Pills-in-a-Little-Cup

by Rage, Reverend

  The missed quota does give me pause, but it’s not validation for losing The Harbor’s most lucrative spot to peddle drugs. Even short, my crew is still pushing more cake than any, so Herod’s logic is suspect.

  The boy waits silently. Only the chattering of his teeth can be heard as the darkness snuffs out the dusk. And what lies beyond pale streetlight glow succumbs, becoming deep shadow.

  “Open your eyes and see,” I command. All of the attention the boy can muster is aimed at me.

  The boy, my captive audience, is spellbound in stunned silence as I lift the rapidly dying Theodosius, my talons seeking spine. I find it and grasped the hard, knobby bone, lifting still. My left hand reaches over Theodosius’ back. I pierce his rib-cage muscle with my three-inch talons, below where the neck joins his spine. I grab hold tightly.

  I bring his torso to me. I bite below where the left and right sides of his ribcage meet in the center. I chew gobbets of flesh and spit them onto the cracked sidewalk at my feet. I punctured a big artery with my pointed tongue. I raise Theodosius above my head and I let my jaw unhinge. I am a predatory snake. I twist the mortal like he’s a wringing, soggy rag. A huge bucket of blood from his ruptured abdominal aorta spews forth in an orgy of velvet fluid. The spine pops bubble-wrap staccatos. I twist and drain Theodosius of every last drop of his living blood.

  I finish. My breathing abates, as does the mortal I empty. I drop the limp bag of bones to the dust and ease my lower jaw back into place. The blood delivers oxygen to my starved body. Subtle, steady euphoria ripples from the center of my chest and on out to every square inch of my cold, hypersensitive skin.

  I calmly suck the remnants of the dead cop’s blood from my fingertips as the talons recede. The crew waits.

  I speak. “Tell Herod,” I say, “Pilate does not get replaced.”

  The boy waits. I nod. The boy turns and runs fast out of sight. His untied sneeks left empty from where he jumped out of them.

  This is it, the way mess like this go down. There is nothing left for me here tonight. I have got myself plenty of trouble now. Shit.

  I start walking away. When I near the periphery of deep shadows, I raise a hand above my shoulder. As if on cue, the crew scatters. They dissolve into darkness. They are shelter-seeking roaches escaping the instant kitchen light.

  With my shoulder mostly healed and flush with blood and oxygen, my breathing is no longer required. The carrion: I left that Theodosius piece of shit where it fell.

  I need to return to my lair. Juan, my Second, and Mary Magdalene await my return. I need to confer with Juan and shed these bloody clothes. I want Mary to braid my hair before continuing my nightly rounds. Where I stay mostly out of site, sitting in my car, hidden from everyone I can. Let the growing legend build itself. Occasionally I’ve got to come out like tonight. It will, assuredly, add another volume to my ruthless and wicked cred, but will also stir up a swirling shit-storm with the powers that be.

  My runners are missing and they need locating. Plata still has to be flipped and I need to plan. Herod will not let this go unchallenged. I shall have to try the Pharisees myself, go on up past Herod. I need to see what I can salvage out of this mess.

  I step over the bodies of Theodosius and his unconscious runner. I melt into darkness.

  The night is my ally. It swallows me whole.

  Chapter Three

  MY MAIN LAIR IS AN ABANDONED CHURCH. It is located at the very end of a trash-strewn block of one hundred fifty year old houses. I stand in a doorway in the middle of the block and listen. I can’t hear a thing from the church at the end of the street and that’s what’s getting me on edge. So I listen some more. It is fifteen minutes before I am willing to move any closer.

  The old, seemingly empty church is one of two lairs for me. I also have a couple of emergency shelters that are very temporary, but still safe. Nobody knows the whereabouts of the emergency shelters, not even Juan or Mary. I trust them with my business and my life, but you never really know. Everyone has something they’re trying to hide.

  I have been pursuing the drug trade for five years now. Up until a few months ago, money flowed like a river to me. Dope fiends used to line up around the block to get my goods. Now the kids that clock for me have down time. Instead of my boys vending Plata, they play video games, text their squirrels and download music. It‘s like I’m running a summer camp. It is all Immanuel’s fault. Her dynamic ministry is stifling commerce and slowing the flow of The Harbor’s drug of choice. Plata is, or I should say was a recession-proof, weather-proof drug loved by the huddled masses. Until she came along, that is.

