Being hunters of a kind, they sensed his contempt. Kept their distance.
Two doormen, a slim, short Asian man and a large, wide mountain of muscle, watched the street theater from either side of a service door to an old factory in the meat packing district. They looked the same as they had years ago. Maybe the big man had a few more scars on his bald head. Max knew he couldn’t say the same.
The scent of spoiled meat drifted and garbage drifted on the breeze. Nearby, rats teemed in a frenzy over some freshly dead thing.
“It’s a final solution, one beneficial for all parties,” one of the Blood said, fingering the thick mustache covering his barely repressed smirk like a porn actor trying to seduce his co-star.
“I know death isn’t usually the subject of compromise,” another added, with professorial gravity, “but there’s always an exception.”
“He’ll still be alive,” Max said, checking the street, cars, roof line
“Not in this world,” said the third contact, head wrapped in dark cloth, faintly shimmering cloth catching the light from a street lamp as it peeked from under a half-zippered jacket. He looked like he belonged in a different movie.
A couple passed, ignored the gathering, intent only on the doormen. They showed their hands and were allowed in. Max felt almost invisible, with only the faintest trace of tingling at the back of his neck warning him someone might be watching. Mr. Jung, he was sure, or one of his other handlers. But there was no sign of any efforts being made to stop what was happening.
Was this what they’d wanted from him, all along?
“He can escape,” Max said. “Just walk out.”
“Not if the owners don’t want him to,” the mustache man said. “And they won’t.”
“Neither will he,” said the man in the head wrap.
Max looked over the old building, with its crumbling brick face and rusted fire escapes, the barely boarded windows. A child could break in. “People will come for him,” he said.
“Those guys at the door run a tight ship,” mustache man said. “The club has…unexpected security precautions,” said the professor.
“They won’t get away with him,” said the man in the head wrap. “They won’t leave, at all.”
“Then someone will make an offer. A very convincing one.” Max checked the larger of the doormen, thinking he might have to return someday to deliver a message related to Giyab. He nearly remembered something about the man. Maybe he’d put one of those scars on his face. Perhaps the man was quicker than he looked. There’s just been too many killings, too many victims, since their last encounter for Max to recall anything specific. It said a lot that that doorman was still alive. Someone must have intervened.
He considered that he might be thinking of someone else, altogether.
If there was a next time, Max was certain there wouldn’t be any last minute rescues. Sometimes the direct approach was the most appropriate.
“The club doesn’t want or need anything from any of your employers,” the professor said. “They’re the ones who need Painfreak. We all do.”
Max thought they were giving the club and its reputation too much credit.
Giyab stirred in the wheelchair. Max considered snapping his neck to keep him quiet for at least ten minutes. But the drugs had been more convenient and effective than repeatedly killing him in transit, so far. “I should kill you,” he said, directing his rage at the man in the wrap, judging him to be the most physical of the three.
“Please,” he replied, and bowed his head.
The Beast rattled deep inside, but even the bait of submission and Giyab’s quiet state couldn’t provoke it to rise.
The Asian man bowed at the waist slightly as Max wheeled Giyab to the entrance.
“Welcome back,” he said.
Max was surprised he hadn’t noticed the sunglasses before. The big man had a pair on, as well. He frowned, and said, “You couldn’t be the same man as last time.”
“Of course not, sir,” the Asian man said, picking up Max’s hand to examine it.
Max wanted to pull away, first, then smash the base of his palm up into the man’s chin. He wanted to see those sunglasses fly off. Who wore them at night? What was the point? But his arm relaxed, instead, as if responding to someone else’s commands. The outline of a bone appeared between his thumb and forefinger, as if he’d been secretly marked by a sign revealed only by ultraviolet lamp. The Painfreak sign.
“You always say that,” said the Asian man, releasing Max.
Max’s rage slipped from the Asian man to his partner, who was approaching, circling, the tilt of his head indicating he was going to take Giyab from him. He had about the same number of scars as Max remembered him having. They were just in different places on his head.
“He won’t hurt you,” said the smaller man.
Max’s grip on the wheelchair tightened. He braced himself, preparing to upend the chair and drive his charge into the big man, dispatch his partner with an elbow strike to the face, then focus back on the main event. The anger was pure, clean. He could almost feel the Beast’s power returning. He was close to completing his mission.
In his peripheral vision, he saw the Blood of Killers contacts retreat to the other side of the street and half way down the block.
“Be calm,” the Asian man said. “Many needs may be satisfied in the next few moments. The opportunity is rare. The merchandise must be examined. Authenticated.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We are the solution to you problem.” The Asian man put his hands on Giyab’s face, forced his eyes open. After a moment’s examination, he exhaled into Giyab’s mouth.
“How?”
“Sell him to us.”
“He needs to die.”
“He does that well enough, I understand.”
Giyab started, kicked. The big man moved in quickly to support him as he leaned forward and stumbled out of the chair. The little man put a hand on Max’s hip to freeze him in place.
