The two of them were copulating in Salome’s bedchamber. The new Herod shuddered and then she began to fight. She tried to twist away from the tight grip Tacitus had on her neck. Her attacker responded to this by pulling out of her. He placed all his weight on her. His hard knees were on her slender feminine arms. There was nowhere for her to go. She flattened out on the bed and he squeezed all the more. Salome managed to slip an arm free. She reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair. Tacitus grunted with the pain, but kept squeezing until she went limp beneath him.
He released her neck and rolled off her. Tacitus stood beside the bed of his Herod. He was naked, breathing hard and dizzy. He caught his breath and the dizziness dissipating with the slowing of his vital signs. He looked down to her, the one he had craved more than his mother’s milk. Salome was still alive, but she moved not.
Tacitus dried off his shit. He dropped the come towel on the throw rug covered cement floor. Giant foot-shaped indentations peeked out from under carpet. There was no one left to explain their origin. Salome had told Tacitus that the Devil did it, but he thought it was bullshit. It was probably just some drug-addled memory from when she was her Uncle Herod’s Plata-addicted play thing. This was before she recruited Tacitus into betraying the psycho vampire. They killed him. They took his teeth and his drug distribution business.
They ran it together, the two of them. Salome wore the crown of Herod and Tacitus was still Second in Command. Just like in the old days with Herod the vampire. But that crazy old fuck was getting dangerously unhinged. He was bent on crucifying and torturing motherfuckers all pell-mell and without regret or restraint. Tacitus had no regrets in helping Salome kill him.
After the assassination things were great for a while. Hell, for a couple of years things were wonderful. But as cold-blooded as Salome was in murdering the old Herod in the coup de tat, she turned out to be a piss-poor administrator of this crucial slice of the Pharisees’ drug empire.
Once the news got out that Immanuel was crucified dead and buried many of the fiends she cured from Plata’s tight clutches jumped right back on the rollercoaster. Those early days were the best. The New Christians seemed to be hamstringed by their distinct lack of a Savior. Plata sales began to skyrocket again.
Tacitus found in the Army-trained Job a perfect assistant and they all began to revel in their rapidly growing power.
And then the New Christians began healing Plata fiends again. Calling upon and using dead Immanuel’s name. Thus making Her a true Savior and martyr. And fuck if it didn’t start reversing the sales trend in a decidedly downward fashion.
After two straight years of climbing sales they began to flatten out. The dealers even got ballsy enough to ask Herod to decrease the monthly quota. The demand for Plata was falling again.
Pedro and Mary Magdalene were leading this new wave of enlightenment. The junkies were responding. Salome, not knowing anything about how to deal with a downturn, gave the street-level guys permission to lower their quotas. Tacitus could not fucking believe that shit.
Tacitus planned on ridding The Harbor of Pedro and Mary, but he had to be extremely careful. He didn’t want to do anything right away. This sudden drop in drug sales would be the catalyst for justifying Tacitus’ self-promotion. Also Pedro and Mary would have to be killed separately and in a way that would be considered accidental. He was thinking about a future in which he was in charge. He would be loathed to turn Pedro and Mary into the same kind of martyr symbol that the crucified Immanuel had become. The motherfuckers already multiplied and were growing stronger. They were like a vast hive of hungry cockroaches. Every one you see means there are dozens more hiding beneath the floorboards.
Tacitus planned and bid his time. He expected the Pharisees to chastise Salome in some way for the steady drop that was threatening to become a full-fledged free fall. Tacitus was half-hoping they would order him to execute Salome. He would finally be promoted to Herod, but it never came. The Pharisees have truly disappeared off the face of the Earth.
Since being with Salome everyday has bred its own brand of contempt and Matthias and the Pharisees were unable to be located, Tacitus had decided to promote himself. He was going to go up even past Salome, past being Herod of The Harbor. He planned to take over the Pharisees spot at the very top of the dung heap. Maybe even make Job Herod of The Harbor. The motherfucker was that smart.
All in good time.
Tacitus stepped over one of the giant foot-shaped indentations in the floor. He sincerely doubted the Devil made those foot prints, but they were strange.
