Monstrous 2

by Sawyer Black

  Henry sat up in a crinkle of plastic and a tinkle of glass. Orange metal walls with rust at the top. The wet scent of old food and filthy grease. Diesel exhaust and fry oil. He craned his head, trying to gather his bearings, recognizing the fluttering awning peaking around the corner of the building barely visible above the rim of the dumpster. He was in the alley behind Rocko’s Tacos, and he’d been right about the crap on his upper lip. He’d know that salsa verde anywhere.

  “Motherfucker!”

  Henry pushed slimy trash bags off his lap and rolled to get his hands beneath him. Why hadn’t he splattered against the water?

  I had to have been going a hundred miles an hour.

  He planted his feet and rose to peer over the edge. Traffic roared by at the end of the alley. Taxis and buses. A bike messenger and pedestrians dressed like tourists off the Redding Trail from the beach.

  “What the fuck?”

  Henry dug his feet into the piled garbage and reached for the top of the dumpster to hoist himself out. He would flee from the light then figure out his failed suicide from the shadows, aided by another bottle of booze.

  A bag burst beneath him, rolling his foot and making him pinwheel his arms on the edge of balance. A slick of used oil spread under his toe, and his legs spread in a seam-ripping split.

  Henry fell forward, smashing his face into the side of the dumpster, making it ring like a gong.

  On his back again, staring at the open square of light above him, driving his fists into the trash at his sides.

  Glass shattered under his right fist. Henry snatched his hand back then held his hand up in front of him, warm blood dripping into his eyes. He dug his fingers into the broken glass, tears washing blood from his eyes. A wicked shard stuck out about seven inches from his bleeding fist. He plunged the makeshift knife into his neck and raked the glass across his throat.

  Blood sprayed in an arc. It spattered the dumpster, running down to mingle with the fluids dripping through a hole in the rusted metal onto the asphalt below. He lost his breath in a wheezing gasp bubbling up from under his chin. No pain. Only pressure. And heat radiating into his face.

  Henry opened his eyes as the sun dimmed, the square of sky above the dumpster compressing and narrowing. His energy and will pumped out in the fountain of blood that slowed with every heartbeat. He stared at the pinprick of light in the center of his vision fading into the distance.

  The trash could no longer hold him up, and Henry fell into the dark.

  Heat across his chest felt like Amélie’s embrace.

  I’m here, sweetie. Daddy’s here.

  Something dug into Henry’s back. He shifted to the side to ease the discomfort and rolled down the side of the tree where he’d been leaning. He opened his eyes. His breath puffed the dry pine needles away from his face in little swirling tornadoes.

  Rustling in the leaves above him swelled as a fresh breeze sent the dry underbrush skittering into the shadows. Light danced across the worn path before him in a tidal pattern of limbs bending and retracting in the wind. He reached up and felt for the wound at his throat.

  No torn flesh. No blood. Even the cuts on his hand were gone.

  Henry sighed and pushed himself up off the ground. He sat with his hands in his lap, leaning forward over his spread knees, and cried until tears and snot made a glistening puddle in the dirt.

  He couldn’t get Amélie out of Hell. He couldn’t join her. He couldn’t do shit, and that’s exactly what he felt like.

  Fucking Boothe and his fucking … shit.

  Henry looked up and saw the city through the trees. Above the north side, he sat on one of the hiking trails in Bradford Park. There was a liquor store a block down from the entrance. A nice dark alley behind it. He wiped his nose with his sleeve that still reeked of old tacos, waiting for night to fall. He would get good and drunk again, then he’d throw himself off Treyton Tower. Fifty-two floors to the pavement. Better than water every time.

  Henry threw the third bottle and watched it shatter in the corner along with the others. Then he turned his head to the rain and spread his arms to invite the lightning.

  He walked forward and pressed his knees against the half-wall along the roof’s edge.

  The bustling city sprawled in every direction.

  Arms out at his side, he stretched to his full height. Another dive from the Amazing Henry.

  Now with fifty percent more splatter. You gotta give the people what they pay for.

