by Jack Wallen
“And by someone,” X blanched, “you don’t mean Fate, do you?”
“Not this time. Reporters and cops; not a fan.”
We rolled out of the Pizza Shack to a thunderous applause from all who remained. In the background, Louis shouted, “Don’t forget your free pizza pie!”
As if I would.
We sat around a wood and iron dining table that probably exceeded the value of everything I had ever owned. Darth kicked his dirty be-socked feet up on the intentionally-rough surface, at which point Ammy shot a supernova glare his way. He shrugged; she slapped his feet down.
“How do we go about tracking down a Scythe?” X asked. “And, more importantly, how do we trap it and get it to the NetherRealm?”
“The Nether-what?” Amnesia and Darthaniel asked in perfect unison.
I did my best to explain the inexplicable truth that is Fate. It was the first time I’d ever explored the concept with one of the living without a single nod to Camus, Nietzsche, Sartre, or any given member of the existential elite. To these two mortals, the word fate would forever be tied to a being with an exaggerated sense of self-importance and a Morressey-sized ego.
“The easier of those two questions to answer,” I addressed X, “is locating the Scythe.”
“How?” X shook her head. “I don’t hear the song anymore. Without that—”
“You are intrinsically connected to the thing now, X. You sowed, therefore you’ll reap.”
“You’re going to have to do better than a misquoted catch-phrase to explain this one, Grim.”
I drummed my fingers on the table for a moment. “You’ve heard how twins can mysteriously know what one another is thinking or feeling?”
Darth shot up straight and raised his hand. “One time I read about a pair of twins that were separated at birth, but somehow knew of each other’s existence. It was reported that the two girls managed to communicate with one another from halfway around the globe. When they were finally reunited, it was like they’d never been apart.”
“Exactly,” I offered up a smattering of encouragement.
X glared at me with eyes wide and white. “You expect me to, what, commune with that evil bastard through some Vulcan mind meld?”
Once again, Darthaniel shot his hand up. “In order to successfully pull off a Vulcan mind meld, you would, (A) have to be Vulcan and, (B) be in physical contact with your subject. In the name of accuracy, the analogy doesn’t work.”
I briefly sent palm to face. “In a way, yes. Because you inhaled the man’s soul twice, you should feel something. I’ve experienced it a few times…and used in similar, albeit not so drastic, circumstances.”
X shrugged. “What do I do? Close my eyes and call out Marco and wait for Mr. Jons’ Polo?”
“Something like that…yeah,” I answered.
“You’re joking, right?” X squinted.
I shook my head. “Not really, no.”
“That’s your best plan of action?”
I nodded. “Kinda.”
“We’re fucked.” X dropped her head onto the table and covered it with her arms.
“Close your eyes,” I said calmly.
X mumbled something that had a fuck you ring to it.
“No, seriously, X…close your eyes,” I repeated my demand.
Ammy and Darth stared on in silent wonder.
“Fine. Closed. Happy?”
Not really…but I had no intention of confessing that bit of truth. Instead, I continued on with my half-baked plan, perfectly unsure that it would bear any fruit.
“Concentrate on Mark Jons. What did he look like, sound like, smell like…what did his aura taste like? Were there any memories trapped deep within his subconsciousness that could illuminate the way to his physical body?”
“There’s nothing. Just…darkness.” X sat up, her face a knot of tension. “I really don’t want to do this. The memories within his aura were too dark. I really can’t…please find another way.”
A sigh of frustration seeped from between my lips. “I’m sorry, X, there is no other way that I can think of.”
“Can’t we just go back to his house and wait?” X plead.
“Do you really think he’ll be returning to that location?”
“No.” X stood and swayed in place as if dancing her way to a safe place. “I’m exhausted, Grim. Can’t we just—”
“I’m sorry!” My voice rose considerably louder than I’d intended. “We have less than twenty-four hours to find Jons and get him to Fate.”
