“They say this stuff–it’s like Viagra, but weirder, makes you horny like you can’t imagine.”
The Big O. That’s what this pretty boy was hinting about earlier. “Put that fucking sword down, OK?”
Sanchez sniffs. “What’s that smell?” There’s a tent rising in his pants. A big top.
“Put the fucking sword down.”
Sanchez lowers the sword to thigh level, his eyes boring into Snake’s like prison searchlights.
“The Big O, that what you’re talking about? Is that what you want?”
“Is that the stuff they’re brewing down there?”
Snake smiles thinly. “You keep poking your cock into shit that ain’t your business, kid.”
“I know–I know some guys who want some.”
“Listen, Sanchez, the Big O ain’t for little high school boys. Clear? It’s for men. Rich old men who want to be horny again. Who want to fuck for a whole weekend again, like when they were kids. Give it to some quarterback who’s planning on boning the prom queen and you’re gonna have a quarterback who sands his cock down to a toothpick and a prom queen with a cunt that’s like wet catfood.”
Sanchez’s eyes steady with purpose. “Can I get some?”
Give him some. Do the deal at his house. Get his sword. Kill him there.
Snake takes a deep breath. “It’ll cost you. Lots. Two grand for ten pills.”
“What?”
“Two grand for ten pills.” Snake shrugs, a salesman explaining a Ferrari’s price tag. “The chemicals we Disciples need–well, they’re exotic. Gotta get them from DARPA. Government boys, well, you can’t turn their heads unless you gotta lot of grease for their palms. You see why the Big O’s for rich old fuckers?”
Sanchez breathes heavily, his eyes on the floor as he searches within himself. “Shit.”
“No money, no deal.” Snake crosses his arms.
Sanchez makes his decision. “I can get it together.”
“How much you looking to buy?” asks Snake.
“Ten pills. Just ten pills.”
“They for you?” Snake lets his eyes drop to Sanchez’ obvious erection.
Sanchez laughs nervously. “Maybe.” He pushes his cock down so it’s not so protuberant.
“Two grand. You get it. You get the Big O.”
Sanchez nods. “Fine. Fine. Meet me in Umstead–”
“Fuck that,” says Snake. “Cops watch people like me and you, you know. Doing a deal two times in one day in the same spot is bad karma. Really bad.” He grins. “We’ll do it at your place.”
“You’re fucked!”
Snake feels the Leather Messiah’s slime rising and falling in his guts like the wax innards of a lava lamp. He shifts his legs. Grins. “Yeah, well, not often. So where you live at?”
“Shit, man, my fuckin’ Mom is there!”
“Get the lovely lady out of the house if you don’t want problems. You want the Big O or not, faggot?”
Sanchez’ eyes narrow. Malevolence shines through, greenish and malignant. “Fine.” He spits out the address.
Sanchez lives in a swank neighborhood. Oakwood, east of downtown Raleigh, not far from the Governor’s mansion. Big oaks, big Victorian houses. Used to be a rundown place but rich Yankees found Southern plantation style homes to their liking. It’s just up the street from the crack houses. And if need be he can get on a big road and hightail it out of there.
“Ten tonight,” Snake says. “Have Mom out of the house.” He hefts his prong. “Unless she wants some action?”
“You’re sick,” Sanchez says.
“You want some action?” Snake waggles his eyebrows.
“Nah,” His eyes dart to Snake’s face. “No.”
“Yeah,, well, get out then. I gotta beat off.”
Exeunt Sanchez. The Viper roars its way into the city.
Somethingglopsin the furnace vent as Snake slams the front door.
“So why?” Snake asks. “Who opposes you, master?”
I am not the only demon. There are demons of fire. There are demons of mud. There are demons of wind. There are demons of ice. My Disciples are not the only worshipers. Go to his house. Take the sword. Kill Sanchez. You’re my Disciple. Obey your god. Your reward will be … bliss.
Maybe … maybe Snakecankill him. Maybe it won’t be so hard after all.
#
Snake emerges wearing shorts and boots into pouring rain and a world split by jagged lightning. He’s cold and sober as he ever is because he’s going to need to focus tonight. Not just because he’s going to be riding through flooded streets and pounding rain.
Something weird is going to happen.
The .45 is loaded, cleaned, oiled, ready. But Snake senses there’s something else at play. That maybe he won’t need it.
Kill him with the sword.
But why not the .45? Murder is death no matter what weapon is used.
Nonetheless the .45 is an old friend, and Snake wants it with him on this … quest.
He roars off on the Varadero, rain nipping his skin like pellets from an airgun. His blond mane soaks the rain. His nipples stiffen as if an invisible god plucks them. His cock throbs with blood.
Onto Peace Street, take a right, flash past the old Cameron Village Mall. Trees thrash in orgiastic frenzy. The lights in the little houses are small eyes staring frightened at the world in conflict. Across Capitol Boulevard, a concrete canal sometimes of traffic now of water. The sterile government buildings downtown are bone-white towers haunted by malignant souls.
Then into Oakwood as lightning forks like serpent tongues in the boiling sky.
Drenched, Snake rolls to a stop at Sanchez’ address. Behind a spiked fence, cloaked with ancient gnarled oaks and vines, rises a Victorian pile. Windowed turrets huddle against the storm. Ornate woodwork, painted to please Timothy Leary, dances on the timbers. A double door on an elaborate porch. A narrow driveway between hedges leads to a garage sized to house Model T’s and 1930s Packards.
Most of the windows are dark. A dim light flickers in the windows flanking the front door Sanchez isn’t expecting him for another two hours.
Snake’s a student of history. He who gets in the first blow often wins. Worked for bin Laden. Not so for Yamamoto. Context matters. Snake hopes he’s read this situation right.
He hurls himself over the fence, skidding on the wet grass. A car raises a curtain of rain as it hurtles past on the street. He hurries to the driveway. Just the Viper. Good. Don’t have to worry about dear Mom and Dad. Good people, no doubt. Rich. America’s finest.
Probably eat puppies, Snake thinks.Raw.
No, he’s not going to knock and ask, “Can I come in now?”
Water vomits from the mouth of a gutter. Snake rattles it. Not strong enough. There! A trellis, decked in ivy. It is strong enough. Snake climbs to the second floor. He creeps across the porch roof. He tests a window. It opens easily. Idiots. They must’ve unlocked in to catch spring breezes and closed it without thinking.
He tumbles into a bedroom. Dark, but there is some illumination: the mirror on the antique dresser reflects orange streetlights. Smell of clean linen and tropical flowers. Soft carpet absorbs the water trickling off his skin.
This place reeks of tradition, wealth, power. Sanchez’ family takes their clues from old movies. Huge wardrobes stand like hulking beasts. The bed is a four-poster with velvet curtains tied to each post with a golden cord.
He shuts the window and creeps towards the door. He draws his .45.
I told you you wouldn’t need it.
Slowly he opens the door. A breathless moment as hinges squeal like copulating rats. But the TV murmurs downstairs, masking the sound.