Pieces of Hate

by Ray Garton

“Okay, I’m callin’ the desk.” Craven turned to the nightstand and reached for the phone. But it wasn’t there. He looked across the bed at the nightstand on the other side. No phone there, either. He looked around the room, but could not find a telephone.

  The man said, “You threw it out of the bathroom window last night because it kept ringing while you were trying to have sex.”

  Craven thought about that a moment, his back to the stranger. The man was right. He spun around and asked, “How the hell did you know?”

  “I believe the telephone bounced off the top of a passing bus, then shattered on the sidewalk. An old homeless woman picked it up and put it in her shopping basket with the rest of her, um . . . possessions.” The man joined his hands together in front of him.

  Craven took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he rubbed the side of his throbbing head. “Okay, look . . . I had a rough night, so just get the fuck outta here and I won’t tell anybody.”

  “Every night is a rough night for you, Mr. Craven,” the man said with a smirk. “But last night was rougher than usual.”

  “It’s Craven. Not Mr. Craven, just Craven. You live in a fuckin’ cave or somethin’? Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Yes. You are Sidney Edward Quelch. But if you prefer simply Craven, I am happy to oblige.”

  Craven froze and gawked.

  No one knew his real name. Not even the press had dug that up. To everyone, he was just Craven, and that’s how he wanted to remain. If any of the band’s screaming teenage fans got word of the fact that the lead singer and guitarist of Mephisto — one of the hottest heavy metal bands in the country for the last several years — was really Sidney Edward Quelch . . . the thought made him feel queasy. He stepped over to the man, looked angrily into his eyes and asked, “What did you say?”

  The man smiled. “You heard me.” His face was smooth and young-looking in spite of the silver hair combed straight back and the small eyes that seemed deep with age.

  Craven’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “How did you know that? My name, I mean?”

  “Oh, I know everything about you. In fact, at this moment, I know more about you than you seem to.”

  Craven stared angrily at the smiling face, then spun around and headed for the door. “Okay, if I can’t call the desk, I’ll go down there and get somebody to kick your ass out!” Before he got to the door, the man spoke again:

  “You can’t get anyone, Sidney. You are dead.”

  Craven stopped, turned to the man and asked, “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” Then he added loudly, “And don’t call me Sydney, dammit!”

  “Excuse me, Craven,” the man said with an apologetic nod, “but you’ve always been listed as Sidney in my files. I hope you understand.”

  “Files? What files? Who the fuck are you?”

  “Well, now, that depends on your childhood training.” The man crossed one arm over his chest, rested the other elbow on it and stroked his chin with a thumb and forefinger. “Let’s see, your late father was the minister of a small town Protestant church . . . your mother was the organist . . . so, I suppose you would know me as Satan.”

  Craven stared at him for a long moment.

  The man continued. “Some call me Beelzebub, some Mephistopheles . . . or Lucifer, Belial, Leviathan, or just plain old Devil. In fact — ” He frowned and scratched his cheek thoughtfully with the tip of one, slender, long-nailed finger. “ — last month, one fellow called me the Head of Production of Disney Studios.” He thought about that a moment, then smiled wryly. “Oh, well. Insults don’t count. In any case, you would most likely be familiar with me by the name of Satan.”

  A smile grew slowly on Craven’s long, pale face. “Oh, boy. Holy shit. What city’re we in, anyway? Is there a mental hospital nearby, or somethin’?” He rubbed a hand down over his face as he backed away, chuckling. “Son of a bitch, where the hell did Angelica go, anyways?” He headed for the bathroom, fists clenched at his sides with aggravation.

  “Angelica left as soon as she realized you had overdosed on pills and alcohol. That was around four-thirty this morning.”

  Craven spun around and glared at the man. “Look, if you get off on this shit, fine. But go do it to somebody else, okay?”

