somehow resurrected, but the beasts remained deathly still. His fingers traced the draft back to a fracture just below the damaged hinge. He knelt, and from that vantage point he could see a thin slice of what might have been sunlight seeping in through the crack.
“The light at the end of the tunnel,” Angelo whispered.
He stood and regarded the Howitzers with considerate eyes. They were powerful guns, but they wouldn’t blow away that hinge with just one bullet. Perhaps if he had two shots, maybe three, then perhaps, but just one kick at the can wouldn’t cut it.
Another scream bellowed, seemed to shake the passage upon its foundations.
It was an awful noise, grating, primal.
There was no time left to think. He would have to chance sacrificing his last bullet on a lost cause. True, he would rather go down fighting, but if the bullet could crack the hinge further, then maybe, just maybe he could get out.
Lightning prepared to fire its last solitary bullet.
“Please,” Angelo muttered. “Let her kick like a goddamn mule.”
The tentacle was damn fast, streaked out of its jail cell door and grabbed hold of the hand which held Lightning. The gun went off, effectively spending its last hard spike on the ceiling stones.
Both Howitzers were now empty.
But that was the least of Angelo’s worries.
The tentacle had hold of him, and it was not letting go.
Angelo used Thunder to hammer the greedy mouths that gnawed upon his hand. He fought to free himself and the gun he had worked so hard to earn, but the beast was strong, wiry, a creature built of sturdy tendon and muscle.
A chorus of screams swept through the passageway as an army of tentacles slapped open the cell door visors along the corridor. In an instant the entire length of the tunnel was transformed into a throat of hungry limbs, a gauntlet of dark alien flesh blindly searching for a victim to clasp onto. They squealed as they called out for Angelo in the forbidden language of a cursed tongue.
“Feeds us death merchant! Feed us your soul!”
The cell doors shook violently within their jambs and threatened to let spill a shapeless evil onto the passage stones.
He placed his feet upon the cell door and pulled hard. His eyes narrowed and face flushed as he wrestled for life and liberty. Another tentacle from a neighboring cell door claimed his ankle with a tight strangle hold. It yanked his foot away from the door, weakened his leverage and placed him in the middle of a powerful tug of war. Soon his limbs would come off like a fly’s plucked wings, and then the feasting would begin.
If only Thunder had a couple of hard spikes, then he could shoot his way out, but the gun’s chamber was empty. It had performed its swansong for the ceiling, and as such, would sing no more.
Sing! Angelo recalled.
In Scarlet Red’s version of Diavalo, the guns had worked magic, but could they sing for the hitman inside of Boondocks? Casa Diavalo had been a
dream built on deceptions, but then wasn’t Boondocks made of similar materials as well?
Angelo tried to steady himself, but it was impossible. The tentacle around his ankle had been joined by a third that had looped itself about his mid section so tight that he could hardly breathe. His mouth opened, tried to call out as it had in Diavalo, but there was no air on which to place the words.
The passage dimmed before his eyes.
“Sss…in…g!” croaked out of his mouth, a command that was weaker than a whisper.
The Howitzers kept silent.
(13)
Thunder and lightning ripped through Casa Diavalo’s church, while the wind and rain pounded the rafters into submission. Despite the storm’s roar, Angelo could hear the solid click of leather bound soles as they walked casually down the aisle’s wooden floorboards. They were high heel cowboy boots, the type a huge Sergio Leone fan would wear in a town like Diavalo.
Angelo opened his eyes and watched as that bastard Carlos arrogantly approached, his crooked yellow teeth barred together in a smug smile. The son of a bitch stopped, his wart riddled hands straddling his wide hips. Every fiber of Carlos’s being reveled in Angelo’s misery, every cut, ache, broken bone, a delectable treat that must be savored.
“Howdy Mutt,” Carlos said with a cruel grin. “You look a little worse for wear.”
The church floor wobbled beneath Angelo’s feet. Blood loss had his brain running on fumes. If he didn’t get to a hospital soon, he would die.
“I won,” Angelo said with a tongue that felt as dry as sun baked stone. “I’m an Elitario.”
The wrinkled corners of Carlos’s smile sank into a grimace. “You’re a mutt, Marchetti…always have been…always will be.”
Angelo raised Thunder and Lightning and aimed them at Carlos. “These say different.”
“They’re empty victories, Marchetti,” Carlos scoffed. “Empty of significance, and quite empty of ammunition.”
“No…they’re symbols of bravery…good merit…skill,” Angelo declared. “I am an Elitario…I have endured the Trial of Daggers, and you will recognize me.”
