Saint And Sinners: The King Angel Child of New York

by Tiana Laveen

  *

  The room was somewhat rectangular in shape, obscure with strange twists and turns that led into nothingness. Black shiny and matte heliotrope tinted walls were spray painted with vibrant graffiti, here and there, the artistry extreme, dripping from the unknown hand of a talented touch. Five pool tables were lined up, all of them showing proof of active games in session. They looked brand new, practically sparkled, but there was no question that this was a common pastime for the people dwelling under the black and white marble floor. A crease of light could be seen in the far distance, letting Saint know there in fact was an exit and entrance on that level after all. He stored that data in his mind, and went on with his observations.

  A large, bubbling red lava lamp sat to his right. He almost ran into it, crashing it to spiky fragments, as he tried to gain his bearings through the distraction caused by his irregular heartbeat now thumping out of control and the sights before him. The room was filled with them—at least one hundred glowing eyes, belonging to a minimum of fifty Angel children, perfuming the stagnant air so pungently with their spastic energy, he thought he may pass out. Lightheaded, he leaned cautiously against a black lighted wall. The odor of stale beer, recently snuffed cigars, premium weed and burning cigarettes now intermingled, creating a concoction he was accustomed to and in some ways, one that never left his consciousness.

  “Man, you aiight?” the deep, rumbling voice rang out again. This time, Saint steered his attention towards a large man with blood red eyes holding tight to a pool table stick.

  Is he going to throw that, too?

  The man donned a thick, gray bomber coat, the hood covered in ivory fur. Jowls hung from his chubby face and a small pair of lips disappeared into the beige flesh, leaving behind only two thin lines through which to communicate. Saint could tell he was the type of mothafucka that always looked mad, even if he were happy as a damn lark. He stood there in his dark baggy jeans and worn, brown Timberlands, his New York black and white Yankees ball cap placed on his head just right. He snarled in Saint’s direction, waiting for a response.

  “Yeah…I’m cool.” Saint ran his hand down the front of his coat and sucked in the cool air, trying to fill his lungs with some oxygen so he could catch his damn breath.

  “We didn’t know when your ass was comin’, but we knew you were on your way. At least that’s what we wanted to believe,” the man said, his eyes searching Saint, as if he should’ve known better. “The fucked up part, my man, is that there were so many close calls. You been teasin’ the hell outta us.” The big guy laughed, but sadness loomed in his tone. “Like a surprise birthday party that never got off the ground, you kept fucking with our minds.” He pointed upward from where they’d all had come. “We could smell you a million miles away.” The man never moved his dreamy gaze from the ceiling. Perhaps he was remembering something real special, something near and dear to his big, beating heart. “Everybody would be like, ‘shhhh…’ He turned his attention back to Saint and placed a finger over his lips, as if to say, ‘hush.’ “We’d be like, here he comes! But you never came inside…you just would be out there, walkin’ around. It was frustrating as fuck. We weren’t allowed to interfere, but uh, my boy Free ova here,”—He shot a glance at a small, skinny dark-skinned man with a droopy eye, who loitered in a deep, dark corner. His eyes blazed a fabulous shade of orange, the kind that didn’t seem to really exist in nature, or anywhere for that matter.—“…he tried to usher you in. He moved the fucking clouds, giving you an invitation of sorts. He gotta pay for that, you know.” The big guy looked him up and down, as if Saint should be ashamed of himself for putting the sleepy-eyed man in such a precarious position. “We were getting impatient though…”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Saint shoved his hands in his pocket and brought out a cigar. Before he could light it, a small flame shot from a palm as Lawrence stood by his side. He glared at the man for a moment or two.

  “Thanks…”

  Lawrence nodded, but kept his protective post. Saint took a puff of the thing and leaned casually over a nearby chair. Everyone remained quiet. This grated Saint’s nerves to no end.

  “Well?! I asked a question. You had so much to say a second ago. You want to tell me the fuck is going on?” He couldn’t help but feel angry, all wound up inside. He felt at a disadvantage and for the life of him, couldn’t understand what the hell was happening. Whatever it was, it explained at least part of the reason why New York pulled his collar and made his ass come back home.

