I can always tell when someone’s calling me from there. While the tone remains the same (a shit-quality edit of “Everyday Is Halloween”), I can actually feel the call resonate somewhere deeper than any ‘vibrate’ function I could assign. It’s impossible to ignore, but that doesn’t stop me from really trying. Around the fifth ring I felt like I might vomit kittens from my ears, so I pulled my cellphone from the inside pocket of my black London Fog, and jabbed the green button.
Since I didn’t recognize the number (I never do when the call comes from there), I said, “Who the FUCK is this, and what the FUCK do you want?” I tried to make it sound courteous.
“Thomas,” the voice I recognized, he’s known as Nick the Black (why?), and I don’t know that much about him, other than the fact that he seems to be on a team of one.
“Nick, right? Why are you calling me, I don’t know anything.”
“Thomas, we need to meet. Midnight at the Denny’s on Bijou. I know I don’t have to worry about you not coming alone.”
“Look Nick, I--”
“Just fucking be there, okay.” He paused. “I’m sorry, it’s simply that you are the only one of THEM that I know I can categorically trust.” He always talks that way. Whatever.
“Okay, see you at 12. Don’t worry about it.” I jabbed the red button. Roughly 30 seconds went by as I stood motionless in the middle of my dismal little studio apartment, and thought about it. Then I went to my call history and redialed the number of my last incoming call. Two rings and,
“Yes?” said Nick the Black, with slight condescension in his voice.
“Which Denny’s on Bijou, the regular one, or the one in - er, you know…?”
“The ‘regular one’. Don’t worry, I’m not sending you into the belly of the beast, Mr. Haydee.” I wondered how he knew my last name, but wasn’t surprised that he did.
“Right. Cheers.”
Since my conscription nearly two years ago, I’ve mysteriously had no need of a job, or food or sleep for that matter. Consequently, I tend to spend the bulk of my day doing fuck-all. Unless, of course, my duties require me to do otherwise. Say, like playing the scared-shitless-straight routine on some teen fuckhead from the suburban wastes who decided that Anton Lavey was ‘the shiznit’, or eliminate some rogue night-bumper who can’t seem to follow the SubRasa’s rules of conduct. (The SubRasa has always felt that they get better numbers through ready supply and careful noninterventionism. Unlike my bosses, who feel it necessary to have their bloody wings dipped into every dark jagged chasm of puerile human existence they possibly can.)
Anyway, I suppose it was convenient that I’ve always had a preternaturally high threshold for boredom. It comes in handy when one has an acute lack of things with which to occupy oneself. Today, for instance, waiting 12 hours for the meeting with Nick the Black, and having absolutely nothing to fill the interim. I can’t smoke or drink or fuck and, as I mentioned, I have no need for nourishment nor sleep, so that leaves little to do but sit in the dark like Howard Hughes by way of George Romero. Such is life in the tide pool.
Midnight came in the form of a menstrual October sky, complete with a cold bitching wind, not that I feel the cold anymore. These days I always arrive for my meetings early, so Nick found me waiting in a corner booth with an untouched glass of water in front of me. He sat down and I said,
“Order something, will ya? So they don’t kick us out.”
Shivering, he said, “Christ, the autumns seem to be getting worse every century. Nice to see you again too, Thomas. Excuse me, miss? Some coffee please?”
“So what’s with the cloak & dagger bullshit, Nick? I thought the Fake World was neutral territory.”
“Technically it is but--,” he paused and sat up at 90º as the waitress poured his coffee, and after refusing cream, he continued, “but don’t think for one damned second that THE LIGHT doesn’t break their own rules. I called you because you’re new to the game, and ignorance equals trust. With that in mind, I need your help.”
He sipped from his cup and waited for my reply, so I took a moment to study him. He wasn’t what you would call strapping. Roughly in the 5’5” range, he looked to have a bit of native blood in him with a pinch of something else, but I didn’t know what. His hair was long, tightly curled and, of course, black. His fashion sense seemed to date back the Victorian Age: long frock coat, slim trousers, collared shirt with vest; all black save the shirt, which was wine red. Nick the Black looked like someone whose eyes should dart around nervously like some horrible spy-villain stereotype, but they were like two tranquil pools of oil.
