Morality. Weakness.
Fear. Pointless.
Love. Meaningless.
The nichnytsia crushed Zlygost’s soul and buried it in the darkest depths of its malefic heart. Born of the nechistaya sila, the black one had no need for the feeble essence of humanity, only a living body to serve as a vessel for the dark substance of its true being. Restored to control of Zlygost’s body, it would again rule over the night that so terrified his mortal kin.
As the nichnytsia rose to its feet, the oprichnik calmly pulled the iron poker out of the fireplace and plunged its red-hot tip into the dark creature’s chest.
The intense heat of the glowing iron sent a rippling shockwave through the substance of the shadow and it lost hold of the sorcerous moorings that fused it to Zlygost’s physical body. The darkness retreated before it could be burned to lifeless ash, slinking back into its refuge deep within the host’s soul to nestle amidst the blackest parts of its nature.
Zlygost became aware of himself once again, felt his consciousness return to the body that had been torn away from him.
He also became aware of the iron poker that had been driven into his heart.
The oprichnik stepped back as he fell to the ground clutching at his wound. Zlygost tried to speak, but his mouth filled with blood.
A loud knocking sound echoed through the room.
“I’m sorry, Zlygost, but I can’t leave anything to chance this time.”
The oprichnik grabbed Zlygost by the arm, opened the door, and dragged his body outside. The rain sizzled when it struck the hot iron protruding from his chest.
Zlygost struggled to open his eyes.
The boy and the girl loomed over his dying body.
He heard his killer’s voice somewhere behind him.
“He’s all yours. Leave the iron where it is; it’ll hold off the nichnytsia until you’ve finished.”
The children knelt down beside him and began to pull at his clothing.
“Almost ready now,” the girl said.
His body was going numb. There was just enough sensation left in his limbs to feel something soft running over his leg.
A wet, crunching sound echoed faintly inside his head.
The rain came down harder as Zlygost’s vision faded.
THE END
Snow Man By Thomas Anderson
There was no snow in Haiti. It went to Florida.
The Snow Man wondered where his cigarettes were, really needed to light up. Waiting in the filthy, trash bag littered ally for a deal, all Jimmy could think about was nicotine. Or weed. Or....
A dark form stalked through the putrid waste, looking around for witnesses. The deal was on. The figure walked right to the bag of money Jimmy had placed amidst the garbage. Dropped a package with a plop. Jimmy knew it was white stuff, all he had to know. Pure as the driven snow. The man reached for the money.
Jimmy stepped out of the shadows and the man jerked around. He looked into his own face. Jimmy declared,
"I could kill you."
"Get da fuck out," the mirror image snarled. Both were stunned by the coincidence. Wanted to eliminate the other.
Jimmy didn't have a twin in Haiti, or anywhere else. He growled, "Not room enough for both of us in America."
"No place for you on dis planet, Snow Man," Jimmy's double shot back. They both turned and walked away to opposite ends of the stinking ally, one with a packet of drugs, the other a bag of cash.
All Jimmy could think was how he'd kill him if they met again...unless the guy gave him cigarettes.
The footsteps were light on the stairs. Jimmy gripped his gun and got out of bed. If it was cops he would run. If it was the other guy, he'd shoot him straight to Hell. A place Jimmy had been...no, Jimmy was from Haiti. The Snow Man came from Hell.
A thin envelope slid under the gaping door crack of the cheap motel. Jimmy quickly counted hundred dollar bills and got the pre-weighed bag of white stuff, slid it under the locked door. He looked through the peephole. It was a girl. Cute blonde cheerleader type, not typical drug dealer's whore. Probably sold her body and her soul for moments of height.
If the Snow Man weren't in business, she stays home and does her homework. Goes out and does the football team. Whatever. Jimmy didn't care. He went back to bed, still gripping his gun, waiting for the next footsteps up the stairs.
They would always come too soon.
The Snow Man slept all day. That was when he visited the residue of their dreams. Where he softly called the people.
Jimmy still couldn't find his cigs. Couldn't remember when he'd tasted the stuff. Or weed. He couldn't think straight. Couldn't tell when he was awake. Like he had gone to Hell and back. He'd become a demon. He was the Snow Man.
Couldn't tell how long it had been since he saw "Junior," what Jimmy called the other guy. Bastard had no right looking like him. Bugged the shit out of him. He'd kick his ass back to Haiti. Or just shoot him on sight.
The white stuff ran out, replaced by neat stacks of dollar bills, mostly fifties and hundreds. The Snow Man took no credit cards. He contacted his source and arranged another deal. Same stinking place. But he didn't complain about Junior, or they'd know what he looked like.
Nobody knew the Snow Man. Except the source.
It was driving him crazy. He still couldn't find his smokes, longed for tobacco worse than dope. Jimmy missed the whacky weed, too.
Waiting in the repulsive ally, he saw a lone shadow creeping along the cheap backyard cinderblock walls of decaying government projects. The trash man never came. Or the cops. People just dumped their trash there. It was the same guy.
Jimmy aimed his gun at his heart.
"What I tell you?"
"Go away, Snow Man," the lone figure cried in the dark. Jimmy noticed how scared Junior was. He was used to it. Everybody feared the sweet Snow Man.
Even the organization left him alone.