  The big guy clicked his tongue against his teeth, appearing rather disgusted. “You really don’t know?” He shook his head and mumbled, “I can’t believe this shit. Goddamn!” He turned away and threw his hands up in frustration, as if he’d had all that he could take, all he could endure for one night.

  “You were chosen, man!” He turned back towards him in anger. “We do whatever the fuck you tell us to do. If you tell us to play in traffic, that’s what the fuck we do!” the man yelled.

  “What’s your name so I can figure out who the fuck I’m dealing with right now?” Saint puffed on his cigar, drawing weary as this whole thing played out.

  “My name is Armondo Martinez. This is my squad. We are much bigger than this, but these are just the folks chillin’ here tonight.” He popped his coat collar, causing the fur to fall slightly forward. “We are you, and you are us…and shit is out of control. Been so for years. We can’t keep going on at this rate. We’re losing. The balance is all fucked up!” He tossed the pool stick across the room; it broke into three pieces, splintering, as if in slow motion, joining the cue ball he’d lobbed earlier.

  Angry big ass mothafucka…

  “Armondo.” A curvy woman with pale, snow white skin, a tight coral mini-dress and long, lustrous black hair came forward, her body moving through the crowd as if she were a snake being charmed. “Stop being rude, Papi! Offer the man a drink and a seat.”

  “Yeah…yeah.” Armondo grinned. He grabbed a better chair and pointed to it for Saint to sit down. Saint stood there for a spell, then made his way over to it. Instead of sitting in the damn thing, though, he placed his foot on the shit, leaned forward, and blew out copious circles of cigar smoke, his head cocked slightly to the side.

  The woman was soon upon him. Parting full, glossy red lips, she blew on an unopened bottle of beer. The damn thing chilled up in a millisecond. She handed it to him, winked and walked away…

  Saint took a swig of it and glared back at Armondo.

  “Look, enough of the riddles ’nd shit, man. It’s not my fault I don’t understand you.” He touched his chest, offering his best version of sincerity. “I go where my soul leads me. I’m here now, so stop all this bullshit and tell me what you all need.”

  “We need you, man!” a voice called out from the crowd.

  “Be quiet, Palmer.” Armondo smirked and raised his hand in the air, beckoning for complete silence. “Saint, as you already know, we are Angel Children. We’ve been crawling around here, since forever. You were born to do this: to rule. Even your genetic make-up was key. Get me a beer, Little Bit.” He snapped his fat fingers at the Puerto Rican woman with the porcelain skin and pink dress, the same luscious number who could blow a breeze like no other. She disappeared and returned with his request. He gripped the neck like a vice and continued. “You’re half Egyptian.”

  “Really?” Saint rolled his eyes. “What would I do without your keen insight?” Saint snapped.

  “Listen up, I’m tryna tell you what you asked me, okay? Egypt is the birthplace of our people. Some shit went down, some shit we know you are personally responsible for.”

  “…And what’s that?” Saint took a sip of his drink, then a puff on his cigar before setting the bottle down on the floor beside the leg of the chair.

  “You killed Nizsm…you set all of us free.” He raised his hands in the air, as if cheering. “That, in turn though, set up some bad shit here. We didn’t know that, hell, no one di
d, but it caused a chain of events. Some people knew what was to come next.”

  “Come next? Such as?” He took another toke on his cigar.

  “The balance disruption. Whenever you free something, you remove it from its confines,” the man explained rather articulately, contradicting his previous angry vernacular wrapped tightly in New Yorker street dialect. “But, that spot still longs for something to sit there…that energy, it still wants to hold something captive, you know? Egypt is from whence we came, but it ain’t the only place that is a portal to our people. There are a lot of places all over the world but New York is yours. So at this moment, man, welcome tha fuck home…but get ready, because now that you’re here, it’s body rock time, son.”

  Saint ran a hand against his cheek, feeling the prickliness of his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in two days, and became suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance. The move, everything, had taken its toll on him. He was now cast into an underworld that left him both perplexed and warm-hearted. Being amongst his people, this man telling him things, inexplicable things he understood but still couldn’t quite wrap his brain completely around.

