Dog carcass in the alley, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face… The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and finally when the drains scab over, all the vermin will drown…The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waste and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout “Save Us!”… And I’ll look down and whisper “No.”
I can’t seem to remember from where I have read or heard that. I could not even explain why those lines popped out of my head as I drove away. They just did, even if the semblance of what had just occurred could be very well explained by the first two words alone. Yet even those two are in want of the adjective “fat” preceding it.
I wish I could say that I felt a pang of guilt gnaw me from the inside, until it had wormed its way out as a grunt punctuated by the bang of fist against the steering wheel. Or maybe a sob resulting from the choking back of self-revulsion after having just slain someone who had the same fucked up physiology as I. I had none of those. Not even the numbness you would have expected for me to have felt, owing to the scores of killing I had made the past decade. There is no joy either, nor a blood lust to satisfy.
Instead, for the very first time, I left with a question racing in my head… No, what Fat Johann said about us did not get me thinking as to how close to an automaton I have become for you. Even so, I could have easily shrugged it off, having come to terms as being labeled your pet far too long ago- for a price, of course.
It seemed to me then, that this whole sordid affair was concocted by Fat Johann all along. I don’t know how he got you or the coven convinced that he was being held against his will by the Seventh Seal Fellowship (or why them of all assholes), and thus it was necessary to have me go after them and try to bring him home. Then he would have me believe that he had suddenly acquired Stockholm Syndrome; making it mandatory to kill him before he could kill me- when he knew for a fact that hell would have a better chance of freezing over than he besting me.
I think it was the death wish he had which my instincts responded to. It was something beyond my power or right to deny him of. I might have not identified it at once, but I more than made up for it by not hesitating or giving it a thought. Fat Johann has always been regarded as one of the elders of our kind. Loved and respected and revered, no… but an elder nonetheless. He had the right to demand for this boon.
My head began to pound as I struggled not to drift into incoherent thoughts which bordered on sex, music, mayhem or any philosophical bullshit we try to glean from being around far too longer than what mankind could actually tolerate. I tried my best to keep one and only one question in the fore: why did Fat Johann want to die by my hand? (Or teeth, if you want me to be more apt).
Sabado, Abril 30, 2011
Huwebes, Abril 21, 2011
After Stasis #7
He sat beside me on the concrete steps, flopping in such ungainly manner as one who carried such bulk could only have done. With meaty legs splayed before him, he dug into his pants’ pocket and pulled out a battered pack of Winstons and mockingly offered me a stick. This was the closest he could get to make a jest.
“Suite yourself.” he grunted. “Sometimes I honestly wonder what it would’ve been like if Lu the Fallen never got thrown out of the Pearly Gates and in turn threw us out. Would we still enjoy nicotine the way we do now when there’s plenty of brimstone to go around? Maybe this is part of the Creator’s so called greater scheme of things- for us to go skulking around this world where the dreams and fears of its inhabitants shaped us through the centuries to be the corporeal entities we have become- just to find the simple joy of smoking.”
I hunched down beside him. I saw no point of doing anything else. I was sent to rescue a kin, only to find him wandering about where he was allegedly being held, alone and apparently unharmed. I was not one to question my luck. Still, I had questions that nagged. It overpowered my desire to turn away both from his stench and his annoying prattle that fortified his belief in himself as a great undead philosopher of some sort.
“You’re fidgeting,” he continued. “I hear what you’re not saying. You want an explanation in order to plan your next move… My guess is Selene wants Arya’s head in a platter. She won’t mind if a score or two of the Seventh Seal’s members makes their acquaintance with Buddy Death on an earlier date, as long as the job’s made clean. But can you guess why Selene wants Arya bad enough to send her pet?
“Sure she might have offended both Catholic and Protestant and even Muslim sensibilities with her sermons and pamphlets. Sure she speaks and prays as though she is the Messiah reborn. But what threat can she possibly pose to any of the established churches, criminal organizations, the government and the coven when her followers number below two hundred and she can’t even afford airtime on the cheapest network?