Hell, Tacitus thought the whole bedchamber was fucked up. He never liked the room. He felt an unwanted presence. It lurked in the shadows. It was a tongue that darted and explored. But it was always snapping back to the darkness when Tacitus would turn. He never got a good look.
He didn’t know what brand of creepiness he was feeling. Tacitus didn’t believe in God or the Devil. But something creeped for sure, something made those indentations. Something very big and very heavy did it.
Tacitus turned his attentions back to the bed and his Herod. Salome lay on the bed. She was soiled and unresponsive. Tacitus bent to her. He undid the clasp and removed Salome’s necklace of Herod’s vampire teeth. The fangs prominently displayed. He donned the necklace, but claiming the crown was only his first step. He must have hers as well, so there will be no misunderstanding from the ranks. There’s a new sheriff in town.
Tacitus got back on the bed. With pliers in hand Tacitus went now for the mouth of Salome. He pulled all Salome’s teeth free. He held them bloody in his cupped hand. Tacitus stared at them and smiled. He clenched his fist until he felt them bite him harmlessly. Tacitus shall have them strung also and wear both crowns as a reminder of his power. The empire of The Harbor was now his and he could do as he pleased.
And it would please him to see what the Pharisees have waiting for him to take over in Big City. His hands went fisted up to the ceiling above and he danced about with wicked joy. It was quite a coup.
Salome was still breathing, still alive, but her days as Herod were over. In that way the wicked witch was dead.
Tacitus went to get dressed. He was already thinking about the Pharisees and their palatial digs on the LakeShore in Big City. He hummed with joy.
Ding dong, bitch.
Chapter Six
Our hapless prophet gets his marching orders:
The steaming hot water pelted Jonah’s naked skin. He was sitting on the floor of his own shower, at home in Big City. Of that much he was sure.
Jonah stood gingerly, assessing as he rose. Jonah started with his feet. There were bruises on the tops of his feet and those were nicely matched by a motley bunch that rose all the way up to his deeply bruised ribs. Jonah moved just a touch and the pain sprouted like cancer. He dropped back onto his butt with a water-squash thump.
Jonah hugged his fucked ribs and choked out a bawl. Blood drops flew from his split swollen lips. Jonah’s tongue was mostly numb. A dead-nerved bit hung off the main body like a chunky comma. Despite this his tongue could easily still feel Jonah’s broken front teeth.
Jonah’s dead daddy, Amittai, paid a lot of money so his privileged ass could have perfectly straight and white teeth. They were the choppers of a televangelist and pastor. Jonah was being groomed to work with his very successful papa in the ministry.
If my dad could see me now, Jonah thought. Well, I’m just glad he could not.
Jonah probed his teeth and counted seven of the busted fuckers. Seven of his perfect camera-ready teeth were broken and ragged from that kid’s gun.
Jonah recalled it being shoved into his mouth, past his teeth –through- his teeth. Then the gunshot that should have killed Jonah just the same as the previous two should have, but it didn’t.
Now why was that, Jonah wondered.
Jonah clearly recollected being shot three times. The sounds, the deafening blasts and then he went wonderfully, thankfully blank. Which garners the
obvious question which had just occurred to him, namely, why the fuck was he still alive and how in the holy hell did Jonah manage to make it back home?
Jonah was sitting there in the shower remembering the night. His usual guy was being processed into County and was looking at serious prison. All Plata still flows from The Harbor so Jonah thought he’d go to the source, just this once. Jonah planned on buying enough weight to hold his ass over until he can hook up with some new dealer in Big City. The Plata trade here was somewhat civilized. Unlike The Harbor where it was still the wild fucking west. He had found out first hand.
The shadow of something large came into view. Jonah watched with new fear as it reached for the shower door. A huge hand poked through the shower curtain and turned it off. Jonah gasped and backed his ass up to the tiled wall. A face appeared and peeked in at him. It was the big man with the long chin shit from The Harbor. He’s the one who seemed like he knew Jonah. Then the dude disappeared faster than modesty on Ecstasy.