“Which is our second major hurdle in this quest.” X’s voice matched mine in both pitch and timbre. “We have no idea how the fuck we’re going to transport a Scythe to the NetherRealm. Is that something that can even be accomplished?” X looked to Amnesia and then to Darthaniel. “Am I losing my shit, or does that sound like the plot of a movie destined for Mystery Science Theatre?”
“I might know a way to make the transfer,” I mumbled.
“Say again, Grim?”
“You won’t like what I have to say,” I replied hesitantly.
X folded her arms. “Try me.”
I matched X’s steely gaze and forced my voice into a calmer register. “Once we find him, you’ll reap Jons and I’ll secure his body. I assume Fate will be watching every second of this farce and draw us into the NetherRealm so we can deliver the prize.”
X chuckled. “You want me to reap that son of a bitch again?”
I nodded.
“No way, Grim. Having that madman inside of me twice was enough. I’m afraid ingesting his special brand of evil a third time will cause irreparable damage to whatever I have left of my mind.”
“You can’t know that,” I responded.
“And I can’t not know it either,” X huffed. “Sorry, Grim…there’s no way I can do that again.”
With that, X stormed off into her bedroom. Amnesia and Darthaniel took one another in and then looked to me for leadership. I nodded for them to take their leave of the room; they instantly complied.
Alone with my thoughts, I unleashed a mind-numbing silent scream that bounced off the walls of my skull until my head vibrated with rage. Jons had to be reaped again, and it looked like it would fall to me. That meant one thing…counting on Ammy and Darth to assist X in claiming Jon’s body.
I could make this work. Maybe. Could be. Who knows? My mind raced around a cunning Sharks and Jets standoff until I reached the only conclusion that mattered. I had to. Considering there was no way I’d convince X to reap the bastard again…it was my only choice. Unfortunately, in order to get inside the killer, we had to find him. Now that he’d been inside both X and I, that wasn’t going to be easy. He knew us, had a taste of our thoughts and desires. There had to be some way of using that to our advantage.
Time ticked and tocked in an inescapable spiral. With every second that passed, we were no closer to saving our asses from Fate’s rousing game of shenanigans. My mind raced in an infinite loop—from reap to death and back again. My existence had never been so complex. This tale of two reapers had layered my world with confusion and complication beyond anything I’d ever experienced.
Two.
Everything had always been so much simpler when that number was one. Me in the singular was a comprehensible mathematical equation that could be solved without much ado. Double that digit, and life’s simple measures were folded into a differential equation that required an engineering degree to solve.
Though constant and reliable, one was, however, lonely.
That damnable word.
“There’s no way you’re sleeping tonight, Grim,” I whispered to myself.
The bedroom called to me, begging me to curl up next to X and drift into a bliss-filled slumber. Since that wasn’t about to happen, I opted to go for a walk. The night air of New York promised a bit less urine and a lot more privacy. Under the light of the pale moon, I could vanish within my thoughts—maddening as they were—and possibly solve the Jons Parallax.
I snatched up X’s keys and slipped out the door.
Just outside the entrance to the building, a man in a tattered robe and worn work boots stood sentinel. His stark-white beard served to accentuate the sunken cheeks and blackened teeth of his mouth.
The door of the entryway clicked closed and Street Jesus turned and locked his gaze onto mine. The man squinted and shook his head.
“You are not what you appear to be, young man. I take that back…old man.” He nodded toward me. He had only one eye…the other had been violently removed, the scar tissue on the cusp of necrosis. He shuffled two steps toward me and stopped, his mouth rounding out to a perfect O. “You know the ways and means, the ebbs and flows of time and tide. I can sense in you an energy that is fixed to a point of unknown origin.” The bedraggled man reached into the pocket of his robe and paused. “I have in my hand that which levels all playing fields.”
Was I about to get jacked? This man didn’t look like the type to bother with guns, but this was a new world order, so it was impossible to tell from whence danger would ultimately emerge.