“But it was never your place to question why, right? As long as the pay’s good and you accumulate enough points to one day gain access to that pussy she guards tightly as if she’s keeping all the treasures of the race in there.”
I would have rebuked him. Told him my only vested interest in you was because of the former, never the latter, that whatever we have between us is nothing more that platonic. Only I didn’t. For two reason: the first of which is I have no gift for mindspeak. The second was perhaps yes I did subconsciously fancy you, but in a more respectful way of course. But I’m not going to blab about just whatever it is I do feel for you, as I have not given it much thought, save for the rare fleeting moments when the mind drifts to daydreams.
Fat Johann lit another cigarette before he continued.”I’d walk away from this job, If I were you, Ned. As I’m not one for I-told-you-so speeches, I regret I might not even live long enough to even try one if I just let you go tonight. Let me just finish this stick. Then we can see just how much of a predator you are”.
I did not wait for him. Instead I buried my fangs deep into his throat with such speed and ferocity that befits our kind, then shook like mad. His skin tasted of briny, old leather not even mongrels would enjoy chewing. His blood that flew in every direction as I continued to rend and tear was just as vile. Seconds later, Fat Johann convulsed on the steps. His unnaturally long life ebbed away from him to congeal as thick, syrupy blood beneath his four hundred pound remains. His glazed eyes turned to me before he breathed his last and whispered “Thanks…”
“Suite yourself.” he grunted. “Sometimes I honestly wonder what it would’ve been like if Lu the Fallen never got thrown out of the Pearly Gates and in turn threw us out. Would we still enjoy nicotine the way we do now when there’s plenty of brimstone to go around? Maybe this is part of the Creator’s so called greater scheme of things- for us to go skulking around this world where the dreams and fears of its inhabitants shaped us through the centuries to be the corporeal entities we have become- just to find the simple joy of smoking.”
I hunched down beside him. I saw no point of doing anything else. I was sent to rescue a kin, only to find him wandering about where he was allegedly being held, alone and apparently unharmed. I was not one to question my luck. Still, I had questions that nagged. It overpowered my desire to turn away both from his stench and his annoying prattle that fortified his belief in himself as a great undead philosopher of some sort.
“You’re fidgeting,” he continued. “I hear what you’re not saying. You want an explanation in order to plan your next move… My guess is Selene wants Arya’s head in a platter. She won’t mind if a score or two of the Seventh Seal’s members makes their acquaintance with Buddy Death on an earlier date, as long as the job’s made clean. But can you guess why Selene wants Arya bad enough to send her pet?
“Sure she might have offended both Catholic and Protestant and even Muslim sensibilities with her sermons and pamphlets. Sure she speaks and prays as though she is the Messiah reborn. But what threat can she possibly pose to any of the established churches, criminal organizations, the government and the coven when her followers number below two hundred and she can’t even afford airtime on the cheapest network?
“But it was never your place to question why, right? As long as the pay’s good and you accumulate enough points to one day gain access to that pussy she guards tightly as if she’s keeping all the treasures of the race in there.”
I would have rebuked him. Told him my only vested interest in you was because of the former, never the latter, that whatever we have between us is nothing more that platonic. Only I didn’t. For two reason: the first of which is I have no gift for mindspeak. The second was perhaps yes I did subconsciously fancy you, but in a more respectful way of course. But I’m not going to blab about just whatever it is I do feel for you, as I have not given it much thought, save for the rare fleeting moments when the mind drifts to daydreams.
Fat Johann lit another cigarette before he continued.”I’d walk away from this job, If I were you, Ned. As I’m not one for I-told-you-so speeches, I regret I might not even live long enough to even try one if I just let you go tonight. Let me just finish this stick. Then we can see just how much of a predator you are”.