  He took a breath and held it, leaning forward to let gravity take him.

  “What’s wrong, fella?”

  The voice made his knees unhinge in frightened shock. Henry gasped as his weight pulled him backward, away from his record-setting jump. He landed on his back, the force driving the air from his lungs in a groaning whoosh.

  He blinked the rain from his eyes, drew in a whooping breath, and a shadow fell across his face as someone bent over his fallen body.

  Boothe.

  CHAPTER 3

  Henry spun away and jumped into a crouch, fangs bared and claws flashing. “About time you showed up, fucker!”

  “Whoa there, fella.” The demon stepped into the light of the security spot over the roof access door. He was beautiful. Carved from a stone that didn’t exist here on Earth. Celestial alabaster smoothed by a gifted hand. Heartbreaking symmetry, and a lean, powerful body packed into a tailored tuxedo. A tan overcoat open at the front, with the man’s hands buried in the pockets. Henry felt dirty and grotesque just being near such perfection.

  His collar was turned up, although the rain didn’t touch him, and a black fedora with a white band crowned his slick black hair. His shoes gleamed like mirrors, and his ebony eyes glinted like swirling mercury. He rolled a toothpick across his lips, smiling in what appeared to be genuine pleasure. He removed the toothpick, holding it like a cigar, his brow furrowed with concern. He walked to the spot where Henry had been perched, ready to fly, and pointed at the city with the toothpick. “You weren’t trying to … kill yourself, were you?”

  Henry looked around for another bottle — he’d brought plenty — and spotted one laying on its side in the corner. He scooped it up and squatted to his heels. He took a long pull, and belched heat back into the air. “So what if I was?”

  “Only a dame can make a man hot enough to murder another. Or himself.” The man walked away from the ledge and leaned against the wall next to Henry with a dancer’s grace. “What about it, fella? Lady problems, right?”

  Henry grunted and looked away.

  “I knew it. Money and dames. What else can make a man want to end it all?” He pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and frowned at the chewed end, shaking his head. He flicked the pick into the corner and pushed off the wall, reaching into his pocket for a fresh one. Before putting it between his teeth, he paused and pointed it at Henry.

  “There’s other fish in the sea, you know? Don’t end it all over one dame.”

  Henry, sick of the man’s prattle, shattered the bottle on the wall and jumped to his feet. He hunched forward and thrust his chin at the man’s face. “You really think the dames will like this?”

  Instead of pulling away, the man leaned in for a closer look. Curiosity, sympathy, then pity. He shook his head and slid the toothpick between his lips, sighing through his nose. “Poor, poor Henry. What did Boothe do to you?”

  Henry reeled away, pressing his fist into the wall for support, grinding tiny shards of glass into the skin of his knuckles. “How do you know my name? Did Boothe send you?” Henry raised his bloody fist and jabbed a finger at the man’s face. “You tell that fucker he’s dead when I see him.”

  The man’s pity transformed into mirth, and his gleaming teeth shone out through the beacon of his grin. He extended his hand. “The name is Mandyel, and it is my esteemed pleasure to meet you at long last.”

  Henry’s hand fell on instinct. He clasped hands with the stranger. Trumpets rang in the distance and the rain slowed to a drizzle. H
e pumped Mandyel’s hand and the rain stopped. Clouds parted. Moonlight spread across the roof, setting puddles ablaze, swirling light like eyes beneath the brim of a fedora.

  Mandyel loosened his grip and leaned back against the wall. He shook a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the blood from his fingers. Henry let his hand drop and shook his head. “Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say I work for the boss.”

  “What, God?”

  “The only boss there is.”

  “Good. Then you can tell him I’m trying to get into Hell.”

  Mandyel looked out into the night, rolling the toothpick in his mouth. “Why would I do that?”

  Henry stepped to the side to break into Mandyel’s line of sight. “Because Boothe tricked me into killing the men who murdered my daughter.” His voice hitched, and the pain hit his shoulders. Henry curled into it, clutching his stomach. “And now my baby girl is in Hell, and Boothe’s bitch lover is back in his fucking arms. Amélie is all by herself. She doesn’t deserve to be in Hell. Or alone. I need to be with her. Please. You tell him.”

