Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  The detective feels the combustive shock drain out of him. “Was just preparing for the possibility that our guy might have abilities of his own.” He eases his reading glasses from his nose. “And know that I understand your reasons for not wanting to help me with this case.”

  Walter nods. “You’re not going to force me to tell you what I know? Use the law?”

  “I could, but I...” Single-shoulder shrug. “I don’t wanna violate the trust you have in me.”

  Single-sided smile. “Who says I trust you?”

  “The fact that you called me when the shit shredded its way through the fan.”

  “Fair enough. I guess.” He points at the open laptop. “Now you’re starting to get an idea of how I feel.”

  Perry’s eyebrow raises a question.

  “Like a victim.”

  The word hits the detective like the blow he almost sent careening at Walter. “I’m not a victim here.”

  “You feel powerless don’t you? A lack of control. Vulnerable. Like you’re experiencing a new kind of fear tailored specifically for you?”

  “Don’t know if I’d go so far as to use the word victim.”

  Walter angles his upper body forward. “Why?”

  The detective keeps his response clenched behind his jaws, bolted up tight inside his mental fortress. He sidesteps the question instead. “I’m just tryin’ to keep you and everyone else in the city safe.”

  Eyes meet.

  The detective feels another combustive shock run through him. One that goads him to neither flight nor fight.

  He tries to smother it just the same.

  “Think it might all be, I don’t know, like, mind control or something?” Ehasz picks up the evidence bag containing a blood-streaked knife found in McCain’s wrist.

  Perry and Jill look at each other before entertaining the officer’s ramblings. “What’s firing through your brain this time, E?” Jill tunes her attention back to the reporting officer’s narrative on the incident report. Perry doesn’t bother looking up from the folder in his hand.

  “Just that this is the third murder of an Alpha-Omega that’s occurred in, like, a week.” His head rattles back and forth between the two detectives. “Under any other circumstances, what I’m bringing to the table would sound like I needed to visit Dr. Chiavarini for a psychological screening, but we’ve got victims with claws, neon eyes, and two sets of vocal cords.” He jots down a quick note on a reporter’s notebook. “It’s all kinds of possible Dwight Senior and our other murderers were being controlled by a telepath.”

  Perry blinks several times before lifting his eyes to the other man. “Dwight was off his meds. And McCain wasn’t exactly the neighborhood sweetheart.”

  Ehasz stabs a vigorous hand at the detective. “Making them perfect targets if you’re looking to mind control someone into becoming a murderer without making it look like mind control.” Excitement grabs hold of him, possessing him mind, body, and soul...controlling him.

  Jill curls a finger over her lip. Her gaze unravels into something ill-defined. “You might actually have something there.”

  It’s Jill’s turn to be on the receiving end of a gesture gyrating with vigor. “Thank you!”

  Perry lifts empty palms. “Hold on, guys. How the hell are we supposed to gather evidence that there’s a telepath causing these murders?”

  “Catch whoever killed McCain, ask him and Dwight if they were acting out of the ordinary, felt compelled or controlled before they scratched the itch.”

  “And what makes you think the psychic will let them tell the truth?”

  The question is a brick wall, a sudden deer in the headlights that makes Ehasz veer off the street of speculation he was once coasting down. He deflates. “Well...I mean...”

  The expression reminds Perry of Walter. He sighs. “Sorry, Ehasz. There’s a possibility that a telepath, or something very similar, is behind this, and you can most certainly continue to look in to that, I’m not stoppin’ ya. But I am gonna do what I can to find the puppet that I know exists rather than a puppeteer that just might be a trick of light and shadow.”

  He goes back to work, but misgiving has already started to seep into his mind, spreading across its hemispheres with irrefutable temptations.

  Perry leans over the balcony railing, unlit cigarette pinched between two fingers as he watches the setting sun drape itself heavy and heavenly across Dominion City, dredging shadows up from the ground and adorning the De France Pedestrian Bridge in thick beams of tangerine.

  The door slides open behind him. “Didn’t know you smoked.” Walter leans next to him.