“My name is Pedro. Get dressed,” the stranger told Jonah. “Meet me in your living room. We have a matter to discuss.” Pedro added, “I told you I’d see you later.”
Jonah sat for a moment puzzled. He did not fear the big stranger. He saw the dealer get killed. He saw the stranger appear and then he disappeared. He saw the pick move on its own accord. The big motherfucker must have killed him. No one else could have.
That means I am still breathing because of this stranger. Jonah felt that he should at least thank Pedro. If he had meant Jonah any harm it would have already been done.
Jonah finished towel-drying and went into his adjacent bedroom. He pulled himself on a pair of oversized faded jeans, a wife-beater and a warm Big City Staleys football sweatshirt. Jonah opened a drawer and grabbed a pair of socks and there she was: Plata.
The dead dealer’s bag of Plata was cleaned of Jonah’s feces and lay smiling right there in front of him. And the drugs were sitting right next to the ten grams worth of cash Jonah took into The Harbor to procure said same. Certainly a few pieces of dog shit had to die for Jonah to get both drug and green, but hey, score.
Fuck them, Jonah thought. His eyes were gleaming now at the money and the Plata. Yes. Fuck them all.
Jonah whistled low and under his breath. He couldn’t think of any reason why he should have to deal with all this shit sober as a judge.
Jonah carefully spilled a sample onto the dresser. He looked closely at it and saw at once why so many niggas were on his shit for this particular bag of dope. Jonah rolled a disposable lighter over the Plata and it crackled hard. That meant that it was barely cut. It was maybe even uncut. He’d never had virgin shit before.
Jonah carved out two smallish lines. He was thinking that the dead dealer’s salable shit was elsewhere. It’s only by blind luck that Jonah happened upon a courier bag and that dead motherfucker should not have had it. He was probably intending on carving a bit and stepping the hell out of it. Selling the cut-up version to keep all for his own self, the sneaky bastard. He just got caught up with the corner more than likely. If that junkie wasn’t so busy crying about his weak sack he would have kept on going to someplace quiet and private to take his piece off the top.
No wonder he was so pissed and quick to pull out his gun. If the street dealer would have been caught by his superiors stealing, his goose would have been for sure cooked.
Fortunately for Jonah, he lived in Big City and only went to The Harbor on a whim. No one there knew his name or where he lived. Except the huge fucker what was waiting for Jonah in his living room. But if that dude was part of any drug crew he would have killed Jonah. No question. He would’ve taken the Plata and the money and damn if they weren’t both here.
Jonah decided it was past time for a personal taste test. He plucked up a length of drinking straw. Jonah blasted up the two lines. Right away he knew his guess was correct and this shit was intended to be stepped on a gaggle of times more before reaching the corner dope shop junkie customers. The Plata was better than any Jonah has ever had. That’s with even paying the premium prices. He closed his eyes, smiling. Jonah realized with a quick heft in his hand he must have either side of an ounce. He had close to 30 grams of essentially pure uncut Plata.
And sweet Jesus was it good. This Plata rush made Jonah grab the dresser for support. It tickle-teased his brain; like the soft tongue of a sweet angel licking the underside of Jonah’s cock.
Aye, Dios mio, he thought.
Jonah glanced up from the dresser and caught his lank dirty haired reflection in the mirror. A couple years growth of unwashed hair and a few weeks worth of scraggly beard fit like puzzle pieces to Jonah’s shrunken cheeks and haunted eyes. He smiled feral and his busted grill completed the picture of a worn out homeless street addict. Jonah is thankful that he is not, despite his slovenly appearance, homeless.
Thanks to his father’s foresight, Ammitai’s few hundred thousand in life insurance, investments and the post-probate like went to Jonah. His father still posthumously sold his books on the forthcoming Rapture and the Tribulation to follow fairly well. The royalties also, all went to him. Which meant that even though Jonah is a junkie, he’s a fairly well off junkie, his one hundred dollar a day Plata habit was covered. The monster was regularly fed. He was killing himself, but he was financially secure. Jonah’s cup is half full.