“Behold!” The man shouted as he pulled hand from pocket. In his palm was a glass eye…most likely his own. “Sight beyond sight. I can see the colors of your life surrounding your flesh bag.” He cringed and withered to his knees…his hand still displaying the artificial eyeball. “What is this I see? You exist in between worlds. You are neither here nor there. How are you everywhere?”
This bit of guerrilla theatre was growing tiresome. That, or I was becoming dangerously fearful that someone on this great globe held some insight into what I truly was. Either way, I couldn’t allow this man to hold sway over me and my time any longer. I pulled out a twenty from my wallet and laid it carefully over the eyeball in the man’s palm. He instantly stood and thanked me graciously…tucking both bill and ball into his pocket. Next thing I knew, he was strutting away, whistling as if nothing odd had just happened.
If he only knew.
It was moments like this I wanted to whisper into the ears of every living human, “There are really monsters under your bed, and God is an astronaut.”
That was not my place. Humankind was doing a spectacular job of unmaking itself without my help. There was no need for me to hurry along the task.
Speaking of hurrying along…
I walked…each step measured with an almost careless attitude. My body hadn’t yet caught onto the fact that my mind was consumed with fear and anxiety. My strolling meander led me back to my go-to happy place—Central Park. Once the blanket of night was spread out over the great lawn of CP, the freaks and geeks roamed free. The same could be said, of course, for the prostitutes, junkies, and ne’er-do-wells. Regardless, the reaping was always at a premium. The only downfall to this particular time of night was that spotting black auras was nearly impossible.
Unless there was a particularly bright moon…as was the case tonight.
For me, this was getting back on the horse. The attempted reap of Jons could have very easily given me a case of the yips. That would not do. The only route to avoiding that certain level of performance anxiety, was a return to the game with my usual gusto.
What better way than to reap with abandon?
I took a seat on my favorite bench and waited. The nocturnal symphony put to rest my nerves. This is just what the doctor ordered, I thought, and sat back to wait.
And ponder.
Thankfully, the universe didn’t give me much time to obsess on my problem du jour. As Fate would have it, a hipster zipped by on his fixie bike, clad in the tightest jeans and widest handlebar mustache. In place of a helmet, he covered his melon with a knit cap. He casually rode his bike through the park without a single light to illuminate his presence.
“Typical hipster bullshit,” I whispered.
The kid steered his bike under one of the brighter lamps to reveal a shadow-black aura swirling around him without the slightest hint of irony.
I gave chase.
Next to drivers, cyclists were the most challenging to reap. Inevitably, the bike riders who were about to buy the farm were far faster than those who would live to ride another day. During the day, I had traffic on my side. At night, however, the cyclists were able to zip about faster. And since most of them didn’t obey the usual laws of traffic, I couldn’t count on stop lights or signs to play on my team. In such instances, I had to think on my feet. That usually required one thing.
I stopped and scooped up a large enough rock to make a lasting impressing and hurled it at the biker. The projectile flew from my hand with blazing speed and nailed the guy. Judging from how he screamed and brought his trusty steed to a halt, I’d missed his head. No matter…the strategy paid off. I sprinted toward the man and, once I was near enough, I jumped.
When I crash-landed inside the guy, the aura tasted of smoothies and kale. Memories of record store debates, first dates at thrift stores, and spending entire days working on screenplays at coffee shops swarmed me.
Reaps like this carried with them a heavy weight of guilt. These were people who had so much potential in life, but not enough time to see their hopes and dreams through. Millennials were such a passionate, well-intentioned cross-section of society, yet were given the short end of the stick on so many levels. This guy was a prime example.
And I was reaping his soul…his vegan-eating, pop-punk-listening, hipster soul.
I pulled out of the guy just in time for him to ride off. I was fairly certain he swore at me in three different languages…one of them being Gen Z-ese. It was totes zed.
