by Ryan Hill
“Why, Ozzie?” I reached halfway down his mouth to pull out the Kleenex. “This is beyond disgusting.”
Ozzie gave a disappointed cry as I removed the tissue, then forgot about it a few seconds later. He hopped on the couch and made himself right at home, resting his head on his paws. I’d hoped he would be more fun than this, and a lot less work. With real Hell Hounds, you could play tug-of-war with damned souls instead of rope. The Hound would bite down on the head, I’d hold the poor sap’s legs, and it was game on between the Hound and me. Ozzie? He took a dump on the carpet last night.
How did it come to this? Was it possible to fall lower than Hell? I’d played a part in some of history’s greatest moments—or at least tried to. Once upon a time, I’d ruined the virtue of princess and queen alike. Helped topple empires. Made an absolute killing in the Middle Ages selling Catholic indulgences granting entry into Heaven with “You’ve been had, sucka!” written on them in Latin, instead of eternal forgiveness for sins. Fast forward to the present, and I was pulling tissues, socks, even underwear out of a Miniature Schnauzer’s mouth. This rogue’s life was not for the faint of heart.
AC/DC’s Hell’s Bells played on my phone. It was Sam calling. I answered on the third ring, wanting to come across as cool and detached, instead of excited and desperate. It didn’t happen often, but I was glad to hear from her.
“I know you don’t care, but–”
“Whatever it is, I’m in,” I said. “I just have to stop at the pet store at some point.”
Sam’s spirits were much higher when she picked me up in her SUV that night. Part of it was the passage of time—the great healer of all hurt feelings—and the other part was that we were headed downtown to find someone who could point us in the direction of the Mop Tops; all while posing as homeless people. The entire endeavor seemed to perk up Sam. I’d thought I wouldn’t have any part in this Mop Top mess, but guilt might have played a part in my participation. Might.
Sam parked in one of downtown’s many parking decks. The two of us stood outside the car, changing into our homeless person costumes. I could barely touch the rags, let alone wear them. Their touch felt like rotting cow carcass to my skin.
“You could’ve brought some tongs for me to use,” I said. “So I wouldn’t have to touch these things.”
“I could’ve.” Sam looked in her side rearview mirror, mussing up her hair. “If I were a massive germaphobe instead of some undead being that isn’t susceptible to sickness or disease.”
“I still have to touch these things.” That was the truth, though it was nice to hear Sam snipping at me again.
She hmmed. “That’s funny; you being afraid to get your hands dirty.”
“Don’t avert your eyes for this next part.” I loosened my tie and took off my shirt, revealing my chiseled body, which would make the finest Greek sculptor jealous.
Sam yawned.
“Seriously?” I motioned to my classic torso. “Seeing this bores you?”
“Sort of,” Sam said. “The newness of it wore off ages ago.”
I scoffed, unwilling to get into what was surely a rhetorical argument. I folded my clothes, gently setting them in a neat stack in the SUV’s back seat, and turned my attention to the sickening rags in the plastic bag laying at my feet.
“Where did you even get these?” I asked. “It smells like they’ve been caked in body odor since 1993.”
“I have my ways.”
“What, get them from a dumpster?”
“Maybe.”
I picked up the bag, doing my best to breathe shallowly and avoid whatever horrific smells awaited inside. It didn’t help. The stench of dirt, asphalt, body odor, and piss was unavoidable. I dropped the bag, backing away.
Sam laughed as she smeared brown makeup on her face. “It won’t bite.”
“Says you.”
I dug around the bag with my foot, using it to parse out the pants and shirt inside. The less I had to touch those rags, the better. I used my index finger and thumb to grab the dirty, light plaid shirt.
“Will you stop acting like a baby?” Sam asked, stifling a chuckle. “I’ve never seen you be so touchy. I even made sure to get you a shirt that you didn’t have to pull down past your face.”
“Aren’t you a gem?” I shuddered as the disgusting cloth touched my skin.