  “…I think I better call Krishna,” Lawrence whispered as he dug in his pocket and removed his cell phone, bringing Saint back into the here and now.

  His gut grew heavy as it filled with anxiety, unanswered questions, and a fair amount of annoyance. Had a damn bird flown above him as he lay in wait in his comfy nest, promising nourishment to his starving soul only to spit out cement and force him to swallow the shit? Saint glared at his friend until Lawrence stood clear across the room, punching numbers into his cell phone. He turned back towards Armondo and flicked ashes onto the floor.

  “Continue…”

  “Well, this is a battle. You see, some real fucked up shit is going on in the city. There are us, and then…there are them…”

  “Who is them?” Jagger asked, now shoulder-to-shoulder with Saint. The man’s breathing sounded uneven, as if he was ready to fucking tear some flesh from the goddamn bone. Jagger was always on the defensive and wouldn’t hesitate to attempt to murder every single mothafucka in that room, if need be. It seemed he’d been aroused, wound up, invited to play at a party he no longer enjoyed attending. The good times had expired, spoiled like warm milk in the blazing desert sun.

  “God made the angels. And Lucifer was his most prized. Well, Lucifer has Angel children too, Saint…”

  A chill ran down Saint’s spine as Armondo made his declarations.

  “They are way worse than a wayward Angel Child, or one of our own that has lost his or her way. They are allowed to stay and play because of man’s free will. There is to be equilibrium.” The man held his hands out like scales. “When that balance is disrupted, it causes concerns, gets us attention we don’t fuckin’ want. We couldn’t ask your ass to come here; it’s against the rules. No one can summon a King Angel Child! You have to come on your own.”

  King Angel Chilld? Is he talking about me? He must be…

  “So…we waited. So damn glad you are in tune with yourself, man.” He took another sip of his beer, and then another. “It took you a minute, but you figured it out. We can’t manage this anymore. They’re doing shit, ill shit, son, and they now outnumber us. Back in our day, when we were kids, all the little Angel Children wanted to be like us, you know?” He smirked, yet his tone held murky desolation. “People wanted to be a ‘good guy’, but now, the world is leaning on the dark side. Everybody wants to do for self, be bad, show how damn tough they are. All anyone cares about is what money they can get, how many bitches they can fuck, all that shit that doesn’t even matter. I’ll be the first to admit this man.”

  Armondo gulped and looked down at the ground, as if he’d momentarily lost his train of thought. “It was hard for me to admit I couldn’t handle this shit on my own anymore. I run this shit, but…it’s over my damn head now, man! Over my head. I’m not a King Angel Child, never was, and never thought I was, either. I was just doing the best I could until you got here, man! It’s you! I have to bow down, I humble myself before you!”

  Suddenly, the brown tinted beer bottle, slick with coolness in the man’s hand, shattered to the ground as he fell to his shaking knees. Saint’s eyes grew wide as he witnessed everyone in that damn room following suit, tumbling on the floor like loose fabric falling from the sky and landing in a heap of mesmerizing colors. He was surrounded by a slew of unbelievable Angel Children, their powers from low to moderate levels, on their damn knees for him, as if praying to Mecca.

  Armondo kept his head down, his body shaking under his threads.

  Just then, Lawrence approached, shoved his phone into his pocket with his chin held high. Saint witnessed the man’s eyes turn from sooty black to jade green as he fixed his tongue to deliver some news. His heart pounding in his damn chest, he waited to hear the message.

  “What did Krishna say?”

  “I didn’t get him directly, but I did speak to his assistant. Saint, this is major. You are in the middle of gang warfare. Armondo is right.” Jagger, Saint, Raphael and Lawrence all cast their sights to Armondo’s bowed head then looked at one another. “They’ve got a leader, too. He’s a damn humanoid demon, Saint. Before you ask,” Lawrence raised his hand, “I’ll explain what that is. He is human, like you and me, flesh and blood, but he was created by demons.”

  “He’s possessed.”