Jonah’s reflection regarded him like a failing grade on an important exam. He decided to ignore the mirror and its accusations. He left the bedroom to go and greet his benefactor. Jonah brought some of the potent Plata along for the ride.
Pedro stood tall, waiting for Jonah in the living room. The place had been dusty and cluttered since he moved in after everyone had passed. It was just Jonah and the monkey on his back. The two were drifting through the days as high as possible. Jonah was just waiting for his turn to die.
It smelled sour in the East LakeShore 700 square foot co-operative that Jonah had also inherited from his father. A frosty breeze blew in from a window that Pedro had opened to dissipate the stench.
“It’s unhealthy in here,” stated Pedro.
“Maybe,” Jonah replied, “but I’m cold.” He hugged myself and moved over shivering to the window. “I don’t dig being cold.”
“Then move down south to the desert,” suggested Pedro, “but for now,” the big motherfucker said, puffing up, “leave it be.”
Jonah stopped and considered the mass of motherfucker standing before him. He wisely let it go.
“Alright,” Jonah acquiesced, “since you saved my ass back there in The Harbor, I do owe you that.” Jonah went back over to the couch, dropping some more Plata on a well-used ceramic platter. “But I don’t care how fucking scary you are… and indeed you are, but that’s all you’re going to get from me.”
Pedro chuckled at the balls on Jonah the little junkie-fuck. Pedro wondered where he got the stones from and if he could back up his mouth. Pedro could not figure out what the Christ saw in Jonah. He said: “I saved your life and carried you home.” He regarded Jonah chopping up some dope. “I even brought back your tits and washed them off,” indicating the Plata Jonah sliced into thin lines. He snorted up one. “Just so you’d have a something pretty to suck on.”
Jonah lifted his head from the Plata, pinching back a sneeze. He was feeling good and stupid brave now.
“Thank you very fucking much,” Jonah replied sarcastically and added: “Now if you can only fix my grill.”
“Sure thing,” Pedro said as easy as pie. And the pain, sure and fierce, crowded Jonah’s mouth like an expanding fist.
Jonah cried out. He got up and bounced the walls of the hallway back to the bathroom. The pain of an all at once teething parted the veil of Plata and made itself screamingly known.
Jonah removed his hands from his mouth. At first he expected to see a vomit of blood and dentistry because it hurt so much. Instead Jonah discovered that he now had a mouthful of his original teeth. In the mirror the teeth glared back at him. T
hey were un-straightened and unbleached.
Jonah stretched wide his lips and opened wide his mouth. There were no fillings or crowns to be seen. Nothing manufactured was in his mouth. The teeth were solid and strong. They were off-white and fairly crooked. They were the teeth Jonah was given when born.
Jonah finished rinsing out his mouth. The pain began to subside. He turned off the bathroom light and left. Jonah went back to Pedro to ask him about it. This was some crazy shit.
Jonah went back to the living room and resumed his spot on the couch. He asked the man.
“God always leaves you with a way to recall his Grace,” Pedro told him. “See?” He showed Jonah the lumpy purple jugular scars on both sides caused by years of hardcore Plata shooting in his neck. This was way back, years ago, before Immanuel had rescued him. Before he became Her favorite disciple, leader of the Apostles and the Rock on which Immanuel’s church was built. He pointed to the old scars of his long-dead life and said: “These here scars are mine.” He pointed to Jonah and his new, old teeth, “and those are yours.”
Jonah sat back on the couch and thought.
“Go ahead,” Pedro encouraged, “ask me your big question”
“Okay,” Jonah replied, sitting forward. “Why am I not dead?”
Pedro looked to Jonah with no smile.
“I was shot to death,” he said, “Three fucking times, buddy. I am supposed to be dead. I know this. I mean I’m obviously,” Jonah continued, gesturing to himself and then the Plata sitting before him, “all fucked up, but I’m not that far gone.”
“You were shot, but you aren’t dead because you have yet to serve your purpose, Jonah,” explained Pedro, “She will not let you die. Not until you have played your small part in Her Father’s grand scheme.”
Jonah stared at Pedro, trying to digest it. He nodded a little I see, but clearly he didn’t. Not at the time.
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