  The people call her El Cristo. Even though she is rumored to be a tiny, five foot nothing in height, and a maybe a buck in weight Latina in her very early 20s, they bestow upon her the greatest display of respect by referring to her in the masculine sense. They truly believe her to be the Child of God. They are beginning to think of themselves as Chosen People. The young preacher girl is winning many hearts and souls in The Harbor. She has healed hundreds of the drug I owe both my station and my clout to. Such is my missed quotas of late.

  The Pharisees, with enforcement via Herod and his cops, control all the Plata peddled in The Harbor. For my part, I agree to purchase one hundred grams of uncut Plata from the Pharisees, through Herod, every month. Whether or not it sells, I am committed to the monthly quota.

  Normally this arrangement proves to be extremely lucrative. I buy Plata from Herod. I meet one of Herod’s flunky cops every month and do the exchange, but I absolutely hate dealing with them. In fact, as soon as I can manage, I will turn this responsibility over to Juan de Bautista. Herod and his cops always got on my nerves, even before tonight’s debacle.

  Once I get the pristine dope from Herod, I have Mary give it a big whack of powdered cut, maybe some ephedra or some garage speed, and break it down. My boys then flip this stepped-on Plata for $200 for a soft teener. I almost double my investment every month.

  After five years, my two companions and I have managed to squirrel away three million dollars in washed cash. I know that I can make the quota by dipping, but there be principles at stake. After all the money we make for Herod and the Pharisees, I believe that I should be given some latitude. A few grams here or there shouldn’t really matter.

  It all comes down to Herod. He’s the main one I worry about. All the other Plata dealers under Herod’s umbrella are bent police officers. Herod is a vampire like me. Unlike me Herod controls the human cops completely. The only one he can’t control is yours truly. That, I’m thinking, is the real reason I’m being targeted. The missed quota is merely Herod’s excuse to do the deed.

  I have to find a way to unravel Herod’s control and I need to do it with a quick step. Now, I do have $100,000 ready and waiting for me at a moment’s notice. This info I keep to myself, an insurance policy. The locations of the rest of our three million are kept in a small book, the contents coded. This book is kept in an unobtrusive wall-safe in the old church I am waiting to enter.

  Something is wrong. I can feel it. I move cautiously forward. There is no one on the street, but the feeling persists.

  I finally make it, keeping to the dark spaces. I go alley-side and vault the solid perimeter wall. I smell the air, tasting it, really, but fail to locate Mary or Juan. Alarms sound in my head. I go to the basement door at the foot of a short downward staircase. I am not the least bit surprised to find the door splintered and cracked. I open a lopsided shutter and note that the security system was never set. This is more than strange. I can’t recall Mary and Juan ever making these kinds of mistakes.

  I enter the house, my yellow eyes scanning the darkened room. My heart pounds blood in my ears. I cross the floor and climb up a small staircase to a landing. The door creaks open with minimal pressure. I slip inside and close it. A bathroom is to the left, a spare room to the right. The hallway directly in front leads to the kitchen.

  I check the room. All windows are boarded up on the outside.
The security shutters inside are bolted and padlocked on all, save one. I go to the largest room and look out the open shutter. There is nothing to see.

  I turn and glance around the large room. Fifty or sixty years ago, thick congregations shouted and stamped enthusiastic praises here. All is quiet now. Even echoes forget.

  All of the tables, trays, scales and workbenches are overturned. Most of the work area is destroyed beyond repair. I go to the tall, two-door cabinet and see the lock open and hanging. All of my drugs are gone. Fifty fucking grams worth of ready to wear packaged product and it is all gone.

  At this point, there’s no sense in calling out for my companions. Their remaining scent is nothing but a tiny sliver left by the lingering energy of their departure. There was violence done here. I go back down to the basement.

  I move crates to reveal a hidden door to an old bomb shelter. I open the well-oiled door to find a dense metal bank vault hidden behind it.