  “Ah, but that’s not how it works. Hell is not a night club. Nor a place to plan a family vacation. You go there, you get punished. Eternally.”

  Henry wiped his nose. “It’s not fair. She’s just a little girl. Innocent.”

  “The kind Lucifer likes best.”

  Mandyel glowed white in the red heat of Henry’s rage. Henry roared, lunging with a vicious swipe of his black claws, but Mandyel was a whisper and gone in a thought. His slash hit only air, and Henry lost his balance, crashing into the wall where the man had been standing.

  “Is that how you treat a friend?”

  Henry spun toward the voice. Mandyel stood with his hands behind his back, shaking his head, eyes full of sad regret.

  Henry leaned his head back, caught his breath, and said, “We just met. And you’re a stranger. When did we become fucking friends?”

  “Every friend I ever had was a stranger at some point. Besides, I came bearing gifts.” He slid his hand into his front pocket and brought it back out with something pinched between his forefinger and thumb. He flipped it like the pre-game coin toss, and it spun through the air, humming and winking, singing along an arc into Henry’s palm.

  Not a coin, but a ring. “The fuck is this?”

  “It’s a ring, fella.”

  “No fucking shit it’s a ring. What’s it do?”

  “Put it on.”

  “What’s it do?”

  “Come on, Henry old pal.” Mandyel’s voice fell to a seductive whisper. “Put it on.”

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at Mandyel’s smile. He nodded and shrugged. Fuck it. Henry slid it on but nothing happened. “Great. I put it on. Now what?”

  Mandyel swept his arm to the side, indicating the small window in the stairwell door. Back down into the building. “What? Does it let me walk through walls?” Henry walked to the door and caught a man staring at him from the dark. “Or some … thing …”

  Henry saw his face in the reflection. Well, not his face, but a human face. Handsome and trim. All of his hair. A short beard without any gaps and patches. He reached up and touched his forehead. He could see his horns in his periphery, but not in the reflection. He couldn’t feel them under his fingers. “What is this?”

  “The first of many gifts.” Mandyel walked over to stand behind Henry’s shoulder, eyeing him through the glass. “You put it on your right hand, and people will see this construct. Handsome but normal. Free to move in the daylight, with nobody screaming when you step from the shadows. On your left hand, you go back to the monster. The true you.”

  Henry snatched the ring off and flung it into the corner next to the broken bottles and chewed toothpick. “Fuck you! I don’t want your fucking gifts. I want my daughter back.”

  “What if I told you I could help you get her out of Hell?”

  Henry froze. His anger cooled. “You can do that?”

  “Boothe did it for his lover, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but so can you?”

  Mandyel smiled and pulled the toothpick out of his mouth. He dropped it then ground it under his foot like a cigarette butt. “I’ll be back in a few days with an offer.”

  “Fuck a few days. I want her now!”

  “Don’t worry, pal. They’re not hurting her yet.”

  Henry slumped in relief. “How do you know?”

  “They’re not hurting her because they want her for something else.”

  Henry covered his eyes with his hands. He imagined the terrible things they could do to a little girl, and his stomach roiled. His thigh muscles quivered. He fell to all fours. “What do they want her for?”

  “She’s being groomed.”

  Henry nodded. He could handle that. He rose to sit back on his calves, still on his knees. He looked up into Mandyel’s face. “Grooming her for what?”

  “To be an agent of Satan.”

  Henry’s shoulders lifted with a bitter chuckle of resignation. “Well, that’s just fucking great.”

  “Well, pal, given the alternatives, I’d say so. The point is, you’re playing for the winning team now. Enjoy your gift, and give it a couple of days. Or not. It’s your choice.”

  Henry looked at the glittering ring in the corner then back at Mandyel. He couldn’t tell the man to go fuck himself because he was already gone. Henry stood and plodded to the corner. Then he dug through the bits of glass soaked with rain, bourbon, and blood. He pulled the ring into his palm and shrugged. “Why the fuck not?”