I did not wait for him. Instead I buried my fangs deep into his throat with such speed and ferocity that befits our kind, then shook like mad. His skin tasted of briny, old leather not even mongrels would enjoy chewing. His blood that flew in every direction as I continued to rend and tear was just as vile. Seconds later, Fat Johann convulsed on the steps. His unnaturally long life ebbed away from him to congeal as thick, syrupy blood beneath his four hundred pound remains. His glazed eyes turned to me before he breathed his last and whispered “Thanks…”
Biyernes, Abril 15, 2011
After Stasis #6
“You don’t have to break the door, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He crossed the unkempt lawn with the slow easy steps of the weary, the swagger of those who had seen too much yet had understood too little, the drudge of ancients drunk with disdain for having lived thru what they perceive as eternity but is a mere blink for older gods. The muffled clump and thump of a heavy foot placed in front of the other that crushed the grass underneath said it all as Fat Johann approached.
His hands and mouth were clean of blood. The remains of his captors swarming with fat, electric-blue flies were nowhere in sight.I would have been surprised to find him in such manner with which he suddenly manifested that night, had I known him to be cast from the same mold as Old Vincent, Marcus or you. But Fat Johann had long given up the old ways for reasons none of us bothered to know, though I doubt he would bother to answer when asked. What stuck me odd was the way he regarded me, as if he had been expecting my violation; that his disappearance was a hoax, a cheap ruse to lure me somewhere isolated...Then on cue, like on any B Movie, his minions- Arya’s faithful- would reveal themselves; armed to the teeth and would surround me, eyes burning with malice. Then Fat Johann would disclose just how much he hated life in general so everybody else must die before he and his underlings commits seppuku and that the only ones standing in his way would be the coven. And then Arya herself would step out from behind me and say that after tonight the coven would be no more and that she has long been looking forward to feed your intestines on a stick. Then since I am not in man shape, I could not reply with some sort of witty, heroic retort that borders along fuck-you-and-the-cunt-you-popped-out-of without having to offend the MTRCB. So instead I will just growl defiantly (camera zooms in to my curled lips to reveal the fangs of fury), then with a howl that will echo across the night, pounce on the closet extra paid to take the first fall.
Of course, reality can be more languid than what passes for entertainment to the masses, if it has the mind to do so.
Lowering my head between shoulder blades, I readied for anything unexpected. I could almost hear you at the back of my head reminding me that ours was trade where you live by your decisions and die by your mistakes. Instinctively, my nostrils flared and my ears flattened. Fat Johann was but two or three paces from me without breaking stride.
“We are alone here, Ned.” he said with the same deadpan expression his face had hardened to as far as memory could take me. “You can stay as you are, if you find it more comfortable… Come to think of it, it’s better that way,since I've never known you to be much of a conversationalist.”
He crossed the unkempt lawn with the slow easy steps of the weary, the swagger of those who had seen too much yet had understood too little, the drudge of ancients drunk with disdain for having lived thru what they perceive as eternity but is a mere blink for older gods. The muffled clump and thump of a heavy foot placed in front of the other that crushed the grass underneath said it all as Fat Johann approached.
His hands and mouth were clean of blood. The remains of his captors swarming with fat, electric-blue flies were nowhere in sight.I would have been surprised to find him in such manner with which he suddenly manifested that night, had I known him to be cast from the same mold as Old Vincent, Marcus or you. But Fat Johann had long given up the old ways for reasons none of us bothered to know, though I doubt he would bother to answer when asked. What stuck me odd was the way he regarded me, as if he had been expecting my violation; that his disappearance was a hoax, a cheap ruse to lure me somewhere isolated...Then on cue, like on any B Movie, his minions- Arya’s faithful- would reveal themselves; armed to the teeth and would surround me, eyes burning with malice. Then Fat Johann would disclose just how much he hated life in general so everybody else must die before he and his underlings commits seppuku and that the only ones standing in his way would be the coven. And then Arya herself would step out from behind me and say that after tonight the coven would be no more and that she has long been looking forward to feed your intestines on a stick. Then since I am not in man shape, I could not reply with some sort of witty, heroic retort that borders along fuck-you-and-the-cunt-you-popped-out-of without having to offend the MTRCB. So instead I will just growl defiantly (camera zooms in to my curled lips to reveal the fangs of fury), then with a howl that will echo across the night, pounce on the closet extra paid to take the first fall.