  “Quittin’.” Perry looks at the white cylinder. “Tryin’ to, at least. Just the ritual of it helps me think.”

  “Lightning strike yet?”

  Slow head shake. “Guess both me and Eureka are on smoke break; ‘cept she’s not just goin’ through the motions.”

  “Why—” Walter measures the words in his head before breathing them into existence. “You should arrest me.” He looks over at him. “I’m obstructing justice.”

  Perry brings the cigarette to his lips, takes a not-drag, lowers it. “Maybe. But you got your justice.” Deep exhale of carbon monoxide free of nicotine.

  “Sooo...you aren’t doing everything you can to find this guy because you aren’t fully convinced he’s a criminal?”

  Pinched brows. “Definitely wouldn’t go that far. We can pin at least one murder on ‘im, and there might be more we can’t connect yet.” He turns to Walter. “We’ll find this guy. Right now, I just want you to enjoy your freedom, lemme do the worryin’.” Eyes linger.

  Walter rubs a fine-boned knuckle against the back of Perry’s hand. “Thanks.”

  Perry’s hand twitches, but doesn’t open. He raises the cigarette to his lips again instead. “Ready to go back in? I’ll make us a late dinner.”

  G I O R G I O

  B.D - Before Death

  An ecstatic explosion of euphoria!

  Their shared exhale twined together like limbs as Giorgio collapsed on her sweaty breasts, his ear to her thundering heart.

  “Oh my God!” The woman pressed the heel of her hand to her brow.

  “Mmm-hmm.” He licked at her sweaty skin.

  “We’ve been having sex two months now, and you’ve never done that before.”

  “Making love is about more than two bodies bumping and thrusting together in various positions.” His finger twirled around her nipple. “It’s about exploration, mutual pleasure, and reaching the magnificent pinnacle of a shared experience.”

  Her chest rumbled as she purred. “I sure reached my pinnacle. More than once.” She slicked a hand through his hair. “I love you, Giorgio.” Her heart thumped.

  His heart stuttered and he cringed.

  “Giorgio?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I said I love you.”

  His finger twirled with insistence around her nipple. She covered his hand with hers, placing her fingertips under his clefted chin and forcing his head up.

  “I don’t expect you to automatically tell me you love me, but I would like some kind of response. Don’t lay there and ignore me.”

  “How could I ignore you, Patricia? You’re absolutely magnificent.” He kissed her knuckles, rolled off her, covered her breasts with a sheet, and reached over to the cluttered nightstand for a cigarette. “I only smoke during afterglow.” He grinned devilishly and lit up.

  “I did this for you.”

  He exhaled. “Did what?”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you can’t tell the difference. I saw it on your face while you were working your golden tongue in my—”

  “Patricia.” The word held gravity.

  “Four thousand dollars for my breasts, twelve thousand to lift my buttocks, twelve thousand for my legs and stomach, and three thousand for my cheekbones. All of that for you.”

  His lip curled as he looked at her, blinking and blowing smoke. “You didn
’t go to Dr. Garret at Zenith did you?”

  Her eyes darted. “He’s the best.”

  “For the poverty-stricken and deprived perhaps.” He ran a finger down her thigh. “That quack with a forehead doesn’t give a damn about good results or satisfied patients. He only cares about putting fat in his bank accounts as he sucks it out of yours. A proper surgeon would have addressed the individual needs of your musculature. You now have the thighs of an Auschwitz survivor tapering down to the legs of a dancer attached to a pair of ankles that belong on a Sumo wrestler.”

  Vision blurred, his cheek flesh burned, and the air was bitten by a sharp sound.

  He rubbed at his face.

  “You motherfucking asshole. You and your fake-ass British speech patterns.”

  “No, my dear, my name is Giorgio. And you can blame my glorious speech pattern on the best overseas schooling desperate parents and old family money can buy.” He brought the cigarette to his lips and put his arms behind his head.

