Samson stared her up and down, thinking she had a far greater chance of becoming a porn star than the model she imagined herself to be. Her face lit up when she saw him.
“Samson! I heard you were spotted at Club 7 the other night partying with Jacque Willet? I hope you aren’t going to break all of our hearts and tell us you decided to play for the other team?”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear, reaching inside her fur jacket and hefting one of her saline-filled mammaries, rubbing the nipple with his thumb as he spoke.
“Why don’t you meet me up in VIP as soon as you get a break and I’ll let you decide for yourself what team I’m on. Pick out a few other lovelies to join you. I’m celebrating a new contract tonight.”
Samson checked his pockets. In his shirt pocket he had a prescription bottle labeled Acetaminophen. Eight hundred milligrams written out to Jacque Willet. Samson knew there was anything but Tylenol in that bottle. It contained at least twenty hits of Ecstasy.
He opened the bottle, and pulled out one of the pills that he popped it into her mouth. She sucked his fingertips lasciviously before she swallowed the pill.
“Tell them the party favors are on me tonight.” Samson kissed the little porn star, tasting the bitter chalkiness of the Ecstasy. Then he unhooked the velvet rope that separated them and walked past her into the club.
The flashing lights, the artificial smoke, the club goers in lace, leather, and latex, gave the club a haunted house ambiance that Samson found rather silly most nights, but tonight it felt almost inviting, as if everyone in the club sensed the bloodbath that was about to ensue and welcomed it. Grateful to be released from their pathetic pseudo-death, their garish mockery of the undead. Grateful for a chance to experience the real thing.
Samson checked his other pockets as he dove into the sea of humanity, sweating and gyrating around him, their flesh pulsating and undulating with the techno drum beat. In his pants pocket he found what remained of Jacque’s stash of cocaine. It might be hard for Samson to find enough people willing to sell their souls for sex, but in a club like Requiem, he was willing to bet they would line up to sign the contract in exchange for a few lines of coke and some Ecstasy. Killing them all afterward would be the most difficult, but also, certainly, the most enjoyable.
Samson approached another bouncer. He was dressed identically to the ones outside, right down to the hormone enhanced physique, except that he was white and had blonde dreadlocks down to his ass.
“Hey Samson, what’s crackalackin’, Bro?”
“Hey, Milton. How do the ladies look tonight?”
“There’s some thoroughbreds mingling about. A dime piece or two here and there. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Samson hated white boys who affected black slang. He found it offensive and condescending. It made what he was planning a lot easier to stomach.
“Hey Milt, you want some X, man?”
“You ain’t sellin’ that shit in here are you?” Milton brushed his dreadlocks away from his eyes and narrowed them at Samson.
“Nope, this is just for my friends.”
The bouncer glanced up and down the stairs to be certain no one else was watching. There were so many people wearing dark or mirrored sunglasses in the Stygian gloom of the nightclub that Samson wasn’t certain how the man would have known if anyone was watching or not.
“All right then, what you got?”
“Coke or X. Whatever you need.”
“How about a little of both?”
“There’s one catch though.”
Milton crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Samson suspiciously.
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“I have this contract that gives me ownership of your soul. You sign it and you get to fly for free tonight.”
“Man, you crazy!”
“I’m serious. I’m collecting souls tonight and you’re my first.”
“You want my soul? Like a vampire or some shit? I didn’t think you were into all this Goth shit. But all right, what the fuck then. Let’s do it! Give me that shit. I’ll sign it. But I want a little more than just some drugs if I’m going to give up my soul. You know what I’m sayin’?”
He moved in closer to Samson until his erection pressed against Samson’s leg. In the black lights, the whites of Milton’s eyes and teeth shone neon green, creating a gruesome ghostly effect. With his thick nest of dreadlocks swirling around his head he looked like a wild banshee. Samson gripped the knife in his pocket, eager to draw the man’s blood, drain out his soul drop by drop. Even in his relationships with other men, it seemed to always come down to sex. He’d have to examine that with his therapist one day.
“I didn’t know you were gay.”
The bouncer smirked. “Look, I ain’t gay. I fuck around a little bit here and there, but I ain’t gay. I might be bi or some shit like that. I ain’t never let nobody fuck me in the ass if that’s what you mean. I do the pitchin’. You know I’m sayin’? But I just ain’t never seen a muthafucka as pretty as you. I just want to make out with you a little. We don’t even have to fuck. You can just jack me off or some shit like that.”
Samson smiled. Killing this one would be fun. “Some place private then?”
“We’ve got a little closet up in the VIP room. I’ve got the key.”
Samson followed him up into VIP and into the closet, laughing quietly at the irony. Milton flipped on a light switch and a tiny fluorescent bulb in the back flicked on. The closet was empty except for some old boxes filled with party decorations from Christmas, New Years, Valentine’s Day, and various other assorted holidays. They shuffled back amongst the Styrofoam Santas and Easter eggs and big cardboard hearts until Samson’s back touched the wall.
“How about that X?” Milton’s eyes already twinkled with the effects of some type of amphetamine, his pupils were the size of silver dollars.