Max pushed the touch off but didn’t pursue the contact. “I was hired to kill him. He’s still alive. He needs to die.”
“He must be removed from your world, then,” said the Asian man as he watched Giyab cough, babble, take in his surroundings. “Never be seen or heard from, again.
“I need proof he’s dead.”
“His heart, then. From what I understand, he’ll grow another.”
“My employer knows this man can’t die.”
“If they have his heart, and never see him again, then they will know you succeeded.”
“There’ll always be doubt.”
“The procedure can be filmed. That will be your proof.”
“They still won’t believe he’s dead.”
“The film will show me taking the body. They’ll know.”
“They’ll know where to come looking for him.”
“Customers are always welcome.”
Giyab took in his surroundings, focused on Max. The big man leaned down, whispered in his ear.
“Who are you?” Max said.
“Someone even your employers fear.”
Max thought the man was joking, at first. When he realized the statement had been offered seriously, he asked, “Why?”
“Nothing you would understand.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“There’s no reason for you to be.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll come for you.”
“You’ll come, sooner or later.”
“Wait,” Giyab said, “please. I’ve been here, before. Lisbon. Houston. And Bangkok.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to stay, but you wouldn’t let me,” Giyab said, almost weeping.
“The terms are different, this time,” the Asian man said. “You weren’t ready.”
Giyab looked to Max. “No,” he said, “I wasn’t.”
“You didn’t understand what you needed, why you wanted to stay. You weren’t committed.”
Max reached for the weapon he’d stashed against his back. The big man raised his fist, holding the gun by the barrel. The Beast rallied, drawn by a change in Giyab, and by the doorman’s implied challenge. Max straightened, suddenly stronger, feeling lighter on his feet. Yes, the big man back then had been fast, too, though he didn’t understand how he’d missed the gun’s absence.
The Asian man took a step away from Max, then said to Giyab, “He’s showed you the way to yourself, to what you are beneath the power you hold.”
“Yes,” Giyab said, taking a step toward Max.
“You could be more than that,” the Asian man said, with a touch of regret. “Better.”
“Couldn’t we all?” Giyab asked, closing the distance between himself and Max.
Max put his hands up, said, to no one in particular, “What are you talking about?”
“That’s why you belong to us,” the Asian man said, heading back to the door. He signaled to the big man, who placed the gun on the sidewalk and withdrew. “You understand what you need, now. And what you’re willing to do to satisfy your hunger.”
Giyab jumped the distance between himself and Max, who caught him easily, locked his arms, forced him to his knees. “Thank you,” Giyab said, laughing as tears flowed freely down his face.
Max broke the arm at the elbow, separated the shoulder. Giyab crumbled. He kicked the downed man in the chest, the throat, face. Stomped his ribs.
Two women walked by on the other side of the street, watching. Down the block, the Blood of Killers stirred at their approach. As Max stopped to survey the wreckage, they ran across the street. Waved their hands at the doormen. Disappeared into the club.
The Blood settled back into their niche.
The Beast came out for the women’s scents, for the blood in the air, the smells wafting out from the old meat processing plant.
Max focused on Giyab, firing up frustration, rage, life’s defiance of death’s certainty. He brought his fist down against Giyab’s face, began pounding, found himself straddling his victim, tearing, gouging. Biting. With his bare hands, he ripped clothes, clawed flesh, opened wounds wider. Dug into the soft parts, broke whatever resisted. Feasted.
The Beast was back and riding him, trusting that this time, they would never see Giyab alive again.
At one point, Max discovered a heart in his hand. The Asian man appeared, took it from him.
“You will want this later,” he said, and vanished in Max’s blood haze.
The Beast protested, but Max dove back into the body to appease them both with another organ. He cracked the skull open, rooted for the source of all that he’d suffered from on this hunt.
Someone screamed, far away. Footsteps raced away. The Blood. A truck horn sounded. Voices rose, cursing.
Max fell away from the ravaged body, the Beast cresting in its blood lust, and realized he was in the middle of a city street.
The Asian man was at his side, dumping a plastic garbage bag next to him. “The witnesses have been dealt with. Do not concern yourself. Clean up. I will handle the rest.”
Men in dark clothing, thin, their hands and faces pale, streamed out of the club and surrounded the body. The Asian man stood in their midst, directing, instructing. They worked like hyenas devouring a carcass.
Max stripped, wiped away blood and gore, doused himself with the two gallons of burning, choking liquid he’d found in the bag. As he dried off and put on fresh clothing, he checked the surrounding buildings once more. He might have been in a bone yard of dragons.
As he slipped on a new jacket, the last of the club’s scavenging crew was vanishing through the door. The Asian man reappeared, came to Max bearing a leather shoulder bag.
He opened it. Inside, by the light of an overhead street lamp, Max saw a bloody heart in a gallon zip lock bag, his gun, a clear plastic envelope containing a film canister.
“The previous owner won’t need the bag anymore,” the Asian man said.
“What happened to Giyab?”
“He’s dead, to your world. You killed him.”
Max stared at the door. The big man appeared, blocked his view. “I don’t believe he’s really dead.”