I never wore stuff that wasn’t at minimum Brooks Brothers quality, and that was a stretch. These clothes felt so sticky; I wanted to lather my entire body in Purell.
“You understand that what we’re wearing would embarrass a plumber in sixteenth-century London?” I asked.
“Then we should have no problem fitting in,” Sam said, grinning like some teacher’s pet.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing. You look just as bad as I do.”
“Actually, this really is a good look for you.” She smirked.
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Sam got no shortage of glee watching me put on those nasty, greasy clothes. Considering the playful look in her eyes, she might’ve been watching mostly to see me barely clothed. I figured her spiel about not caring to see me naked was a ruse. It was the reason I never let up with her.
“Here.” She rubbed a finger in her makeup container. “You need to complete the ensemble.”
“Don’t think the clothes are enough?”
“Normally, I’d say yes, but that face of yours is just too pretty.” She dabbed some of the makeup on my face.
Yep, the girl wanted a piece of my rogue rumpus. “Any reason to get your hands on me, right?”
She pushed me away. “All done.”
We took a stairwell down to Blount Street, then made our way over to the bus station next door. The one plus to wearing these clothes was that they cancelled out the smell of urine in the stairwell, and the aroma of diesel and trash at the bus station. Nobody bugged me for spare charge, so that was a second bonus.
“Gabriel said a lot of deaths have happened within a few blocks of here,” Sam said. “I figure it’s the best place to look for another Mop Top.”
“If another is even posing as a homeless person,” I said. “Or is actually homeless.”
“I know, but this is the best place to start, and people will keep dying unless we stop them.”
I held out my pack of cigarettes. “You want one?”
“I’m good.”
I shook the package, dangling it in front of her. “Might help you fit in more.”
“No thanks.”
Some actual homeless people milled about, unrecognizable under their tattered and battered hats and clothes.
“I can’t tell any of them apart,” I said. “You’d think one or two of them would’ve panhandled enough for a decent pair of shoes. Something.”
“You’d think so,” Sam said. “But not everyone got rich during the sacking of Rome, like you. Maybe they just don’t have enough for food and shoes,” Sam said.
“And the occasional drink.” I’d done okay for myself financially before Rome fell in 476. Not great, but well enough. Hell was still building up its coffers at that time. But when Odoacer and his army rolled into the streets of Rome, it was open season on pilfering all the riches the city had to offer. Neither Hell, nor myself, have wanted for a single thing since.
One of the homeless, a black man with a gray beard, saw me light my cigarette. He held two fingers to his mouth. “Got another one of those?”
“This is my las–” Then I felt Sam’s eyeballs drilling into my brain, sending the message, Come on, it’s just one cigarette. “Yeah.”
I shook the pack. One cigarette popping through the opening. The homeless man reached for it, but Sam yanked the entire thing out of my hands and handed them over.
“He’s trying to quit,” she said.
The homeless man smiled, exposing his brown teeth. “Thanks, lady.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
Sam yanked the last cigarette out of my mouth, threw it on the ground, and s
tomped it out. As if that would make things better.
“The Heaven?”
“It was drawing attention to us,” she said. “We need to be incognito.”
“Homeless people smoke.” I gestured toward the homeless man with what remained of my current supply. Five other homeless people swarmed around him, each holding out their hands for a smoke. It was like a bunch of ghouls waiting in the shadows for the first opportunity to strike.
“But they can’t afford them all the time,” she said. “See how it’s drawing attention?”
I had to admit, the homeless man looked like he hadn’t been that popular since the Disco era. “You could’ve said something earlier.”
“I didn’t think about it earlier.”
Sam and I leaned against a brick wall to watch the comings and goings of the homeless, people getting on and off the buses, and drunks passing by as they hopped from bar to bar. Every now and then, a drunk would stop to hand over a buck to a homeless person with an open hand, but most of them ignored the suffering. They were my kind of crowd.
“So, what now, fearless leader?” I asked. “Is there anything else to your plan besides standing around, hoping a Mop Top will come up and introduces themselves to us?”