  “I hope you fuck some disease-ridden whore and die of AIDS.” She slapped him again, knocking the cigarette from his mouth. And again. And ag—

  He grabbed her wrist and she struggled against him, flinging out an abrasive string of curses. Sheets fell to the floor and the bed squeaked, sparking memories of the sound that occurred just moments before. Same sound, different sensation.

  “You’re not good enough, Patty, you never will be! Go back to Dr. Garret; tell him to take all of that silicone and plastic out of you; and go get yourself a mild-mannered, bland, pencil-dicked husband who plays fantasy football and never learned how to properly do laundry.” He shoved her out of the bed.

  She covered her naked body as best she could, the same naked body that she was so willing to reveal and share hours before. “You’re a corpse. There’s nothing inside of you but shit and maggots.”

  “Get out!” He stood on the other side of the bed in all his naked glory, picking up the cigarette on the floor and relighting it.

  Patricia snatched up her clothes and left, bare feet stomping across the floor.

  Giorgio put a hand on his waist, took the cig from his mouth, and scratched at his forehead with his thumbnail. For a half-hearted moment, he looked bothered by her words.

  He shook his head and puffed out a brief laugh. “Knew I should’ve had her keep the gag in.”

  “No.”

  The sewn abomination disguised as a slim fit blazer was hideous, something not even a blind man who had never heard of haute couture would wear.

  He looked at the beaming saleswoman, the name TRISH inscribed on her nametag.

  “Are you joking, my dear?” He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow .

  Her beam was bashed. “Oh—I—Sorry, Mr. Quintero, I thought that you would like this.”

  He jutted out his lower lip and blinked several times. “I would...if I were a brain-dead retard.” He flapped his hand in her face and turned away from her. “Away. Send Justine, she always knows what I like. And see if you have this shirt in a smaller size. I’ve been working on my abs and don’t want to deprive anyone of a view of perfection.”

  “Yes, Giorgi—Mr. Quintero.” She stalked off.

  Giorgio studied his reflection in the mirror, frowning as he eyed the small pinch of fat caressing his lower buttocks, practically stretching the designer pants out of shape. “Delgadar would murder me herself if she saw how I was brutalizing her spring collection.”

  He reached for his calfskin jacket draped over the chair and pulled out the slim little phone. His thumb danced over the screen until he reached the memo option. Extra hour of explosive lunges. Cut back to two small meals a day. He tucked the phone back in his jacket and turned back to the mirror, sighing.

  Thirty minutes later, he left Delgadar’s empty-handed, staring straight ahead as Trish shot a look at his green mesh-clad back. Giorgio looked over his shoulder, profile perfect. “Call me the second the fall line arrives. I abhor it when you put clothes back on display after other people, poor people, have tried them on. They should be burned...and the clothes donated to Goodwill.”

  He sauntered out the door and walked down Fashionado Avenue, ignoring the appreciative glances he received from both men and women. He slid his wraparound designer sunglasses over his yellow-green eyes.

  He was walking across the crosswalk when a man stumbled and stepped on his loafers, leaving a slight smudge behind.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, bud, excuse me.” The shorter man smiled an apology before walking on.

  Giorgio stopped, inspected the offense and called out to him. “I beg your pardon.”

  The man looked over his shoulder, stopped, and turned around. “You okay?”

  “There is dirt on my shoe.”

  The other man narrowed his eyes. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t remove this stain. Sorry doesn’t excuse the fact that you could have broken a toe with those offensive, chicken-chasing leather boots of yours.” He snatched off his glasses and stepped to the middle of the crosswalk, mindless of the cars braked behind the white line, mindless of the flashing red-orange hand.

  “That’s all I got, pretty boy.” The other man held up his hands as he stepped back onto the sidewalk.

  “Apparently—”

  A car honked as the light turned green.

  “EXCUSE ME!” Giorgio’s throat muscles bulged as he unleashed his agitation at the driver. He turned back to the man. “Do you have any idea how much these cost me? How high can you count?”

  “You’re holding up traffic, buddy.”