I guess he took my silence as a request for details, because he said, “Other than your knowledge of my neutrality, do you know what it is that I do? I don’t suppose that you would, considering the extent of your time in the trenches of this Cold War. I am what you might call a facilitator. As in, I facilitate conscripts, like you, in the transition from The War into a state of neutrality, like my own. It’s a sort of divine blind spot, if you will.”
We sat in silence for a stretch as what he said began to sink into the quicksand of my brain. My eyes widened, “Holy fuck, you mean to tell me that---”
“Yes Thomas, I can give you your life back, to a degree. But I need your help first.”
“First, or in exchange for?”
“I guess it depends on how you look at. The point is, you seem to straddle the fence a bit more that your usual conscript. Normally they just kneel and do what they’re told, because they’re handlers make it seem as if they have no choice. However, what the bastards seem to forget is that, unlike them, we still have souls. Even after conscription.”
I scratched at my goatee, “Yeah, that fucker Icthiel told me pulling that trigger pretty much gave me no fucking alternative. Serve, or be damned.” I suddenly wished that I could smoke again. “So, if I do this and you make me neutral, what happens to this?” I pointed at the plain black beanie that covered my head. (Of course, I wasn’t pointing at the beanie, but the bandage-wrapped wounds that hid beneath it.)
“Well, how do I put this? The process is somewhat like re-animation, so your wounds would have to be healed in order for you to survive.” He pronounced ‘wounds’ in italics. “You would look like you did before your conscription.”
If my body still worked the way a normal human body did, I’d have felt light-headed and slightly nauseous. It’s been nearly two years since that bitch drove me over the edge, and I put that fucking revolver to my head. Twenty-two months since Icthiel came into my hole at the Albany Apartments and took my death away from me. I would say that my existence has been hell since then, but that’s not what side I’m on (and damn me if I don’t regret it sometimes). Their rectitude has kept me as a lapdog, and here is my way to break the leash. No more fucking P.R. errands, no more killing freaks, no more dealing with their sanctimonious horeshit.
Icthiel and Carthiel and all the other asshole seraphs have always hated us. Ever since He gave us that problematic accessory we call a SOUL. They sit around molting, or whatever the fuck, and wait for one of us to do the self-administered dirt nap so they have one more monkey for the Celestial Hurdy Gurdy. For a bunch of soulless assholes, these guys sure know their schadenfreude.
Okay, now I’m pissed. And intrigued. I’m pisstrigued, if you will.
“Alright, Nick the Black, what do you need from me?”
He must have seen the wheels turning behind my eyes, because he smiled. Then he looked once around the room, giving slight credence to my earlier assessment of his eyes, and said, “I need you to get in touch with your old friend Kosnar.”
I blinked. “Kosnar? Why that old cellar dweller? What, do you need a Spock’s Beard mix, or something?”
Nick then explained to me that my old absinthe buddy just happened to be a courier for the SubRasa. (Someone’s going to get a cold from all the doors opening lately.) And, the reason that he needed me to get in touch with him was because Kosnar knew the locations of the SubRasa’s safe houses, and that he needed to get a friend of his into one while he prepared to do his neutrality thing.
“Alright,” I said after a moment pregnant with sextuplets, “let me get this straight. You basically need my buddy to smuggle your buddy into an enemy safe house. Basically, you’re asking me to risk treason and possible banishment to Il Purgatorio. And, basically you think that we can pull this out of our collective ass without seriously pissing off the odds-on favorite. Well, basically I think that this is batshit fucking crazy.”
“Don’t give yourself an embolism, it’s not as thorny as it sounds. Once we get my friend to the safe house, I’ll have the luxury of time to prepare my rituals for two conscripts, you and Bella. There’s only one minor problem…” I did not like the look of his ellipses. “Currently, she’s absconded at The Branch Inn. The one in Entropolis.”
My shoulders slumped loquaciously, “Of course she is.” I sighed, “Fuck.”