Of course, reality can be more languid than what passes for entertainment to the masses, if it has the mind to do so.
Lowering my head between shoulder blades, I readied for anything unexpected. I could almost hear you at the back of my head reminding me that ours was trade where you live by your decisions and die by your mistakes. Instinctively, my nostrils flared and my ears flattened. Fat Johann was but two or three paces from me without breaking stride.
“We are alone here, Ned.” he said with the same deadpan expression his face had hardened to as far as memory could take me. “You can stay as you are, if you find it more comfortable… Come to think of it, it’s better that way,since I've never known you to be much of a conversationalist.”
Huwebes, Abril 7, 2011
After Stasis # 5
The closed Ridgeview Resort, sans the sign board, was easy to find without having to stop and ask for directions or rely on following Fat Johann’s scent trail (which is no great feat itself, as you know, he does not believe in personal hygiene). The long stretch of cemented fence was a dead giveaway. The pitch black spread it seemed to keep in was an open invitation to the daring and for the less daring to unleash their idle hands to spray paint the names of their street gangs which they laughably think of as fraternities, not-so-original nicknames derived from the hip-hop/rap genre and adolescent dogmas such as Emo Is Gay, Mabuhay CPP-NPA!! and the ever famous Punks Not Dead.
I chose the darkest, most vegetated area off road for parking. Once outside my vehicle, I stripped and tossed my clothes through the open car window. A gentle breeze uncorrupted by the city’s smog dappled my bare skin; waking every single sleeping pore until they rose as goose bumps to dot every inch of me. I breathed in a lungful, not exhaling, rather holding in until I felt every chest muscle stiffen and my gut draw up. I shut my eyes tighter, more by force of habit than the necessity to obliterate any possible visual distractions. Find the echoing void swirling inside. Then… You know the drill Selene, though I doubt you remember the feeling, if rumors were to be believed that you no longer need the change in order to tap into the gnawing force within us all.
Hopping to the hood then to the car’s roof, my ears twitched, straining for any sound that would betray the presence of any that could be alerted by my intrusion; the faint rustle of leaves, the sigh of boughs sprained in its own weight, the chirping of insect legs rubbing against each other, huff and bloated puff of frogs and the almost silent slither of a small serpent in the gutter a few paces from me. All these contrasted against the distant backdrop of the metropolis’ cacophony kilometers away.
Satisfied, I leapt and cleared the tall fence in a single bound and landed on the grass with a soft thud.
Random scents of moist earth, rotting leaves, dried twigs and fallen half-rotted fruits mingled with those of flaking paint, corroded tin and time-flayed lumber. It was the scent of abandon that assailed my nostrils the strongest. I also found it hard at first to distinguish the scattered unlit cottages from the stunted trees and shrubbery. I needed to refocus before my preternatural eyes adjusted itself to the gloom. Here is where you’d say darkness becomes its own presence.
I padded silently forward, sniffing the hard-packed ground beneath the untended grass. Beyond the empty pool where the acrid stench of disinfectants still unbelievably lingered came the mixed whiff of sweat, urine, blood and carrion. I traced it and it led me to what perhaps was once a swanky convention hall, circular and topped with conical roofing and a spire, but had now been rendered into nothing but just another boarded up structure in a cluster of yet other boarded up structures.
The cobbled walkway had grass sprouting from the cracks. It brought me to a concrete steps inlaid with rough hewn stones and flecked with patches of healthy moss. The wide narrow double doors before me was not bolted or padlocked from the outside. The scent was stronger here, sashaying from gaps between the doorframe, jamb and floor. And the wide windows of wood and capiz promised more darkness within.