“Keep an eye out for anything suspicious or Mop-like,” she said. “Where we’re standing is the epicenter of the deaths.”
“If you’d told me ahead of time, I could’ve laced the smokes and cut down on our waiting time immensely,” I said.
“Because it worked so well the last time.”
“It revealed a Mop Top, didn’t it?”
Sam shrugged. “Eh.” She was done with the conversation.
A couple of bums stumbled past us; the smell of booze trailing them. I wouldn’t have paid the pair any mind, but one had dreadlocks that fell halfway down his back.
“This is fun,” I said, absentmindedly watching the dreadlocks. I doubted anything would come of our stakeout, but it was better than doing nothing. A cigarette or three would’ve really helped pass the time.
Thanks, Sam.
“I know this is a long shot,” she said with a sigh, “but thank you for coming. This makes us even. Consider your debt paid.”
“Yeah, about that.” My thoughts drifted to the soup kitchen incident. I didn’t regret what I’d done, but something inside me didn’t feel right about it. “I’m not doing so hot with this whole not-being-able-to-call-Hell-home thing. Not having horns either.”
I wanted to slap my forehead. Those words flowed out of me like they had been bottled up and buried deep within my psyche. I needed to pull myself together.
Sam held out her hand; her palm lighting up a little with the Hand of God power. “I could make you forget about that.”
“Absolutely not.” Struggling with my current state was one thing, but it didn’t mean I wanted my memory erased. Losing all my conquests—physical, historical, and metaphorical—to history? That’d make Hamlet look like the greatest comedy ever written.
The sound of a bus’s diesel engine drowned everything out as it rolled past us. Peeking inside the bus, I could see maybe ten people. My eyes followed the bus as it turned onto Blount Street, and as it disappeared, I noticed the guy with the dreadlocks walking across the street alone. I assumed he’d seen his buddy off, but now noticed that his dreadlocks were only loosely attached to his scalp as he scratched them.
Exactly like a wig.
I nudged Sam. “Dreadlocks.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
We followed behind Mr. Dreads, crossing Blount Street as he rounded the corner onto Hargett Street. Sam and I gave pursuit. A couple of guys stood outside of a soccer pub up the street. I tilted my head in their direction and took a whiff of the sweet nectar leaving their lungs as we walked by.
“Provided I’m right about Bob Marley up there and he is a Mop Top, what do we do?” I asked. “Capture or kill, as they say?”
“Capture, if possible,” Sam said. “We need to know more. What they’re doing, how many there are, all that fun stuff. But if things get hairy....”
“Pun intended?” I asked.
Sam laughed through her nose. “Basically.”
Dreadlocks crossed Wilmington Street. There wasn’t a lot of light between Wilmington and the next intersection at Fayetteville Street, so once he passed a restaurant on the left, he ran across the street and disappeared into a small walkway between buildings—a space with almost zero lighting. It was the perfect hunting spot.
“We might lose him in there,” Sam said.
We tried to dash across the street, but a car passed by. Then another. I looked both ways. Each intersection had a green light, complete with cars taking full advantage of the right to march onward with their evenings.
I threw my hands up in the air. We needed to get to the other side of the street before that guy got away, or we’d be back at square one. “Fantastic.”
“Ten seconds until the light changes.” Sam said, pointing at a crosswalk with a timer.
A minivan passed from our left.
Eight seconds.
I didn’t wait for another car, but took Sam’s hand and yanked her to the middle of the road. Ten seconds was too long to wait. I hadn’t put on this disgusting outfit with the goal of failing.
Six seconds.
Two cars on our right moved past us.
Four seconds.
Another car crossed Wilmington Street. I refused to wait for it to pass. I laid a hand on Sam’s back and ushered her across the street. The car honked as we reached the sidewalk, missing us by five feet.
“Was that necessary?” Sam asked. “We almost got hit.”
I glanced at the crosswalk. “Hey, it saved us two seconds.”
