“Jacque, I’m going to do whatever the hell I want to you. I own you remember? Body and soul.”
From the look on his face, Jacque got the first notion that he was in trouble. Blood rained down his chest, back, and legs. Occasionally Samson let the whip stray low and its ruinous tip bit into Jacque’s perforated nutsack, causing the photographer to convulse in such pain he almost puked.
“When you want me to stop all you have to do is say ‘Kill me.’ Then your suffering ends.”
“I signed your fucking contract! I just wanted to fuck. What do you want from me?”
“Oh, you know what I want.”
“You’re going to kill me aren’t you?”
“How else am I supposed to get your soul? Wait for you to finally OD? No, by then it will be too late. I need it now.”
“But why? I never did shit to you! I haven’t done anything to you! Why are you doing this to me?”
Samson stood naked in a widening puddle of Jacque’s blood. He dropped the bullwhip and Jacque breathed an exhausted sigh of relief until he caught the glint of steel in Samson’s hand. His breath seized in his chest.
“No. No. Oh, God. No. Why? Why?”
“Because I don’t like you, Jacque. You are a pompous, egotistical, manipulative parasite. And I love my brother. You are going to die so that he can live. But first I am going to enjoy myself. You wanted to fuck? Let’s fuck. But I’m kind of big and you look kind of tight back there. I think I’m going to have to widen you up a bit before I can fit.”
The knife bored its way inside Jacque and slowly rotated. He screamed and kicked and fought against his restraints. He had briefly passed out by the time Samson replaced the knife with his own turgid flesh. Samson’s hard thrusting deep inside of him awakened him. Like a caressing finger, he ran the knife along Jacque’s belly. Almost as an afterthought, Samson sliced from the photographer’s abdomen to his throat.
“You still won’t get my soul.” Blood bubbled up from the photographer’s mouth as he spoke, spraying from his lips and dripping off his chin onto his blood-drenched chest.
“Oh, no? And why is that? You signed a contract. In blood. Your soul is mine!”
“But I never owned it. It wasn’t mine to sell.”
Samson paused. Intestines flopped out of the massive gash in the photographer’s torso as blood poured out in sheets. It was amazing that the man could still talk. In fact, it was impossible.
“What do you mean you never owned it?”
“I sold my soul to the devil back when I was a teenager. See, according to my parents, I was already condemned to hell for being gay so I figured, what the hell did I have to lose? So I sold my soul for fame and fortune, and the opportunity to fuck the sexiest men in the world.”
Jacque’s voice grew weaker, little more than a whisper. Samson felt the photographer’s heartbeat against the knife, slowly fading. The photographer laughed and more blood sprayed from his lips. Samson withdrew himself from the man and walked around to face him.
“Bullshit!”
All of the blood had drained from the photographer’s face. He already looked like a corpse.
“Oh, it’s true. It’s all true. You’ll see. You wanted my soul so bad, well you’ve got it, but I think you’re going to have to fight to keep it.”
“Fuck you!”
He grabbed Jacque by his chin and jerked his head back as he began sawing through the man’s esophagus, trying to remove his head. Gurgling sounds continued to come from the photographer’s throat as Samson slashed through it with the blade. It sounded as if Jacque were still laughing at him.
19
Evil had to have a face.
Samuel left it to smarter people than he to argue the finer philosophical points about the nature and origins of evil. He was more practical. He knew it when he saw it. True evil had to be incarnated—the brutality humanity was capable of inflicting on itself—or worse, experienced. In all of his years in the priesthood, he had learned much about the darkness, the shadow that trailed people. He saw it as a process, a corruption, much like the virus that slowly ate away at some of the very things that made him human. A stalking entropy from within that created moral blind spots, that allowed people to treat each other badly. He feared for any who got caught up in the rush, the confidence that came from it.
Evil had to have a face; only now, Samuel feared that face belonged to Samson.
Ever since the incident where he and his brother hit the dog, Samuel hated driving at night. He loathed the swirling bundle of neuroses that accompanied him every time he got behind the wheel, though it grew worse at night, the rataplan of his heart as he turned onto poorly lit roads. He hated negotiating the darkness through the vision of his headlights, but he had to get to Samson’s.
Samuel knew that he and Samson were inextricably linked, sharing a special connection, an inner language that only they understood. They had a bond forged from years of relying on each other, and Samuel had too long ignored the feeling that his brother was in trouble. Needed him. Samson was so disillusioned, as if God had pulled on a thread of the tapestry of his world and forced Samson to watch it all unravel around him. And it would be so like Samson to embrace the darkness, the nightmares, the hurt, rather than flee to the light.
If he had faith that there was light left to flee to, Samuel supposed.