I chose the darkest, most vegetated area off road for parking. Once outside my vehicle, I stripped and tossed my clothes through the open car window. A gentle breeze uncorrupted by the city’s smog dappled my bare skin; waking every single sleeping pore until they rose as goose bumps to dot every inch of me. I breathed in a lungful, not exhaling, rather holding in until I felt every chest muscle stiffen and my gut draw up. I shut my eyes tighter, more by force of habit than the necessity to obliterate any possible visual distractions. Find the echoing void swirling inside. Then… You know the drill Selene, though I doubt you remember the feeling, if rumors were to be believed that you no longer need the change in order to tap into the gnawing force within us all.
Hopping to the hood then to the car’s roof, my ears twitched, straining for any sound that would betray the presence of any that could be alerted by my intrusion; the faint rustle of leaves, the sigh of boughs sprained in its own weight, the chirping of insect legs rubbing against each other, huff and bloated puff of frogs and the almost silent slither of a small serpent in the gutter a few paces from me. All these contrasted against the distant backdrop of the metropolis’ cacophony kilometers away.
Satisfied, I leapt and cleared the tall fence in a single bound and landed on the grass with a soft thud.
Random scents of moist earth, rotting leaves, dried twigs and fallen half-rotted fruits mingled with those of flaking paint, corroded tin and time-flayed lumber. It was the scent of abandon that assailed my nostrils the strongest. I also found it hard at first to distinguish the scattered unlit cottages from the stunted trees and shrubbery. I needed to refocus before my preternatural eyes adjusted itself to the gloom. Here is where you’d say darkness becomes its own presence.
I padded silently forward, sniffing the hard-packed ground beneath the untended grass. Beyond the empty pool where the acrid stench of disinfectants still unbelievably lingered came the mixed whiff of sweat, urine, blood and carrion. I traced it and it led me to what perhaps was once a swanky convention hall, circular and topped with conical roofing and a spire, but had now been rendered into nothing but just another boarded up structure in a cluster of yet other boarded up structures.
The cobbled walkway had grass sprouting from the cracks. It brought me to a concrete steps inlaid with rough hewn stones and flecked with patches of healthy moss. The wide narrow double doors before me was not bolted or padlocked from the outside. The scent was stronger here, sashaying from gaps between the doorframe, jamb and floor. And the wide windows of wood and capiz promised more darkness within.
Huwebes, Marso 31, 2011
After Stasis #4
There are some you grow to loathe for nothing but the sheer pleasure of loathing itself. There is no conscious or subconscious reason as to why you have acquired a sudden distaste for their existence; your tolerance for their very particular kind just gained the lifespan of a suicidal fruit fly on the very first meeting. It is as though they have no other purpose I life but to vex you without their knowing it. Thus, it would be beyond absurd not to give in to the beckoning hate.
For Old Vincent, it’s the vegan animal rights activists. For Fiona, she told me in between drinks, giggles and gasps, its K-pop boy bands. For you I know it’s the perverts without the balls to hit on anybody except through social networking sites (that’s why you’ve kept me around for so long despite everything). For me it’s just Marcus. Marcus the Dread. Marcus the asshole.
Now I have no illusions of being the better dog to cur him out, nor do I have any pretense of doing so would stoop me down to his level- when I don’t even give a flying hoot what level he is in for that matter. The respect for us being kin that keeps my rancor at bay does not even count. I have merely come to accept that the belief in an imperfect world is for the weak.
I drove away west, trying not to contemplate about your choice of errands boys; fully aware that there is only one Old Vincent. And they don’t call him Old for nothing. I pressed the scan button of my dysfunctional radio and left it hopping from one channel to the next in between the white noise, trying to home in on nothing and everything all at once.
“Baby I was born this-“ ... “She’s all sirens and I am fic-“ ... “Pennies for Jane with their new sing—“ ... “My thoughts are like a static t.v. chan-“ ... “New Selecta Pinoy Sorbetes Litro-" ... “Push you aside and leave you alone, not again, automa-“ ... “Nam nam nam nam Lucky Me..”