If someone were to put a gun to my temple (besides myself, of course), and glean from me a shortlist of my absolute least favorite places in the known universe, the top two milieus would be thus: Pueblo, and Entropolis. In that order. The loathing I feel for my hometown is well known, nigh legendary. In fact, a clipping from the local independent newspaper, which a friend had given me, best illustrates my feeling. It’s a black and white photo of a foggy highway stretching away on to nothing, and next to it is a large sign that reads: END OF THE EARTH - 56 MILES, PUEBLO - 60 MILES. Until now, Pueblo existed on a list of one (Albuquerque came close to the list, but that’s neither here nor there), but that was until I went to Entropolis.
The Warzone. The Real World. The Ruins of Eden, and the chosen site of The Cold War. There are more names, but these are the ones I’ve learned so for during the last few years of my conscription. But regardless of how many monikers the place has picked up over the centuries, I simply call it The Shithole. For one thing, it’s filthy. Think of Oakland on its worst day ever, only sitting under a perpetual half-eclipse. If my body was still capable of migraines, I would have one every time I went there. (One of the few elements of my situation for which I’m thankful.) I avoid going there as much as possible. Kind of like going in to work on your day-off, except that you work in a stinking abattoir from hell. Literally, in some places. It’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with war zones, considering my time in the army, back in ‘92. I cringe to think of what The Shithole is like over in Eastern Europe. So much bloody history there, so much horror. I cringe to think of what it must be like for a conscript in that part of the world.
Pueblo, for me, is just a mammoth abysmal closet full of skeletons. But Entropolis is a horrid reminder of every detestable thing I’ve ever done and every detestable thing I’ve yet to do, all in the name of “righteousness”. Both places, on some level, represent a living hell for me, and Nick the Black has just asked me to take a tour with him. I merely hope that the means justify the end.
Nick gave me a day to prepare for what came next. Basically that just meant that I would have a little time to sit in my apartment, maybe listen to some Skinny Puppy, and fucking stew.
Before we left the Denny’s, I asked him how we were getting down to the Blo (that’s what we call it). I tend to not have any form of transportation, unless I’m on ‘assignment’, whereby it is provided. He said, “Don’t worry, I have a driver.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was pretty sure that I didn’t like the sound of it. Whatever, least of my worries I suppose.
At approximately 10 in the morning a Studebaker Hawk, which had definitely seen better decades, pulled up in front of The Albany Apartments and honked. I hate it when people honk. Nick, who was in the backseat, waved me over. I stepped across the sidewalk, dodging crazies and yuppies alike, and climbed into the shotgun position. Apoptygma Berzerk was playing on the stereo, when Nick said, “Thomas, this is Phil. He will be our chauffer.” Phil was a member of the Adolescent Suburban Goth Club, at first glance. Bleached hair spiked up impossibly tall from his perfect bony head. Studded leather bracelets hung too big from his thin wrists. Black and red plaid bondage pants and a brand new VNV Nation baby doll tee. Yep, A.S.G.C. all the way. Guess Nick picks his friends from the usual miscreant cadre at The Church in Denver. The expected lingering scent of clove smoke hung in the air. Great.
“Hey.” I said.
“You’ll have to tell me where to go when we hit Pew Town.”
“Yeah.” I barely said. Being as I always go prepared, I handed him a Neon Judgement tape and said, “Pop this in, will you?” A little culture never hurt anybody.
He sniffed, “I guess.”
We hit Bijou a minute later, then I25 South and rode in near silence, only the sounds of ‘Blood and Thunder’ pulsing from the speakers, for almost a half an hour. Then Nick said from the backseat, “When we get to Kosnar’s, you need to tell Phil how to get to the 400 block of Lacrosse.”
“Sure.” I said, then, “What the fuck is on Lacrosse?”
Nick looked out the window with a Yoda-esque expression, “Your future Thomas.”
“Hold up,” shifting in my seat to look at him, “you’re not coming with me?”
“I have to prepare, Thomas. I thought we discussed this.”
“I guess I’m confused.” I said irritated. “I thought you were coming with me to get your friend, then I would take her to Kosnar’s safe house, and we would wait for you to do your thing.” I glanced at Phil, he seemed uninterested.