  Lawrence nodded. “Yes, but he was born into possession, Saint, which means he cannot be exorcised. The same as us—we will always be Angel Children, no matter what we do. All the ones like him are possessed with a demonic spirit from the time of birth. Just as you and the rest of us.” He glanced around the room. “We are one and the same, but so different. Some of them refer to themselves as Demon Children, even. D.C.s”

  “Tell me more.” Saint wanted every damn detail, even the ones that may have seemed unimportant. He was ready to go to class, despite the fact that it was a crash course; he’d flunked two prior tests and was running habitually tardy. He prided himself on being a quick learner, so he took mental notes like a scholarly motherfucker.

  “We were kissed in our mother’s wombs from the Angel of Mercy and the Angel of Death. The same was done with them, only it was the Arch Demon of Destruction and Henchman of Despair. Like us, they tend to stay low-key. Saint…” Lawrence sighed as he stared down at the floor for a spell. “When you killed Nizsm, panic ensued. They always felt fairly comfortable because the head master in charge, your cousin, was a wayward Angel Child. He made their job easier. He never enforced the rules of balance. Once you wiped him out, Egypt was released from that affliction, but not New York, nor any other place where an Angel Child hub is set up. As Armondo explained, New York is a portal. There is a huge pocket of them here. It is one of the reasons why this city attracts so many damn people from all over the globe. If you think about it, no other place on this planet attracts people from all walks of life like New York. Do you know why? Because it has the heartbeat of God and the soulless temptations of Lucifer beating under the very Earth.

  “People from all over the world flocked here, and still do. It is the land of immigrants, the place that gives birth to you by throwing you out of a womb made of shattered glass, then holds you close and nurses your wounds, the same ones it inflicted upon you. I have no idea why I was surprised that you’d want to come back, and I apologize for initially not understanding what you were saying, and what this was all about when you first told me. It’s in your blood, and it was tired of you being away so long. But more importantly, you are on a vital mission. Saint, the Demon Children are tearing everything apart. Their influence has become stronger than ours. As Armondo explained, the balance is royally screwed up.”

  Saint rose to his feet and kicked the chair beside him so hard, it flew across the damn place and disappeared into a cloud of darkness. He had no idea where it landed and he didn’t care. His skull pounded as the stench of spilled blood filled his nostrils with the spirit of th
ings to come. He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, and turned his attention towards Jagger and Raphael. They simply stood there, waiting, wondering no doubt, warring within themselves, just as he was. There was no easy way out of this. When those wrought with evil became afraid, they turned extremely dangerous. The soulless cannot be reasoned with. There is no discussion that will set them free from their afflictions. They were no doubt diseased from the inside out, and worst of all, they liked it like that.

  “So.” Saint took a quiet puff of his cigar, regaining his focus after his violent explosion. “They know I’m here, I take it.”

  “Yes,” Lawrence answered, standing a bit taller.

  “I am here. I’ve been drawn back here, to help even out the balance. Okay. Got it.”

  “Yes, Saint. There can be no evil without good. They define one another once sin entered the world.”

  Saint sneered and turned his back, facing a wall that had nothing but blackness. It was the kind of blackness he wanted to step into, become absorbed in. The kind that called to him, the kind he wanted to wrap himself up against and disappear into for a moment or two. He tapped his chin with his fingertips, grinned and turned back to the crowd.

  “So… I disturbed the good and evil applecart, and they ran amuck in the city, around the world, really, trying to destroy balance because, well, that’s what they do. I scored a million points for the Angel Children, so they scrambled to keep things even. Only, they are now winning, have a stronghold.”

  “Yes. Their job is to present man with choice.”

  “Choice…” Saint cackled as he looked listlessly at his watch, noting the time had stopped. Time doesn’t fucking stop on a Rolex—but it apparently had once he’d entered the hideout. “I’m not a Christian. Why would I be chosen for this?”

  “I don’t know Saint, but I think you may be taking this too literally. Almost all religions and spiritual belief systems present a scale of good and evil. Christianity may have nothing to do with it. It could simply be a matter of right and wrong, the golden rule. You’ve said it yourself; you believe most religions possess beauty and truth.”