  “I don’t necessarily get off on it. It is simply my job.” He joined his hands behind his back. “True, I enjoyed it very much at first. Loved it. But even the most exciting job becomes insipid once predictability sets in. And my job is fraught with predictability. Especially when it comes to you folks. Rock stars. All the same. Every last one of you. In fact, during these past two decades or so, you’ve all become virtual automatons. Not only are you no longer any fun, you are positively tedious. A burden! No challenge, no work involved at all. Give me a meek, sweaty scoutmaster to work on any day of the week. Or, say, some horny, slightly dysfunctional soul caring for a group of mentally challenged young people. Now that’s fun. But you people! You have no moral struggle, no spiritual conflict. It’s almost as if — ” He waved a hand in the air vaguely, searching for the right word. “ — as if you were bred to do what you do. And, frankly, I think what you do is atrocious. On top of that, I take it as a personal affront to myself and my work.”

  Craven’s anger faded from his face and was replaced by a look of confusion as he stared at the natty stranger rambling on several feet away from him. His headache was getting worse and his muscles ached from his shoulders down to his calves; for the moment, his first priority was to get a stiff drink or a few pills . . . but lurking in the back of his mind was the growing fear that this man could possibly be one of those dangerous lunatics who stalk celebrities. He decided to forget about relief from his aches for the moment and make his way back to the bed, where he had a .45 in the nightstand drawer.

  Speaking quietly, wearily, Craven asked, “What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

  The man rolled his eyes as he lifted his arms in a loose, flapping gesture, then let them slap back to his sides. “You see? You are all the same! It’s not enough for you to suck the very life out of my work! No, no. When it comes time for you to go, you waste my time by staring at me with those heavy-lidded, drug-dulled eyes, asking stupid questions like that! And that is why I loathe each and every one of you. And — ” He lowered his head and gave a look of hateful disgust.” — I loathe your dreadful, guitar smashing, interchangeable music . . . although I use the word music very loosely.”

  Craven took a couple slow steps forward, smiling. “Hey, dude, c’mon. You don’t like rock and roll? What’s your problem, huh?”

  The man shook his head slowly, eyes closed. “It took you until now to figure that out? That’s another thing — you’re all stupid. And do not address me as dude. It’s Satan. If you call me dude one more time, it’ll be Mister Satan from then on. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on a tight schedule.” He removed a small black book from an inside jacket pocket and paged through it. “Around lunchtime, I’m due to tell a disturbed teenage boy to rape, kill and eat his mother and little sister.” He closed the book and slipped it back into the pocket. “So let’s be going, shall we? I would like to have you processed, filed and settled by Judgment Day, if that’s all right with you.”

  With a few more small steps, Craven shrugged and said, “Well, look, man, I’m real sorry, y’know? But I’ve gotta meet some people today. I’ve got things to do. I wanna go back home . . . or to the next gig, whichever it is. I’m not really sure. But why, uh . . . why don’t you just take off now and see if you can find someone else to go with you, huh, bud?”

  The man set his jaw and a dark shadow seemed to fall over his face, especially his small eyes. Sunlight sparkled off his dazzling silver hair as he moved forward suddenly, rapidly, a low growl coming up from deep in his chest. He stopped two inches from Craven, his face pushed a little closer, and snarled through clenched teeth, “Listen to me, little person, I am not dude, I am not man, I am not bud . . . I am Satan! Do you understand me?”


  He stopped, frozen there as Craven swallowed hard, trying to hide his sudden fear.

  “I think you do understand, Sidney.” He took a step back and locked his hands behind his back again, his calm restored. “Now, you have no people to meet. You have no more gigs. You are dead. So, why don’t we leave before the room starts to smell, eh?”

  Craven stared at the man, heart pounding rapidly, sweat gathering on his forehead. Without turning his head, he moved his eyes to his right and looked over at the nightstand about six feet away. He considered diving for it and getting the gun — he obviously needed it because there was something very wrong with this intruder — but if this stranger was armed, he would be able to draw his gun before Craven got the drawer open. Instead, he looked at the man again and asked, “So . . . where you takin’ me?”

  The man bowed his head a moment and released a long, irritated sigh. “I often say to myself with some hope, They can’t all be that stupid.’ But you rock stars keep proving me wrong again and again. You are going to Hell, Sidney.”

  “Hey, look, man, I don’t know how you found out about my name, but stop calling me that, okay?”