But they sent this freak. Jimmy thought hard. If he shot the courier, they might not use him again. Might go back to business as usual. Colombia to Haiti to Florida, the old voodoo had been good enough. Might turn their backs on the fortunes he brought.
Everybody in town dreamed the Snow Man.
Plop.
The big bag of white stuff hit the ground and Jimmy's nemesis grabbed the money. He still aimed at Junior's heart.
"You not scared to die?" Jimmy asked, amused.
"Why don't you leave me alone?"
Jimmy let him walk away again. There was time to kill.
The footsteps were quick and familiar, whispers of American children leaked through the locked door. Jimmy rose from his bed, loosely holding his gun, knowing he didn't need it for these kids.
Three packed envelopes slid under the door.
Jimmy counted the money and picked up his pre-weighed bags, slid them to the other side.
"Snow Man in der?" he heard a whisper.
"Yeah."
The kids ran to their thug bosses with the bags.
Jimmy looked around his cheap motel room. Neat stacks of money nearly filled the room. He was a millionaire. Cold cash. Wanted a steak so bad it made him drool. Couldn't remember last time he'd eaten. Wasn't hungry, just wanted to bite into a hot meal again. He could buy any woman the most expensive dish in town, tip the waitress a mint.
But the Snow Man didn't go out at night to play.
It was eating him. They had to know, Junior had to be per design. The organization was taunting him? Best they could do was mock the Snow Man? No, Jimmy shook his head trying to remember. He remembered nothing anymore. It was a blur, he had no past, just pictures. Images like dreams. But the Snow Man saw the whole town. He went to them, called to them like the Pied Piper. The children came with their adult money, to buy the white stuff. The city is snowing hard, good people said. Worst they had ever seen.
All their hard earned money went to the Snow Man.
Plop, went the huge bag of money. The courier had struggled with the bag, there was so
much cash. Junior strained against the heavy package of white stuff, hoisted it onto his back, staggered out of the ally. It was a major transaction, the biggest drug deal this city had ever known. Jimmy kept quiet, followed him this time. Couldn't take the insult.
A car waited for Junior, Jimmy knew where they were going. Turning his back on millions of dollars cash lying amidst busted bags of rotting garbage where the trash man and police never came, Jimmy went where he was not welcome.
The Snow Man returned to the source.
"Can't do it no more, Mr. Benson."
In his funny white hat and huge horn-rimmed glasses, Mr. Benson stared at the courier like he was watching a Martian speak. Jimmy knew that look all too well. The ethnic organization's hnic was used to having his way, the local Haitian population prospered under Mr. Benson. Sarcasm dripped from his rasping voice.
"Do...do you really think you have a choice, Jimmy?"
The Snow Man flinched. The impersonator used his same name.
"Mr. Benson, you said...."
"No, Jimmy, you signed the contract. You made the deal, not me. You got a fortune inside that damned crack house, why stop now?"
The Snow Man watched his look alike take a cigarette. Mr. Benson himself lit it. The Snow Man watched in agony. He had not smoked, drank, fucked, or eaten since....
It hit the Snow Man hard. He was a shadow. The shadow couldn't smoke even if it burned his shady hand.
"You said I can stop...anytime." The real Jimmy blew a delicious stream of smoke.
The deal. The Snow Man remembered the deal. Mr. Benson had lured Jimmy in, hooked him like a trophy fish. The ritual came back plain as day, the incantation, the chant. He saw the blood sacrifice before his eyes again. Mr. Benson had not been satisfied with his power in the old country, came to America. Jimmy had felt himself literally pulled inside out.
The wretch wanted his soul back.
Mr. Benson looked into Jimmy's face with the most insincere posture possible.
"Can you, Jimmy? Can you stop...anytime?"
"All right," Jimmy snapped. "You can have da money. All of it. Just let me go."
"Don't you know, mah boy?" Mr. Benson said incredulously. "I ain't got nothin to do with it. It's all you now."
Jimmy wanted to be rid of the Snow Man. When the sun-drenched city imploded under its own vice, the Haitians could take the money and run. Jimmy could have anything he wanted with his cut -- half the millions in the crack house room. It was all Jimmy.
No, it wasn't Jimmy. Mr. Benson's contract was binding. There was no turning back. No take the money and run. The Snow Man was no part of Jimmy. The Snow Man was Jimmy, the guy deteriorating into a shell. Like the dead walking.
"It's too late, sport," Mr. Benson said in triumph. "It's gonna keep snowin' here, and we gonna be rich mutha fuckas."
Jimmy could not bear it. Mr. Benson owned him, he wanted to be free.
The Snow Man spotted the shotgun in the corner, Mr. Benson's favorite piece. It was big. Like for shooting elephants. He went to it. When the two men saw the dark Snow Man they shrank back in terror and repulsion. Watched the shadow calmly pick up the shotgun and aim at them.
Before they could move, he blew both men away in the first shot. The second took Mr. Benson's head off. He studied the gore dripping off the walls and pooling on the floor.
In his own puddle of blood, Jimmy lay free.
"No more snow here," the shadow mumbled.
No more Mr. Benson. The world didn't know what he'd unleashed. Would find out soon enough.
"Time to find me a new town," the Snow Man said, silver eyes gleaming. He heard up north in the big cities it always snows.
THE END
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