“Shit, Thomas, I’m sorry for your confusion, but I thought you would see the sense in allowing me time to make everything as ready as possible.”
My eyes played shutterbug, “Fuck, man, I’m not even -” I looked at Phil again, “armed. I can’t carry the implements when I’m, you know, off the clock.”
Nick waved his hand, “Calm down, we’ve got you covered.” He produced a small leather satchel from the floor and handed it to me over the seat. I reached for it like the thing was a porno, and I was a Mormon on my mission. Inside the satchel was, what looked like, a vintage 1938 Luger, and some spare ammo.
I looked at Nick the Black like he was selling beach front property to Katrina survivors. “Who do you think I am, Lee-motherfucking-Marvin?”
He was incredulous. “But…didn’t you fight in Sarajevo back in ‘92?”
“Yeah, with 15 other guys and all of us were loaded for bear. Fuck, man, I spent most of my time playing hearts in an old café with the owner, who wasn’t nearly as scared shitless as we were.” I shook my head like there was a monkey trying to fuck me in the ear. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to Nick, but I’m definitely not some goddamn undead Rambo.”
Phil actually had to pretend he wasn’t interested. Nick, however, sat back with his arms folded like a spoiled 3 year old. And for the first time in the few dealings I’ve had with him, he showed me some of the colors he kept hidden in his vintage frock. Something had appeared to click behind his oily eyes. He said, “well, Thomas, if you want to slough off the shackles of Heaven, I guess that you must figure out a way to become Lee-motherfucking-Marvin, and get me my Bella. Unless, that is, you don’t particularly mind being a slave to The Light.”
It was my turn to be incredulous. I suddenly felt like I was a tad bit out of my depth. If I manage to make it out of this fiasco with my soul intact, I vowed two things: one, I would never again underestimate Nick the Black; and two, that I was going to kick his scrawny neutral ass.
Once we hit Pueblo, and after keeping up with my tradition of leaning out the window and screaming, “I DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE!”, I proffered Phil with directions to Kosnar’s place. His mom’s house sat square in the middle of one of those blocks that you might see in a tourist pamphlet marked historical. Well, as historical as a town that’s only been around for a little over a hundred years could possibly get. After having been gone for as long as I’ve been, the place looks to me, upon returning, like a town that might’ve once been beautiful. But now, all the beauty has been siphoned away by intellectual myopia, listlessness and blue-collar complacency. As well as being rotted from the inside out by alcohol, drugs and religion. And not necessarily in that order. Every other street looks like the scene of a murder.
However, Kosnar’s street happens to not be one of them.
After a few jabs of the doorbell, and a bout of loud yelling and pounding, Malcolm Kosnar opened the front door and peered out like Gollem from that one trilogy. At least two heads shorter than me, slightly pear-shaped with long red hair and small goatee, Kosnar actually looked more like Sméagol. Either way, he didn’t get much sun.
His eyes bulged when he saw my face, and said, “Aw, man! What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Nice to fuckin’ see you too, dick. I thought you’d be happy to know your old buddy wasn’t cacked.”
“Cut the shit, Thomas, I know who you’re working for now.”
“Not my fucking choice, man.”
“Not my fucking problem, man.” he said in his familiar whining mock. I resisted the urge to sock him in the nose.
“Just let me in for a minute, what’s the big goddamn deal?”
“The big deal is that you and yours are sort of persona non grata to me and mine. So, begging your pardon, but please to be fucking off now.” He started to close the door, but I stuck my boot in like an old salesman cliché.
“Wait, Kosnar, I need your help.”
He waited a few seconds, then, “Tell me why I should risk it, Thomas. Because, unlike you guys, I can get hurt still. So, tell me why I should risk grievous bodily harm.”
“I’ll fucking tell you, but not out here.”
Malcolm continued to eye me wearily, not budging his pudginess, so I resorted to bribery.
“Alright, Malcolm. You know that Ozric Tentacles shirt I’ve been holding over your hobbit ass for years now? Well if you let me in, it’s yours.”
After wiping his palms on his paisley robe and convincing me to show him the grievous head wound I keep hidden underneath my black knit cap, he finally fucking let me in.
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