“He’s gone to his reward,” said the Asian doorman. “His paradise. You taught him the value of pain, of sensation. You made him to appreciate the other gift he was given. Not of coming back to life, but of dying, over and over again.
“With us, for us, he will die. For the pleasure of others who come to us, he will die, again and again. For those with the taste for a death whore, he will be their most intimate lover. And as their whore, he will earn the love and belonging he never found in the life he had in this world.”
The words streamed from the doorman’s mouth like an angry flight of wasps. Max waved a hand in front of his face. The Beast prowled along the edges of the man’s mystery.
“Didn’t you say something about my selling him to you?” Max asked.
“Yes. What would you like in return?”
“I’d like to forget every fucked up thing that’s happened on this job,” Max said. “But you can’t settle on that price, can you.’
The Asian man smiled, touched his hand. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Max turned and walked away. He looked over his shoulder at the empty street, momentarily forgot where he was. Of course. He recognized the street names as he kept walking toward the World Trade Center towers further downtown.
The Beast was content. He tasted blood, so he knew they’d both feasted.
He wasn’t sure where he has heading, turned for the river.
Mr. Jung met him, took him by the arm into a basement bar that smelled of piss and fetid water.
“I knew the situation would sort itself out, somehow,” Mr. Jung said. He took the bag from Max, returned the gun to him, closed it. “That’s why I picked you.”
Max saw the heart, already grey and withered, knew he’d done a job. There’d been a man, hard to kill. But he’d managed. Somehow. There’d been complications.
“This wasn’t a sanctioned mission,” Max said, feeling his way through a murky past. The facts eluded him, but Mr. Jung’s last words told him more than they should have. “No one hired me for this job.”
Mr. Jung raised an eyebrow. Downed a tequila shot. Patted the bag. “You’re right. This was my job. Saving everyone the trouble of going after Giyab, over and over. A waste of resources, trying to scratch an itch that can’t be reached. Understand a secret that can’t be cracked. Kill what can’t be killed. Something had to be done to settle the problem. No one higher up had the guts.”
“There might be consequences,” Max said. The only thing he’d understood from Mr. Jung’s ramble was that he’d acted without authorization. He downed the club soda the bartender placed in front of him, asked for another, surprised by his thirst.
“What’s the worst they can do, send you after me?” Mr. Jung laughed as he slipped off the bar stool, quickly became serious, again. “They’ll miss the toy they couldn’t have for a little while, and then they’ll remember all the other things they want and hate, and I’ll get a call, and then you’ll get a call. That is the way of this world, Max. For as long as either one of us is alive.”
He slipped a wad of cash into Max’s jacket pocket with a friendly whisper, “Walking around money, to see you home,” then walked out of the bar with the shoulder bag.
Max left a twenty on the bar to keep the club soda flowing. He listened to the short, hard-driving songs someone kept playing on the jukebox and tried to make sense of the lyrics, and whatever it was Mr. Jung had been talking about. He gave up on piecing together his most recent experiences. There must have been Russians involved. Or CIA. Somebody with a weakness for poisons, or hallucinogens.
He put another twenty down and asked for the bar phone to be placed next to him.
Just in case Mr. Jung was wr
ong.
AFTERWORD
A storytelling of ravens. An unkindness of them, even.
A skulk of foxes. A destruction of cats. An ambush (or streak) of tigers.
A congregation of crocodiles.
Hallelujah.
A deceit of lapwings. A sneak of weasels.
A goring of butchers.
A conflagration of arsonists. A den of thieves.
Can I hear you testify?
Of course, a gang of hoodlums. A talent of gamblers.
A pity of prisoners. A squad of beaters.
A Blood of Killers, a slaughter of murderers.
I don’t know where those last two came from. Picked up James Lipton’s book years ago (recent instigator of the modern fascination with collective nouns), poked around, found a hole in the tapestry where a story might go. These guys popped up.
A mob of people.
Of course, I find people fascinating. Individually, and in groups. Tribes. Collectives.
What are they thinking, feeling, what do they do when people are watching, and when they aren’t? What are they capable of? What can they be driven to do?
The most beautiful acts and works never before imagined, of course.
The most terrible and horrific, as well.
Wonder and terror.
The question becomes who are we, and who are we standing next to, a human, or a monster?
I find that question pretty scary.
In looking over this collection, I see two kinds of stories. One seems to focus on people dealing with the traumas of life, particularly those from childhood, in ways that lead them on the path to becoming killers. These are drawn from almost two decades worth of writing, so I can say it’s pretty much been a theme for me. Their monsters are slightly stripped-down, without the fantastic cloth of myth and metaphor hiding what we fear in ourselves or the world around us. Though, of course, they’re still pretty wild and crazy.
The other kind of stories lean more heavily on the fantastic. The “Max” stories, about an assassin with a demon inside of him, for me talk about the struggle to become “human,” both on an individual and species level. It ain’t easy living up to our ideals. It’s even harder learning how to even try to take up the struggle.
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