I let it was all over me. An invisible cascade gently falling with no rhyme or reason, seeping through to soak and eventually drown the temporal drift that carried me forward with the low rumble of turning gears and rubber scraping asphalt. The world became what unfolded before my windshield. At both my sides, everything else visible were but punctures in the roiling ebony shroud that masked whatever dreams and nightmares ran rampant.
Marcos Highway, or whatever it is they call it these days, was not the hell I expected it to be once I was clear of down town Marikina. Light to moderate was how Kuya Kim would have put it.Ah... the very thought of Kuya Kim and his stupid fedora momentarily cracked a thin smile from the corner of my mouth. If he were in the know, I could almost picture him explain and expound it on the telly:
"In popular culture, there is the misconception that vampires and werewolves are two distinct entities. They have even been depicted as warring supernatural races in movies like the Underworld trilogy, in books such as the Twilight saga, and locally in the soap opera Imortal.But in reality, they are actually one and the same.Here in the Philippines, they are commonly known as Aswang; an amalgamation of Asu or Aso and An or Yan. However, Aswang had also been used to refer to the other creatures of the lower Philippine mythology such as ghouls, witches and the bat-winged, half-bodied viscera sucker also called by the Tagalogs and the Bicolanos as Manananggal.."
The very thought of which got me in stitches. I have not had a good laugh in ages.I dared not to glance up at the rear view, fearing the very sight of me would ruin a moment so rare I might not chance upon it again. Best enjoy the moment while it lasted.
For Old Vincent, it’s the vegan animal rights activists. For Fiona, she told me in between drinks, giggles and gasps, its K-pop boy bands. For you I know it’s the perverts without the balls to hit on anybody except through social networking sites (that’s why you’ve kept me around for so long despite everything). For me it’s just Marcus. Marcus the Dread. Marcus the asshole.
Now I have no illusions of being the better dog to cur him out, nor do I have any pretense of doing so would stoop me down to his level- when I don’t even give a flying hoot what level he is in for that matter. The respect for us being kin that keeps my rancor at bay does not even count. I have merely come to accept that the belief in an imperfect world is for the weak.
I drove away west, trying not to contemplate about your choice of errands boys; fully aware that there is only one Old Vincent. And they don’t call him Old for nothing. I pressed the scan button of my dysfunctional radio and left it hopping from one channel to the next in between the white noise, trying to home in on nothing and everything all at once.
“Baby I was born this-“ ... “She’s all sirens and I am fic-“ ... “Pennies for Jane with their new sing—“ ... “My thoughts are like a static t.v. chan-“ ... “New Selecta Pinoy Sorbetes Litro-" ... “Push you aside and leave you alone, not again, automa-“ ... “Nam nam nam nam Lucky Me..”
I let it was all over me. An invisible cascade gently falling with no rhyme or reason, seeping through to soak and eventually drown the temporal drift that carried me forward with the low rumble of turning gears and rubber scraping asphalt. The world became what unfolded before my windshield. At both my sides, everything else visible were but punctures in the roiling ebony shroud that masked whatever dreams and nightmares ran rampant.
Marcos Highway, or whatever it is they call it these days, was not the hell I expected it to be once I was clear of down town Marikina. Light to moderate was how Kuya Kim would have put it.Ah... the very thought of Kuya Kim and his stupid fedora momentarily cracked a thin smile from the corner of my mouth. If he were in the know, I could almost picture him explain and expound it on the telly:
"In popular culture, there is the misconception that vampires and werewolves are two distinct entities. They have even been depicted as warring supernatural races in movies like the Underworld trilogy, in books such as the Twilight saga, and locally in the soap opera Imortal.But in reality, they are actually one and the same.Here in the Philippines, they are commonly known as Aswang; an amalgamation of Asu or Aso and An or Yan. However, Aswang had also been used to refer to the other creatures of the lower Philippine mythology such as ghouls, witches and the bat-winged, half-bodied viscera sucker also called by the Tagalogs and the Bicolanos as Manananggal.."