The floor felt soft, and Angelo had to fight to keep his knees from bending. Ghost’s Longbow was somewhere beneath a toppled pew and quite out of reach, not that it would serve any practical purpose aside from vengeance, because if Angelo killed Carlos, then Angelo killed himself, and Carlos knew it. There’d be nothing practical about that situation, and despite Angelo’s overwhelming desire to kill Carlos, he had to remain very practical.
Self-interests often served self-preservation.
Suddenly, the room blurred and distorted into a square tunnel. The rumble of thunder rang inside Angelo’s ears while lightning seared his optic nerves.
Had something moved beside Carlos, a dark shadow that looked like a snake?
If only his eyes would clear, then he could see for sure. But he was barely conscious, dizzy on feet that felt as insubstantial as daydreams. Angelo squeezed his eyes shut, and when they finally snapped back open, they found Carlos standing before a heavy iron door.
(14)
Squid like arms slithered around Carlos’s cowboy boots, sailed through his smoky body like boats in a thick fog. Yet Carlos paid this intrusion no heed, instead, he fixed Angelo with a face so flush it looked ready to burst a blood vessel.
“I will never recognize you!” Carlos bellowed. “You’re a goddamn mutt! You’ll never be an Elitario! Do you hear me, Marchetti! You’re nothing but the litter runt of a dirty whore!”
The fire came from everywhere: Angelo’s arms, legs, heart, every cell in his entire body converging upon the center of his mind. How dare that ugly bastard speak to him in such a disrespectful tone! How dare he utter such obscenities against his mother! It was unforgivable! Angelo had more than paid his fare, and now Carlos was going to pay his.
Rage consumed Angelo’s thoughts, stole away his intellectual reason. It was true, a man who could control his temper was far more dangerous than a man who couldn’t, but when a man was given over to wrath, his options no longer abided consequences.
It was in this mindless fervor that Thunder unleashed the storm.
(15)
The report went beyond loud, it deafened. The roar of a tank cannon as heard inside an amphitheatre. A large scarlet flare spat out of Thunder’s barrel, robbed the world of sight in the wake of its brilliance. The recoil was so fierce that Angelo’s arm felt torn off at the shoulder.
The hitman was blown backward, ripped free of the tentacles that tugged war upon his bones.
Had the gun exploded?
No, the gun had not exploded, it lay intact upon the passage floor stones, a thin wisp of smoke twirling out of its spent barrel. As for Angelo’s arm, it ached like a son of a bitch, but it was still attached to his shoulder.
His eyes quickly searched for Carlos.
There was no sign of the miserable prick, but then that was to be expected of a hallucination. However, Angelo had not fantasized the fact that Thunder had fired off a thirteenth round. As a result, the dark passage was now full of dazzling garish light that poured in generously from where a heavy iron door had once stood.
Thunder had blown the door away, peeled its hinges back like a corn husk.
He was now free to escape, but to where?
Was that brassy light shining upon the damp stones cast from an earthly sun, or was it the spiritual energy as shone from the mother of all milking paddocks?
Angelo picked up Thunder and climbed onto his feet. He felt dizzy, but nonetheless able now that he could breathe again. The squid arms had been momentarily frightened by the gun’s loud explosion. They also appeared to have an aversion to light. The arms would briefly touch the spot of light on the floor and then quickly pull back. Still, they seemed to move with cunning, testing the environment for weakness.
The hitman had a few seconds before the arms would rally another attack. He searched the damp floor for Lightning. There was no sign of the gun. His eyes retraced the path of the arm that had first grabbed hold of his hand. The slick appendage was still there, its length timidly hanging out of a cell door visor, Lightning perched vicariously within its suckers.
He would not dare to leave Boondocks without that gun!
Thunder aimed, but its trigger would only click out an empty reply. Angelo would have to challenge the limb to a test of strength. He pulled on Lightning, but the gun was slippery, covered in vile mucus from the arm’s sour secretions. The appendage contorted, twisted violently and then vanished back inside the cell with Lightning still clutched stubbornly within its ropey limb.
Angelo pounded upon the cell door with angry fists, pulled on the handle, but the barrier would not budge. A tentacle from an adjacent jail cell squirmed over his foot and up his pant leg. He jumped back, adjusted his balance, feigned to move in one direction, but jumped in another. The limb missed, curled along the floor. There was no time, the tentacles were growing bolder and losing their fear of the light.
He had to leave!
The hitman regarded the cell door once more, hoping that the beast within would tire of the odd trinket it had stolen and thus toss it back into the passageway, but it did not reappear, nor did Lightning.
With the greatest of reluctance, Angelo turned and dove through the door, well-aware that he had just abandoned a part of himself.