  I spin the wheel, unlock the vault and open it wide. Muted blue forty-watt bulbs come on. I enter and survey the room. The bed in the corner where I sleep is blocked from view by a four-paneled Chinese screen. A small loveseat and a couple old recliners group around a nicked coffee table. The television set, stereo and movie player sit on a table in my small lounging area. Music, movies and other goodies are heaped in haphazard groupings.

  Nearest me and to the right of the door, is a big desk. I face it. The desk is as neat and organized as always. But the picture frame on the wall behind it is ever so slightly ajar.

  Now I know for sure. Realization makes my stomach tighten. I skirt the desk and tug open the picture revealing a wall safe. The door to the safe is open. I confirm the worst. The little book holding coded locations of our loot is gone. In place of the book, there is a camera.

  I scoop it up, thumbing through various heart-wrenching images. The camera shows me all. Herod and his dirty cops have Juan. Judging from the images of the extensive damage they inflicted on him, I know the location codes have been compromised.

  Five years and it ends in a heartbeat. My money, drugs, my friends are all gone.

  I keep flipping until I get to the last image, a picture of Mary Magdalene. I drop the camera like it burns and race to the corner. I toss the screen out of the way. Mary is there. She is splayed out on my bed. She is very dead. A big syringe sticks motionless out of a split, weeping eyeball. Three empty dope sacks lay beside her bruised, violated body.

  “No, not Mary,” I groan.

  I go to her.

  * * * *

  Juan’s cousin has a growing reputation for healing the sick, rumors of raising the dead. I can think of no where else to turn. Hospitals cannot save dead people.

  I snatch her up and carry Mary to the car. I remove the car-cover, unlock and open the door and place Mary in the passenger seat. I back out of the yard through double gates.

  I phone while driving The Harbor streets. I call all my runners, one by one, until I glean where Juan’s cousin is. This one is the only one not supposed to be slinging dope tonight.

  I get the address and make short work of the drive and screech to a halt. There is a wedding reception and it’s full on. With the engine idling, I pluck Mary from the car. I follow the nauseating smell of cooked flesh. Then I see her.

  Immanuel is standing and waits for me. She is surrounded by nine men and three women. They are obviously not thrilled to see me. Her disciples bunch closer, protecting her. They didn’t like me being there. Not while I’m shellacked with sticky blood and staring at them with my creepy yellow eyes. An imposing dude moves to stand right beside her, keeping a hand behind his back. My vampire ears hear a 9mm unlock.

  “Trust in the sword, Pedro,” she says in a small, still voice, “and ye shall die by it.” She glares at the huge, chin-braid dangling dude, and she’s not kidding. “Release the shooter, drop your hand, and do it right now,” she scolds.

  Pedro instantly obeys.

  I approach the group. Just being near her makes my nerve endings tingle. She seems to possess so much barely restrained power. She keeps her focus played on my eyes. While her disciples stare in abject horror at my clothes, drenched in blood, Juan’s cousin looks only at my eyes.

  I gently place Mary at the bare feet of El Cristo, telling her what I know. She kneels beside the supine body and listens for a heartbeat. There is none. Immanuel places her hand over Mary’s destroyed eye. It begins to quiver. All of the people nearby feel the tremendous heat rolling off of El Cristo.

  At first the yellow waxy substance pushes out of Mary’s eye, thin as a surgeon’s thread. It pushes out of pulpy mess and attaches itself to Immanuel’s quivering hand. Another waxy string oozes slowly out of the eye, thicker now and darker and most vile smelling.

  Six waxy strings vibrate between Immanuel’s hand and Mary’s eye. She grabs them with her empty hand. She tugs the ever thickening tendrils all the way out. Immanuel releases the gooey substance and watches as it falls to the grass. It hisses and burns. It sinks into the earth and is gone.

  Immanuel has some of her disciples fetch bandages for Mary’s eye. It is concave, the iris obliterated. Mary’s eye will never see again. Immanuel put her mouth on Mary’s lips and blows air into her empty, motionless lungs.

  Mary’s chest stays inflated and begins to vibrate. Immanuel sits beside Mary and watches her quietly. The partygoers are silent as well. She still seems dead as shit to me, but I stay still and also watch.