Samson popped open the little prescription bottle and handed him one. The bouncer swallowed it dry, grinning wide in expectation, his erection tenting the front of his pants as he stroked it through the coarse denim fabric, leering at Samson. Samson tapped out two neat lines of coke on the back of his hand and offered those to Milton as well. Milton kneeled down and snorted up both lines like a pro.
“Now sign the contract and we can play.”
Samson withdrew one of the contracts from the roll of papers in his jacket and seized Milton’s finger, jabbing it with the tip of an old fashioned ink pen, drawing blood.
“Ouch! Don’t do that shit, man!”
“It’s just a nick. Relax. You need blood for the contract.”
“You’re serious about this shit, huh? About wanting my soul and shit?”
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
“Cool. I’m cool with that, Mr. Lucifer or whatever you think you are. You want my soul? It’s yours. I ain’t doin’ much wit’ it anyway.”
He scrawled his name quickly onto the contract then turned and wrapped his arms around Samson, kissing him sloppily. Samson slid the tanto knife between the bouncer’s ribs, up into his heart, neatly severing his aorta. Milton sighed, went rigid for a second, and then dropped, his lifeless body collapsing like a punctured sex doll. Samson watched the body convulse amongst the party ornaments, voiding all its fluids as Milton’s brain starved for blood.
The bouncer’s soul enmeshed him immediately, still horny, still wanting to fuck as his spirit adhered to Samson’s flesh. Samson sucked in several quick breaths as Milton’s soul invaded him. The sensation was shocking, bitterly cold at first like a splash of ice water. The spirit coursed through him in a heady rush, the sensation a cross between having the meat flayed from his bones and being caught in the throes of an orgasm.
Samson stepped out of the closet, his shirt stained with blood, certain that no one would notice or care. He was reeling from the powerful sensations of this third soul charging through his veins like a blast of nitrous oxide, filling his capillaries, his muscle tissue, his
every sinew, every organ. Even his skin crackled with the energy of Milton’s spirit, sparking in the air like static electricity. He could feel it following the path blazed by Jacque and Tara until it had permeated every iota of his essence, joining with Samson’s own spirit, enervating him. He was starting to enjoy this feeling and wasn’t so sure he wanted to give any of these souls away.
Even to save his brother.
The minute Samson stepped back into the black lights of the VIP room he saw the girl with the “Porn Star” shirt mount the stairs with five others in tow. This was going to be easier than he expected.
“So where’s the party?”
“You sign these contracts and the party starts right now.”
Samson held up the bag of cocaine and all of their eyes zeroed in on it. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed them the contracts and the pen.
“What kind of contracts are these?” The girls took the papers without reading them and instead looked to Samson for clarification.
“They are contracts giving me sole ownership of your immortal souls. Sign them and I own you forever.”
Samson laughed ghoulishly to lighten the mood. They all laughed with him.
“You’re crazy.”
“Just sign the contract so we can party.”
“Is this for real?” One of the girls asked hesitantly as the others squinted, trying to read the fine print.
“Yup. I want to own your souls before I take your flesh—that way even our spirits can make love. Love is, after all, the desire to unite with the love object. Fucking is so incomplete in that regard. It’s just a marriage of the flesh. This is a marriage of the soul.”
“Man, you talk pretty. My mother always warned me about pretty talkin’ niggas,” said one of the glamour models, a black one with a large afro and big hoop earrings. She had big brown eyes, thick pillowy lips, long muscular legs, and an ass like an Olympic sprinter.
Samson smiled back at her.
“Maybe your momma was right. If you ain’t down you can always leave the way you came. But if you stay you have to sign.”
Another girl piped up with another question, but he’d quit listening. In the end, she’d sign, too. She was a typical model type, six feet tall, blonde, and barely a hundred pounds. He thought he detected a slight Swedish accent. She’d probably worked hard with a vocal coach to lose it. Probably thinking her accent was the only impediment to her acting career and not the fact that she looked like every other would-be-actress in California.
Samson dehumanized them in order to make the kill easier, but he knew that being naïve and superficial were not sufficient flaws to merit what he had planned for them. He’d have to kill them knowing that he was taking innocent lives. After the murders he’d already committed, he found the notion surprisingly easy to swallow. His brother’s life was worth more than every cum-dumpster in this club. Their deaths would open up more room on the world’s casting couches for other self-deluded sluts.
The girls still squinted at the papers, trying to read in the darkened club.
“Samson, you are one twisted dude. But hell, I’ll sign the shit. I’ve been wanting to fuck you forever!” said the little porn star. She was already too high to care.
“Please, allow me,” He pricked her finger with the pen, “You have to sign it in blood.”
“I’m so high I just want to feel your cock inside of me when the Ecstasy kicks in. There’s nothing like fucking on X, you know? I hope one of these bitches licks pussy. That’s the best feeling ever. Getting fucked and licked at the same time while you’re high! Oh my God! I almost came just thinking about it! Hurry up bitches and sign the man’s contract! Let’s get ta fuckin’!”
She was loud and obnoxious and he would normally not have touched her with someone else’s dick, but tonight, she was perfect.