The very thought of which got me in stitches. I have not had a good laugh in ages.I dared not to glance up at the rear view, fearing the very sight of me would ruin a moment so rare I might not chance upon it again. Best enjoy the moment while it lasted.
Lunes, Marso 28, 2011
After Stasis #3
1642 San Marcelino was not where the Seventh Seal Fellowship congregated. In place of a ballroom large enough for the faithful to convene and wave hands in the air to the tune of what passes for their understanding of praise and worship was a residence that had seen better days, perhaps three decades ago. Its top half was of old wood with windows framed by wrought iron bars painted and re-painted many times over to hide the corrosion underneath. Its lower end was concrete splattered with spidery cracks here and there on its pock-marked surface and there was no denying the water stains which served as a bitter reminder of the number of floods it had withstood.
The right half of the front lawn was canopied by a tarpaulin printed with a weathered photograph of a losing mayoralty candidate ridiculously clad in a red floral shirt and still smiling like a loon at oblivion. Beneath it was an assortment of monoblock chairs and stools around two folding tables. Its occupants were no doubt in fervent prayer as Arya’s flock at the moment- until the most favored by the saints would send the others muttering curses once he collects the bets minutes later. The other half of the lawn had once been a garage. Now it obviously doubles as a cheap cafeteria by day and an equally cheap videoke bar by night.
Had I not been familiar with your runaround, I would have already doubted Old Vincent’s faculties. But you would not be you if you simply wrote down everything there was to know about an assignment and mailed me the envelope. Yet the fine line between caution and paranoia has always been distorted. I forgive you.
The videoke bar was cramped, squalid and in want of better ventilation. I looked at each of the patrons in turn while adjectives like reeking, unkempt and slattern raced in my head, then ran out of steam, outclassed. Another more “Faithfully” and I would have walked out already and told you to fuck the assignment and whatever hearse it rode in on the next time we meet. But then I caught an unmistakable scent; both canine and scrofan yet at the same time permeating through a musk of artificial cinnamon and nutmeg.
“Traffic was hell,” he said by way of greeting.
“Traffic is hell.” I echoed. “The government is hell. The whole country is hell. Life in general is hell. All the more reason I’m not afraid to die”
“Nor to take life.” grinned Marcus. The glint on his fang sparkled momentarily in the neon glare. They were not as theatrical, nor impressive as the Hollywood version of Lestat he fancies himself to be. I had seen quite the same with the alley cats that had never failed to hiss at me.
“The old coot’s right, “he continued. “They have Fat Johann. He’s being kept under guard in a closed resort in Boso-boso, Antipolo. The Ridgeview. For what end, we still don’t know. I won’t assure you you’ll find Arya there tonight. But I have a list of all her other haunts. Here's her picture as well”
He handed me a torn fly leaf from an old paperback and a mugshot. I memorized four addresses at a glance and then proceeded to methodically tear the paper to pieces before sopping it with the beer I have lost taste for. I did the same to the picture. “I can’t do both tonight. Too much ground to cover. Arya would have to wait. I’m going for Johann first.”
Marius regarded me stoically as he waved for a Red Horse at the teenage waitress who, after tonight, would probably not live to reach the legal age. “Selene has to know. You should have met her at 196 last night.”
“She would know,” I grunted as I stood. “After I find Fat Johann”.
The right half of the front lawn was canopied by a tarpaulin printed with a weathered photograph of a losing mayoralty candidate ridiculously clad in a red floral shirt and still smiling like a loon at oblivion. Beneath it was an assortment of monoblock chairs and stools around two folding tables. Its occupants were no doubt in fervent prayer as Arya’s flock at the moment- until the most favored by the saints would send the others muttering curses once he collects the bets minutes later. The other half of the lawn had once been a garage. Now it obviously doubles as a cheap cafeteria by day and an equally cheap videoke bar by night.