  Two women bring out a first-aid kit. They bandage the eye while Mary quivers. Then I notice Mary’s color deepening. She takes in great, violently shaking breaths. With that I can smell oxygen returning. Without preamble, Mary sits straight up, looking all around. She sniffs and tells those staring she’s hungry. They take her inside and care for her.

  Once she leaves, Immanuel summons me. “We need to talk, you and I.”

  I nod, still swooning in relief from Mary being brought back to life before my stunned eyes. I follow the tiny miracle worker to a more secluded section of the yard. It‘s dark here.

  I can tell you I am grateful beyond words. I’m willing to wait patiently for Immanuel to get to it. She peers at me, not speaking right away. Just when it‘s getting painful under the microscope of her gaze, she speaks:

  “I’m not afraid of you,” is what she tells me. It stops me cold.

  “Why not?” I ask, wanting to know. “You should be,” I warn her, “everyone else in The Harbor is. Do you not know what I am?”

  She considers me, towering over her in the dark. I still think I am master.

  “I do know what you are,” she replies. “I also know who you are and were.”

  I think I don’t hear correctly, so I ask her to repeat it.

  “Oh, yes, vampire, I know you,” Immanuel says instead. She has my full attention now. “You have trod this Earth many times, Prelate. You have always been a part of the human herd. They have fed you and amused you. You have been their king and their slave. You have even been their food. You’ve lived many years and you have lived few. You have seen much, bore witness to the majesty of the ages. You’ve feasted well and you have starved. You lived numerous lives and have died horribly, violently.”

  I back an unconscious step from her. Immanuel’s words make me feel as though scales – not felt or seen before – are falling from my eyes. The heat boils off her and I retreat automatically and fearfully from her power. She makes me sore afraid.

  “You remember naught,” she continues, taking a tentative step toward me, the retreating vampire, “only disorganized memories you feel so intensely, but serve no meaning; a road with no signs.”

  I have my back to the house. I feel dizzy and want to run away, but cannot.

  “It’s time,” she tells me, advancing. Her tiny hand caresses my cold cheek. “It’s time to know the truth, Pilate,” her stare captures me, “until you know all.”

  I close my eyes. I can still feel her touch. It’s warm, a thing I can never know. I ca
n’t stop her. Immanuel’s touch bores a hole through the very center of my being. She can do anything she wants to me. I won’t be able to defend myself against whichever attack she chooses to mount. I am the helpless child, here. I’m on a flimsy boat, awed by the power and greatness of the ocean. The waves are breaking over the sides, slopping cold and wet. I don’t know how to swim, I am going to drown, and all she does is touch me.

  I feel her life force swirling all around us. I slide down the wall. Immanuel grabs me up by my filthy shirtfront, and stands me straight and tall, like I weigh nothing at all. She holds me there and gives to me a command: one word.

  “Remember,” she says. Then she lets me fall.

  I slide down the wall, and I just keep on falling…

  Chapter Four

  THIS VAMPIRE HERE NEEDS THE PHARISEES. I need to see them in order to salvage what is left of my business. I need permission to go after Herod. I need their blessing in order to go and get my money and my dope back.

  I awake hard and slow in the late Harbor afternoon. My eyes are shaded by dark peeps. The shabby curtains on the thin window are closed. My clothing is still bloody and full of filthy debris. I push open the trapdoor and make my way up the stairs from the root cellar of this my secondary lair. There is no bed down there in the root cellar, just hard packed earth and pitch black darkness to sleep in.

  This lair’s a basement apartment with only one thin, rectangular window at eye level. I can see through closed curtains the shadows of legs as they pass by. I drop the trapdoor into place and straighten the rug tacked to it. I stand and stretch. I am pissed all off and confused.

  I remove and then drop my ruined clothes on the floor and kick them out of the way into a corner. After I treat myself to a quick shower, I don a fresh outfit, and then go to the window unit air conditioner to turn that motherfucker on. The apartment hasn’t been used, or even visited in so long the air smells musty and close. But the coolness that pours forth from out of the humming unit feels almost transcendental as it touches my face.