And now, the big challenge. I had to keep pace with the bastard, holding my breath all the while, until he met his untimely demise. This was never easy. My lungs did a double-duty burn, holding a char-black aura while needing oxygen to function properly. The only saving grace was the fact that I existed between the here and the now, the living and the dead. Although my internal systems did require oxygen, it wasn’t nearly as pressing a need as it was when I was truly and literally alive. I was about to go full on time-space manipulation when I realized the mark wasn’t in any sort of hurry this night; so keeping up wasn’t nearly as challenging as it could have been. Mr. Cyclist exited the park and took an immediate right. Based on his choice of heading into one-way traffic, the reap wouldn’t take as long as I’d feared.
A quick left turn and a monstrous squeal of tires later, and the young man’s life was flung into the infinite void. Even before the body hit the ground it was rendered corpsian…shattered and scattered in a Pollack-pattern of death. I stopped and slowly released the soul into the wild. The smoky black blur rose skyward and danced to white until it faded to nothing. Somewhere tonight, a baby would be born with an authentic soul predisposed to a penchant for irony and bad hair.
I didn’t bother hanging around. There was no way to get near the unsealed body for a rousing game of pickpocket, so why bother? Besides, I could have easily served as a witness to the crime…so me hanging about would not end well.
That felt good. The thought was morbid, but truthful. Not in a train-wreck, rubber-necking kind of way. I did feel bad for the guy, but I needed that reap; something known, something to remind me that control was within my grasp. The act of saving that soul from an eternity of darkness did wonders for my confidence. I’d reaped tens of thousands of living men and women—probably more—some of whom were far darker than Mark Jons. Tonight’s win reminded me of one simple truth—there was no way I’d allow that nasty, toad-like man to continue his reign of terror.
“I’m a Reaper. The goddamn Reaper,” I said to myself.
The song was misleading. I should be feared.
Laaa la laaa la la.
“What’s up, motherfucker?”
The unknown voice from behind took me by surprise, yanking me from my Blue Oyster moment.
“Not now,” I whispered, knowing full well what was about to go down.
“What’d you say, bitch?”
I slowly turned
to face the man, making sure to present as calm an exterior as I could muster. Calmness always served to perfectly disarm would-be muggers.
“Hello,” I said with a smile.
“What choo got to be smiling at, bitch?”
“You keep tossing that word around. Are you certain you know what it means?”
Playtime was always such a treat.
“Bitch,” the punk elongated the word until it no longer made sense. “I know what give me all your fuckin’ money means. How’s that for schoolin’?”
“Apples to oranges, I’d say. Besides, do you really have the guts to pull that trigger?”
Before he answered, I passed my hand through the extended forearm. The man’s voice pitched skyward a couple of octaves as I ruined his radius and ulna. The gun dropped to the ground and was followed by the mugger, clutching his right arm to his chest. His screams of agony continued as I snatched up the pistol and walked away from the scene.
At the first sewage grate, I unloaded the bullets. The next available entryway to the underground shit-tunnel served as my drop-off for the weapon itself. It wasn’t a perfect means to rid myself of the danger machine, but it would have to do.
With a bounce in my step and ease on my mind, I strode back to Casa de Xtine. Although time was running short, I was of no use to the cause without getting even a modicum of sleep. No amount of coffee would get me through reaping Jons unless I could dive deep into a beautiful state of REM.
Otherwise…I’d be stuck in a corner, a mere imitation of life as I lost what remained of my religion.
Yeah…that’s the level of exhaustion I was facing.
Chapter 16
X was asleep…dreaming the dreams of angels. I’d half expected her to be waiting up, blood-red in the face, ready to rip into me for leaving her alone. Maybe I should have been more afraid that my absence meant so little that she could sleep away without concern.
I managed not to disturb X as I crawled into the bed and under the covers. I draped my arm over her and snuggled into her back. Her sweet breath drew me into its hypnotic rhythm. I found myself counting each inhalation as if, in the knowing, I was somehow becoming part of her untold, unknown story.