  He put on the ring and it started to rain. Thunder in the distance. Maybe trumpets.

  CHAPTER 4

  Every time he passed the banana vendor on his way into Burg Foods, Henry felt a pang of guilt tighten the skin on his neck. Like the guy was watching him pass by all that farm fresh goodness for the shiny crap from the conglomerate produce machine. Guilt made way for anger. Who was that guy to judge someone for doing what they could for their family?

  Fucker.

  The doors swung shut behind him. Henry had wanted to spin around, stick his head through the narrowing gap, and shout, “Hey pal! I’m broke, and they got watermelons for a goddamn quarter!”

  Henry walked down 26th, spinning Mandyel’s ring on his finger in nervous repetition. He wondered if the banana guy would even be there. Maybe a different fruit would be in the cart after all these years. Maybe he would stop and talk to the guy. Learn about his family. The struggles of selling produce in a crumbling market. Probably not.

  He and Samantha had shopped at Burg Foods in the early days of ramen and flavored water. They made the seventeen-block trek from the apartment with paper thin walls and the perpetual funk of kimchi, into the bright light of savings. Burg Foods specialized in dented cans, wilted lettuce, and prices that fit the budget of a struggling comic and an ER nurse working the swing shift.

  They hid behind the toilet paper, watching shoppers compare prices and consult coupons. Making up ridiculous conversations with the accents to go with them until they were howling with laughter. She had always been more comfortable acting like a fool in public, while Henry had always felt a creeping self-consciousness that quickly blossomed into embarrassment. But he would die for her laugh.

  He never told her, but channeling Sam’s easy comfort on-stage had been the only thing to swell the crowds. Her oblivious self-assurance had become a character he’d wear during shows. Down to her half-shrug and eye-roll that later became his trademark. Clueless self-deprecation endeared him to so many fans. The critics gobbled it up.

  He imagined her grabbing his hand as he turned the corner onto Deveroux. She would swing his arm and laugh at his scandalized expression. He would rein her in with an arm over her shoulder, her cheek pressed against him.

  Henry swallowed the grief and shook his head. Forced a smile and glanced at his reflection in the window plastered with weekly specials.

  Who is that handsome man?

  His smil
e became a grin, and he walked through the wheezing automatic doors to stand bathed in a rush of memories that left him breathless. That wet cardboard smell. Dirt pushed into the corners with only the high spots truly clean. Dated pastels, and crackling jingles bleating from the dated sound system. Like a time warp.

  But Henry hadn’t checked out the vendors outside, so he spun around and stepped away from the other shoppers on his way to the stack of baskets. He pressed his nose to the glass and cast his eyes right and left, but there was no one out on the curb. No vendors. Graffiti, traffic, and garbage. Just like the rest of the city. He shook his head and turned to go deeper inside. His eyes caught a guy doing a hyper two-step with a harmonica jammed into his mouth.

  An open cardboard box on the ground at his feet.

  Homeless dancing vet.

  A little helps a lot.

  God bless.

  Not a single person so much as glanced his way. Heads down and hustling. The box skittered away in the wind, empty. He could turn shit like that into five minutes that would have the audience laughing at their own shame, and it would make him feel better about being one of the people who walked by without looking.

  Henry grabbed a plastic basket with a broken handle and headed to the right, past the registers and the cooler full of wilting flowers. Through the two rows of greeting cards, and into the fruits and vegetables. That cheap vitamin smell prickled his nostrils. Bright colors arranged in a wet rainbow. Dribbling mist shining the tomatoes.

  Henry stopped in front of the apples. The nearest one was fat and red, glistening with a coat of wax. He scooped it up and rubbed it on the front of his hoodie. Fourteen times. He pulled it away and examined the burnished spot with a critical eye, swallowing the saliva threatening to pour from the corner of his mouth. When was the last time he had eaten good food? Fresh food? Standing beneath a bright light for all to see while he satisfied a craving or two.