The girls all did what they were told. They all signed. Every one of them. Then they started stripping out of their clothes. Some added little burlesque hip gyrations and coy winks, the black chick bent over and made her ass shake and wobble like it had a mind of its own. Samson was unimpressed. Their flesh was now just in the way of him getting at their souls. Still, as long as it was being offered, he might as well indulge.
Samson laid out the coke on one of the art deco-looking stainless steel tables and all the girls bent down and inhaled in unison, filling their noses with the synthetic heavens. Then he handed out the Ecstasy.
“I’m horny as hell! Take out your cock. I want to suck it.”
“Come here.”
He reached for the thick one with the Olympic ass and she stumbled toward him as if she was in awe. Her huge breasts wobbled to and fro as she came over and straddled his lap. Samson wore only his underwear. He placed a tab of Ecstasy on her tongue and gave her a sip of Cristal from a glass one of the girls brought with her to wash it down.
“Kneel down between my legs.” He reached out for the porn star. “Both of you.”
Again they looked at each other nervously, not sure what to do. Then they did as Samson asked, kneeling down between his legs as he withdrew his cock from his silk boxers. He gave the skinny girl some Ecstasy as well. They both twittered with excitement.
“Kiss each other.”
They reached apprehensively for one another, still giggling as their lips touched and then their tongues intertwined. Samson’s manhood swelled as he watched the two girls kiss. He reached out and stroked their hair. They turned to look at him, smiling, excited, waiting for more instructions.
“Now, suck my cock.”
He lowered the Olympian’s head to his penis and let out a moan as it slid easily down her throat. He pushed the skinny girl’s head down and soon her tongue pressed on his scrotum, and then squirmed its way up the crack of his ass. In minutes he was baptizing their young faces in his seed. He knelt down and kissed them both.
“That was beautiful, girls. Do you want more?”
They both nodded eagerly, tittering again. All of them reached out, kissing, caressing, and sucking every inch of him as it was revealed. Samson fell down amongst them, indulging himself briefly in their mouths and vaginas before unsheathing his blade and cutting them open one by one. They were so high, he’d already killed the first three before the others even noticed. He hamstringed one before she could run and tackled the other two as they made for the stairs, slitting their throats one at a time before going back to finish off the one he had crippled. He slit her open like a fish and tore her heart from her chest. One by one he cut out each of their hearts. He then picked up their blood-dappled contracts, and shoved them back into his jacket pocket before dropping it back onto one of the suede couches.
He dragged their bodies into the closet, and waited. It wasn’t long before two more girls ventured upstairs to join the party. Samson still had a dozen more contracts left in his jacket and the night was young. If God really loved these worthless sacks of flesh, then perhaps Samson would have plenty to bargain with for Samuel’s life; maybe even enough to get himself into heaven, or at least an exalted place in hell.
The girls smiled wide, obviously new to the club and happy to be there. Unlike the rest of the club goers they hadn’t yet learned the airs of apathy. Eyes glowing in the black light, they looked like two demonic nymphs. The room radiated from his earlier party, the air thick with the scent of sex tinged with blood.
“Hello ladies,” he said. “Do you want to party with me?”
20
Requiem was in an older industrial section of town. Historically preserved and then reclaimed by the young, its thin streets congested at all hours of the night. Samuel had only a vague sense of where he was going. Dark alleys veined the city blocks. Shops stacked upon shops, night clubs piled upon night clubs, cramped and claustrophobic. At well past midnight, there were more people out than he would have imagined. Usually in bed by nine o’clock and fast asleep no later than ten, he had led a rather sheltered life. College students tumbled out of one bar, staggered
to an alley to puke and piss, then stumbled into the next. The party never stopped.
Samuel focused his thoughts on his brother. He wondered if this was how his brother lived. This bizarre nocturnal existence of night clubs, alcohol, drugs, and sex. Everyone around him carried a quiet desperation, an insatiable longing—all appetite and lust—so powerful that it pained even him. Suddenly, something moved in his spirit, a whispered alarm that warned him that he was in danger. A scream was forming at the base of his throat even before he started to turn, and two pairs of hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a narrow alley between two warehouse buildings.
“What are you doing?” Samuel cried out.
Two men dressed in expensive silk shirts and with hair perfectly coiffed, stinking of hair spray and expensive colognes, seized him and dragged him further into the sunless gloom of the alleyway. Despite their frail, effeminate appearance, he struggled in vain within their tremendous grip. A wave of nausea, like an attack of dizziness, hit him. His mind reeled. Their faces began to warp, melting and reshaping, running like wax, layers of reality peeled back for his inspection; the pretty feminine beauty masked an ugliness that rattled the young priest. He had seen their faces before in the old non-canonical texts he used to read in the church library back when he was first ordained—the ones that described demons and other fallen creatures. Truth be told, part of him considered them a myth, nothing more than fairy tales to terrify children.
Samuel had consulted with deliverance ministries, huddled old men telling what amounted to spiritual ghost stories in hushed voices, as if sharing secrets kept even from themselves, because to give voice to them too loudly would be like dragging a nightmare into waking reality.
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