  “Not unless you stop addressing me with those ridiculous terms of endearment that males like you use with other males. So, Sidney, do we have a deal? Are you going to call me Satan? After all, we’re going to be together for a very, very long time. We might as well learn to get along.”

  Craven felt sweat dribbling down his spine beneath his robe. His vision began to blur with each throb of his headache. Where were the others in the band? Why hadn’t Marcus burst in on him to wake him for breakfast like he usually did? It always annoyed the hell out of Craven . . . but he would have welcomed it now.

  “I asked you a question,” the man said sternly, his face getting dark again. “Are you going to call me Satan . . . or not?”

  Craven thought about that a moment. True, his fear was growing . . . but so was his anger. He’d had trouble with loonies before, and he’d found that they almost always backed down if he stood up to them. There was something different about this guy — something a little more threatening than the usual nutcase — but Craven was willing to bet he’d back off if dealt with properly.

  “No, I’m not gonna call you Satan. Because it’s stupid.”

  The man’s eyes widened and his brows lifted slowly. His lips parted and he seemed about to speak, so Craven continued.

  “Now, look,” he said calmly, but with a touch of firmness in his voice, “I don’t know who you are or how the hell you got in here, but I want you out, okay? And I’m willing to give you whatever you want, too, okay? You want some money, I’ll give you some money. I’ve got a whole cabinet of liquor, just about any drug you could want . . . I just want you to knock this shit off and get outta here.”

  The man stared at him with deadly, cold eyes as his lips pressed together harder and harder, turning a creamy color.

  “So, what’ll it be? What do you want? ’cause I just want you to get the fuck out so I can get on with my day, see?”

  The man began to pace — a few steps this way, a few steps that way — never taking his eyes off Craven, whose head turned back and forth, watching him.

  “You miserable little shit,” the man growled quietly. “All these years of insulting me — I mean directly and personally insulting me — with that crrrrap you call music, that crrrrap that makes you countless millions and gets you enough women and booze and drugs — and, of course, the occasional young boy — for a dozen men! And now, you can’t even show me a sliver of respect. Oh, I am sick of your kind. When you die, it always takes such a tremendous effort to get you to go where you’re going! Do you know that Janis Joplin tried to kick me in the balls? And that pretentious drunkard Jim Morrison actually had the nerve to — ”

  “Look, Mister, I’m not insulting you with my music. I don’t even know you. If you don’t like it, just don’t listen to it, okay?”

  “If you don’t know me, then why do you — like so many others in your business — target me? Why all the pentagrams and upside down crosses on your album covers? Why all the songs with lyrics about me, about giving your soul to me and worshipping me?”

  “Oh, we’re back to the Satan stuff again, huh?” Craven asked with a little roll of the eyes. “Okay, if you insist you’re Satan, I’ll go along with it. Look, that stuff sells, you know? The parents hate it, so the kids love it. It’s rebellious, see, and kids are rebellious. It’s just marketing, that’s all. Trust me, we don’t actually worship Satan or make sacrifices to him or anything. I mean . . . to you,” he added with a quiet chuckle.

  “Dammit, I know that! Don’t you think I’d know if you worshipped me? And if you would perform the occasional sacrifice, you would be a hell of a lot more interesting to deal with!” He rushed over to Craven and got in his face again. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you would just get it right . . . but you don’t. And on top of all that. I hate rock and roll . . . but because of you, everyone here thinks it’s my music. Music that I inspire, that I approve of and that I use to collect souls. If I used morons like you to collect souls, Hell would be empty. What does that garbage of yours have to do with me? Why don’t one of you, just once, try something different and put together a group called . . . oh, I don’t know, how about Jesus and the Apostles? Why doesn’t someone go out on stage one time dressed up like the pope? But no, you’re all the same. You all pick on me and I get blamed for that indecipherable trash that makes you so famous . . . and me so hated. But,” he sighed, “I am just wasting time with all this chatter, Sidney. So . . .” He pulled his lips back over his teeth. Each tooth had been filed to razor-sharp points.