Sam closed her eyes. She wanted to argue, but knew I was right—time was of the essence. We hustled in the walkway. It was difficult to see, with only the back exits of a few buildings providing light. The rest hid in darkness.
Then Mr. Dreads passed under the first light. Somehow, we hadn’t lost a lot of ground trying to cross the street. I moved in front of Sam … but kicked a bottle by mistake.
So stupid. So cliché.
Dreadlocks stopped and moved back into the light, which drowned out all but his profile.
“Hi there,” Sam said. “Can we talk to you?”
“Got any money?” Mr. Dreads asked.
“I don’t,” Sam said in a hushed tone. “Do you?”
“Of course,” I said. “Why didn’t you bring your wallet?”
“It’d be a little odd if I carried my purse around looking like this.”
“Forget you two,” Mr. Dreads said.
“We’ve got money,” Sam said. “Sorry.”
“All right then.” Mr. Dreads walked toward us.
Sam nudged me. “Wallet.”
“Fine.” I handed over my black Bally brushed leather wallet.
Sam took out a wad of bills. It looked like something close to $200. I carried at least $500, and giving this dreadlocked guy even close to half that reeked of insanity.
“Not that much,” I said. “Put one of the hundreds back.”
“Too late,” Sam said.
“What do you want?” Mr. Dreads asked. “Cash up front.”
“Cash after,” I said. “That’s a fat wad my friend is holding.”
Too fat, if you ask me.
“I could just take it,” Mr. Dreads said.
“You could try.” I smirked, letting him know we weren’t intimidated by him.
“Wasting my time,” Mr. Dreads said. “Out with it.”
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary these past few weeks?” Sam asked. “There’s been a lot of deaths around here lately.”
“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.” Mr. Dreads sniffed, then spit.
Nasty.
“What else you want?”
“Is that your real hair?” I asked.
“Course it is, dumb piece of
shit.”
“So, for the $200 in my friend’s hand, you wouldn’t mind if I did this, would you?”
“You ain’t doin’ noth–”
I reached out and pulled on the dreadlocks. They fell off, revealing a black hole on top of Mr. Dreads’ head. He tried to snatch the dreadlocks back, but I blocked the attempt with my arm.
“Look at that,” I said. The dreadlocks felt soft, like tubing with bits of hair glued on. “It’s a wig.”
Mr. Dreads’s eyes narrowed; his shoulders moving up and down at an accelerated pace. The skin around the black hole rippled. He was going into Mop Top mode.
Sam moved behind me. “Bartholomew.”
I felt a slight breeze against my hair, gently pulling me closer to Mr. Dreads. I tried to punch him in the face, but couldn’t raise my hand to strike.
“Well, shit,” I said.
The breeze gained force until my shirt was flapping in the wind. I stumbled forward a few steps, close enough to see the patches in Mr. Dreads’s beard. I dropped to the ground, landing on my side and free from the Vortex of Suckage coming from the monster’s head, then rolled toward him, crashing into his shins. Mr. Dreads lost his footing and fell. I hoped that would buy me enough time to think of something, but my foot got caught in the black hole’s line of sight. The hand-me-down shoe Sam had given me was ripped off my foot, disappearing into whatever abyss existed in the black hole of Mr. Dreads’ head.
“Keep the shoe,” I said. “It wasn’t mine to begin with.”
The Vortex of Suckage got a hold of my foot, though, and made its way up to my knee. If there was more of this, my giblets would be in grave danger. Mr. Dreads better buy me a drink before getting that close.
“Stop sucking on me.” I kicked at his face with my free leg.
The whole scene was a mess. I kicked and punched Mr. Dreads in the arms over and over, trying to slow down getting sucked into the black hole, but Mr. Dreads tried to move behind me, freeing him to pull me into the abyss. His head, and the black hole on top of it, jerked around in the struggle, tugging at everything in its path.
Meanwhile, Sam was using her Hand of God special to stay glued to the wall of a building.