Even Samuel didn’t know what to think of a God who was in meticulous control of everything yet allowed atrocities to happen, of one who stood back like some master chess player, moving people around, arbitrarily allowing horror into their lives. Maybe he didn’t know God at all or didn’t understand how He worked. It was difficult to reconcile all of the depictions of God that he’d been taught. Samuel had questions, but he didn’t know if the answers would terrify him more than not knowing.
Yet he couldn’t just give up on Samson, couldn’t abandon him. Something stirred Samuel, tugging at his heart like a nagging spirit. Part of him knew why he had sat back and done nothing for far too long. Should Samson’s scheme work, Samuel’s hands would be guilt free. He hadn’t done anything wrong and certainly couldn’t be held responsible. He prayed that he wasn’t too late to undo his mistake.
Samson was still a creature of habit, keeping a spare key hidden in the light fixture. He might as well have a lit neon sign that read “I left it unlocked. I dare your dumb ass to enter.”
Samuel wandered around the place, as it had been years since he’d been invited. The drift in their closeness began when he had entered the priesthood. The decision alone had started a rift, but his vows made it official. The way Samson saw the situation, it was the first time God interfered in their lives.
A noxious scent wafted in from the kitchen. Precariously stacked dishes lined the counter, tumbled piles slid into the sink. Remnants of hastily prepared meals teemed with small black ants. The plates that bobbed above the surface of the water, thick with bloated bits of food, sported various shades of mold. Samuel quickly retreated from there and shut the door behind him.
The living room wasn’t what Samuel expected to see from his brother’s place, every bit the enigma Samson had become. Clean lines. Everything meticulously in its place. The pile of coasters neatly stacked on the corner of the coffee table. Rows of alphabetized CDs alongside a shelf of books arranged in descending size. The incomplete set of samurai swords. The sole item warming the sterile feel of the room was the framed photo on the mantle. Samuel picked it up, noting that not a speck of dust rested on neither the mantle nor picture. His mind drifted to the story of Moses.
People knew the burning bush Moses. The “let my people go” Moses. The parting the Red Sea Moses. The Ten Commandments Moses. They forgot the “I’ve sinned and can’t go on” Moses. For forty years, he had wandered the desert alongside the Israelites, listening to their grumbling and complaining. Though the Lord had provided for them at every turn, sending manna and quail from heaven for food, leading them, providing signs for them, still they murmured.
Until one day, Moses snapped. Slamming his staff into rocks, he summoned water. However, the act dishonored God, demonstrated a lack of faith, and for that, he was not allowed to lead them into the Promised Land. At the end, though, Moses charged his people with a message of hope. Though disappointed, he had come to accept God’s judgment.
Samuel longed for that peace, then wondered who was he to think that he deserved peace.
He sat on the couch, imagining what life would be like if he had made different choices. Stretching out his arms, he sank into its embrace, a knot of jealousy working itself in his belly. To be Samson. To have women at his beck and call. To have “the life.” The pangs of envy gave way to something else. He barely noticed it at first, like a slight breeze on a hot day. He sensed that something was off. That he wasn’t alone.
All about him, something powerful and old poisoned the air, perhaps toying with his mind. The coffee table suddenly pulled back. The lines of the room canted to odd angles, as if the veil of reality were being tugged back. His ears filled with the roar of ocean waves crashing into rocks. He studied the couch. The surface was clean, but beneath, the stains remained. Something bad had happened here. Something…defiling. The couch bled; life sprayed from it as if from a severed artery. His soul shriveled against the gnawing that threatened to overwhelm him. An ancient hunger demanding more. Never satisfied, all consuming, a shadow devouring his very being. The roar in his ears turned to laughter. Deep, mocking laughter.
And the blood. On his hands, on his clothes, in his mouth. His stomach lurched. Samuel made a mad dash toward the bathroom, diving for the toilet before spilling his meal into the porcelain. He staggered back to the couch. It seemed ordinary enough now, and he prayed that no one would show him anything different. He reached for a mint from the bowl of candy that sat on the end table when he noticed the book of matches.
Requiem.
20
Jacque’s soul crawled beneath Samson’s skin, worming its way into his muscles and vascular system, pumping through his veins into his heart and invading the thin capillaries of his brain. As he walked the dark streets on his way to the nightclub, he could feel it working deeper and deeper until it invaded every cell. This was the sensation he had expected to feel with Tara’s soul, this marrying of his flesh and spirit to hers, but he had felt nothing. With Jacque, the man’s soul had become a part of him until, at some subatomic level, they were joined.
Samson walked faster, eager to get to the club. His adrenaline was racing. Sweat beaded on his skin as he nearly jogged the remaining blocks to Requiem.
A cold chill raised goose bumps on his neck and arms, causing Samson to stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. As if he had walked through a frozen spider web, and now it was all over him.