  Boy, Craven thought, for somebody who doesn’t like rock and roll, this guy puts Alice to shame.

  “. . . shall we be on our way?”

  The man bent his head forward, evil teeth bared and glistening with saliva, and a narrow strip of wet black tissue slid out of his mouth, forked at the end, and moved slowly back and forth over the teeth.

  Craven jerked back and blurted, “Holy shit!”

  The man chuckled. “People like you always have to have a little proof.” Then, his grey, deep-set eyes began to glow a shimmering red.

  Without even thinking about it, Craven threw himself at the man holding out an elbow. He butted him backward and the stranger flopped to the floor.

  Craven dove frantically for the small wooden nightstand, arms outstretched for the drawer.

  He watched as his hands passed through the wood as if it were water. He felt nothing. His hands seemed numb. With gaping eyes, he lost his balance and fell forward with a clumsy stumble. He tried to press his hand against the wall, but it only passed through, as if it were less than a shadow. He stood up straight, turned around and looked down.

  He was standing in the middle of the nightstand, his legs invisible beneath it . . . almost as if he were wearing it. And still he felt nothing.

  Craven lifted his head and saw the man on his feet, arms folded across his chest, grinning around his sharp teeth. Craven said tremulously, “Stay the fuck away from me, y’hear me? Huh?”

  The man laughed. “You always need some kind of proof before you start paying attention. Yes, you are all the same. You use me, but you haven’t a single good word for me when I come to get you. A bunch of little spoiled, ill-mannered snots, all of you. Normally, I admire that in a person, but in people like you, Sidney . . . well, it’s just incredibly annoying. But, that’s neither here nor there, I suppose. Right now, it is time for us to go, Sidney. So — ” He held his right hand out and began to move slowly toward Craven. “ — why don’t you take my hand?”

  As impossible as it seemed, Craven’s eyes opened even wider and his mouth began flapping open and closed, open and closed, with nothing coming out, until: “No, no, no! I’m not gonna take your fuckin’ hand!” His head was shaking back and forth in big, spastic jerks. “Why don’t you, umm, just . . . j-juh just forget about all thi
s and go without me, huh?”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? Sure I can, I’ll just stay and we’ll both pretend this never happened, huh? I mean, I’ve got my work a-and . . . and you’ve got your work, right? Know what I’m saying?”

  “As I said, Sidney, you can’t stay here.” His eyes moved to the bed and he nodded slightly.

  Craven’s brow furrowed above his wide eyes and he turned, very slowly, toward the bed.

  First, he saw the shape under the blankets . . . the feet sticking upward . . . the splayed arms on each side of the torso . . . and then the worst, the very, very worst . . .

  . . . he saw his own head on the pillow, his bushy hair spread over the pillowcase, his eyes closed, his mouth open . . . and there was no movement . . . no stirring, no breathing . . . nothing. Nothing at all.

  Craven made a small, pathetic sound in his throat and turned back to the man who was coming nearer. He held up a hand and said, “No, no. Stop! Please don’t come any closer, please, I’m, uh . . . I just . . .” He felt dizzy and sick all of a sudden and found it difficult to speak. So he just stopped and stared, arm still outstretched, his palm open at the end.

  “You know, Sidney . . . if you don’t want to come, I have some rather persuasive methods of taking you. I have been doing this for a very long time . . . and I have honed my abilities to a very sharp edge.”

  Craven was surprised by the tears that suddenly began to spill from his eyes. He stopped them immediately and took a deep breath, let it out slowly and even mustered a smile.

  “Well, y’know.” Craven said, “I like to think I have an open mind. So maybe, um . . . maybe this isn’t so bad after all. A new experience, y’know.”

  “That’s a good boy,” the man said as he stopped in front of Craven.

  “I mean, y’know, maybe I can put a band together when I get there. Hey, you got Joplin and Morrison and who knows who else, right? We can really jam, huh? Yeah, this might not be so bad after all.”

  The man’s smile disappeared in a heartbeat. “Oh, no. No-no-no-no. No, there are no rock bands where you are going. I thought I told you. I despise rock and roll. Now, take my hand.”