  “I always hold up traffic. My very presence is distraction enough.” He scoffed and looked the man up and down. “I shouldn’t even bother addressing motes like you.” He took a last look at his loafers, slipped his shades back on, and walked to his gleaming navy blue Lamborghini Huracán parked in front of a fire hydrant. He snatched the parking ticket from the windshield and flung it into the breeze.

  He slid into the car, molded carbon fiber interior welcoming him with luxurious languor, and pulled out his phone as he started the engine, dialing as he darted out into traffic with a split-second glance in the mirror.

  HONK! HONK!

  “Love you, too, asshole! Hello, Jessica, my radiant beauty. How are you?” The wind whipped through his loose brown curls, shafts of sunlight catching the honey-gold highlights. “Yes, yes, I’m up for lunch...Ah, no, can’t go there...Because their wine selection is abysmal, that’s why. What about Impeddo’s?...Fantastic. I’m on West Ivory Avenue, pick you up in twenty minutes. Adore you, too, beauty.”

  He tossed the phone in the passenger seat as the upper east side loomed ahead, sparkling pristine with an alabaster sheen.

  “Excuse me, did you give a signal? No, Miss Chevrolet, I don’t think you did. Get your soccer mom ass back in your lane.” He pressed his foot to the accelerator and the car obediently zipped forward to close the distance between him and the car in front of him.

  “Idiot driving motherf—”

  He felt his heart trip-hammering before stammering in his chest. Felt his heart thump sluggish. Felt his heart stop working. Felt...nothing.

  Now.

  Giorgio watches as the dry leaf breaks off from the plant and flutters down to the yellow-tinged grass. He takes his finger away and looks at his hand, noting that some of the sallow tinge to his skin has blended away to flawless flushed flesh.

  He touches the tip of a finger to another flower and watches as the rich green bleeds away to sickly green, petals drooping and drawing up before falling away.

  “I am become death. Everything I touch turns to dust and memory.”

  He leans back against the tree, not noticing how the bark gradually fades from vibrancy to corroded brown. Leaves crinkle and curl on the branches before falling in a wash of tarnished gold.

  The man who steps into his vision has eyes of green-gold, tight bronze curls that droop over his forehead, and handsome features. A familiar smile wrinkles the sides of his
mouth, punctuating his cheekbones.

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  “Who are you?” Undead Giorgio watches himself.

  His double sits down next to his living corpse. “I’m God.” He rolls his eyes to himself as he rests a forearm across a bent knee.

  “You’re God?”

  God nods slowly.

  “Then why do you look like me?”

  “Fantasy-land. You create this world as you see fit from your memories and information shrapnel embedded in your subconscious. So in a way, you are God. Besides, even if you are dead, I’m sure you still remember what a self-absorbed ass you were...are...whatever.” He picks up a dried leaf and rolls the stem between his fingers.

  “I’m undead.”

  “Yes, and as a shambling corpse, you’re still one narcissistic SOB. Why am I still here? Does anyone miss poor Giorgio? Did anyone ever love me when I was alive? Are all of my designer clothes still in my closet?” The leaf dissolves beneath the clenched fist. “Selfish prick.”

  “So what should I be asking myself?”

  “Why you’re still here.” He pulls a deck of cards from the inside pocket of his silk suit jacket and shuffles them.

  “But you just said—”

  “It’s not what you ask, it’s how you ask it.” He begins a game of solitaire. “Not like you’re the only person shitting your life away.”

  “For God, you’re hardly eloquent.”

  “Eh.” He places a red seven over a black eight. “All of my eloquence went into the Bible.” His next card hovers as he frowns. “Not that I personally wrote the Bible, per se, but that’s a yarn for another delusion.” An ace to the top row. “My children spend their lives inquiring and fretting about the unknown while you should be enjoying the gift I’ve given you.” He takes a card from the deck. “You spent your life worrying about how you looked, how everyone saw you, how hard you could grind the hearts of countless faceless women and more than a couple of men under your expensive and well-polished heels.” He places the overturned card beside the deck and flips over another. “Now you spend your second life, because no matter what you think, that’s what this is, worrying about the bigger questions that most humans do during their time on my earth.” God scoffs. “Can’t do anything right, can you?”