Samson began to tremble as he felt the presence of another soul. Tara. He could feel her fly to him as if she had been lingering around all along waiting for someone to show her the way inside. She followed Jacque, letting him lead the way. Tara’s whimsical spirit shrieked in horror as it coated his skin and began to slowly seep into him.
“Welcome home, Tara.”
Samson started walking again, though his flesh felt bloated as he neared the club. He was certain that everyone he passed on the street could see the other entities within him, rippling beneath the surface of his skin like cats fighting beneath a blanket. Gradually, the riot of souls quieted down as they submerged deeper and deeper, migrating from his flesh into his own immortal spirit. Samson smiled as their warmth filled him, replacing the chill in his bones with their vibrant energy, like warm brandy on a cold winter night. This was not an unpleasant feeling at all.
With only two souls, Samson knew his blood covenant was far from complete. He needed more. If God was watching, He would be coming for him soon. Coming to claim what was His. If Jacque was telling the truth, someone else might be coming as well. At any rate, Samson knew he didn’t have much more time. He also knew that getting women or even men to sign the contract would be a slow process. It would be quicker to just rip the souls right out of them. But then they wouldn’t technically belong to him and God might simply take them back. The contracts had to be signed for this to work.
The line to the club stretched all the way to the end of the block. The excitement of those waiting to get inside electrified the air. Each and every one of them would be affecting airs of cool aloofness once they were let in, despite the annoying puppy-dog enthusiasm they currently displayed.
At the front of the line two large bouncers in black turtlenecks and leather jackets manned the door. A thin wannabe model with platinum blonde hair wore a baby tee with the words “Porn Star” emblazoned across the front of it, a miniskirt, white tights, red hip boots and a white faux fur coat. Another bouncer stood behind her, manning the guest list and the VIP line; his steroid enhanced muscles bulged through the layer of leather.
Samson stared her up and down, thinking she had a far greater chance of becoming a porn star than the model she imagined herself to be. Her face lit up when she saw him.
“Samson! I heard you were spotted at Club 7 the other night partying with Jacque Willet? I hope you aren’t going to break all of our hearts and tell us you decided to play for the other team?”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear, reaching inside her fur jacket and hefting one of her saline-filled mammaries, rubbing the nipple with his thumb as he spoke.
“Why don’t you meet me up in VIP as soon as you get a break and I’ll let you decide for yourself what team I’m on. Pick out a few other lovelies to join you. I’m celebrating a new contract tonight.”
Samson checked his pockets. In his shirt pocket he had a prescription bottle labeled Acetaminophen. Eight hundred milligrams written out to Jacque Willet. Samson knew there was anything but Tylenol in that bottle. It contained at least twenty hits of Ecstasy.
He opened the bottle, and pulled out one of the pills that he popped it into her mouth. She sucked his fingertips lasciviously before she swallowed the pill.
“Tell them the party favors are on me tonight.” Samson kissed the little porn star, tasting the bitter chalkiness of the Ecstasy. Then he unhooked the velvet rope that separated them and walked past her into the club.
The flashing lights, the artificial smoke, the club goers in lace, leather, and latex, gave the club a haunted house ambiance that Samson found rather silly most nights, but tonight it felt almost inviting, as if everyone in the club sensed the bloodbath that was about to ensue and welcomed it. Grateful to be released from their pathetic pseudo-death, their garish mockery of the undead. Grateful for a chance to experience the real thing.
Samson checked his other pockets as he dove into the sea of humanity, sweating and gyrating around him, their flesh pulsating and undulating with the techno drum beat. In his pants pocket he found what remained of Jacque’s stash of cocaine. It might be hard for Samson to find enough people willing to sell their souls for sex, but in a club like Requiem, he was willing to bet they would line up to sign the contract in exchange for a few lines of coke and some Ecstasy. Killing them all afterward would be the most difficult, but also, certainly, the most enjoyable.
Samson approached another bouncer. He was dressed identically to the ones outside, right down to the hormone enhanced physique, except that he was white and had blonde dreadlocks down to his ass.
“Hey Samson, what’s crackalackin’, Bro?”
“Hey, Milton. How do the ladies look tonight?”
“There’s some thoroughbreds mingling about. A dime piece or two here and there. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Samson hated white boys who affected black slang. He found it offensive and condescending. It made what he was planning a lot easier to stomach.
“Hey Milt, you want some X, man?”
“You ain’t sellin’ that shit in here are you?” Milton brushed his dreadlocks away from his eyes and narrowed them at Samson.
“Nope, this is just for my friends.”
/> The bouncer glanced up and down the stairs to be certain no one else was watching. There were so many people wearing dark or mirrored sunglasses in the Stygian gloom of the nightclub that Samson wasn’t certain how the man would have known if anyone was watching or not.
Wrath James White and Maurice Broaddus Page 7