Had I not been familiar with your runaround, I would have already doubted Old Vincent’s faculties. But you would not be you if you simply wrote down everything there was to know about an assignment and mailed me the envelope. Yet the fine line between caution and paranoia has always been distorted. I forgive you.
The videoke bar was cramped, squalid and in want of better ventilation. I looked at each of the patrons in turn while adjectives like reeking, unkempt and slattern raced in my head, then ran out of steam, outclassed. Another more “Faithfully” and I would have walked out already and told you to fuck the assignment and whatever hearse it rode in on the next time we meet. But then I caught an unmistakable scent; both canine and scrofan yet at the same time permeating through a musk of artificial cinnamon and nutmeg.
“Traffic was hell,” he said by way of greeting.
“Traffic is hell.” I echoed. “The government is hell. The whole country is hell. Life in general is hell. All the more reason I’m not afraid to die”
“Nor to take life.” grinned Marcus. The glint on his fang sparkled momentarily in the neon glare. They were not as theatrical, nor impressive as the Hollywood version of Lestat he fancies himself to be. I had seen quite the same with the alley cats that had never failed to hiss at me.
“The old coot’s right, “he continued. “They have Fat Johann. He’s being kept under guard in a closed resort in Boso-boso, Antipolo. The Ridgeview. For what end, we still don’t know. I won’t assure you you’ll find Arya there tonight. But I have a list of all her other haunts. Here's her picture as well”
He handed me a torn fly leaf from an old paperback and a mugshot. I memorized four addresses at a glance and then proceeded to methodically tear the paper to pieces before sopping it with the beer I have lost taste for. I did the same to the picture. “I can’t do both tonight. Too much ground to cover. Arya would have to wait. I’m going for Johann first.”
Marius regarded me stoically as he waved for a Red Horse at the teenage waitress who, after tonight, would probably not live to reach the legal age. “Selene has to know. You should have met her at 196 last night.”
“She would know,” I grunted as I stood. “After I find Fat Johann”.
Linggo, Marso 27, 2011
After Stasis #2
That day I woke up feeling a little worse for wear than usual: the spasm that had been threatening to heave out last night’s dinner was steadily becoming violent, the pulsing throb in my temples blurred my vision and my limbs feeling like lead did not help at all. It had been a long night. But since when had nights for our kind been short?
Somehow, somewhere I found the strength to disentangle myself from the sheets and roll off of bed to welcome the carpeted floor’s embrace… And then the floodgates gave way. With every retch came pinkish spew, and with it came tokens from my latest escapade; chunks of half-chewed raw meat, a shard of banana peel, a hideously deformed half of a plastic bottle cap, a soggy piece of stained linen paper, a toe with blue-manicured nail, half an ear with a fake jade earring barely clinging and some undigested peanuts.
When the cramps subsided and my stomach had finally decided to keep the rest of its contents in, I tried to prop myself up with knees and elbows. It was then that I took better notice of the piece of linen paper swimming in my sick. Printed on it was the top left quarter of the alibata equivalent for the letter ‘a’ inside a circle. A calling card.
I gingerly picked it up with the tip of my forefinger and thumb and flipped it over. At the back, barely visible through the dark crimson stain, were half of the hand- scrawled numerals 9 and 6, and directly below it was “9:30” written in the same penmanship. I was being summoned. Route 196 at 9:30. And I just ate the messenger.
It would have been far less complex if you had just called, or had sent someone less flirtatious; someone with enough brains to just give me the card and wordlessly walk away on the first day of the blood moon. Fiona might have less than the brains the devil gave a duck, but she’s damn pretty, I’ll give you that. She gave a good head. So I ripped her’s off.
If it’s any consolation, it took me another half hour before I managed to stumble my way in to the shower as my head was still reeling, only to find that I had forgotten to buy a fresh bar of soap again. I had to content with lathering myself with anti-dandruff shampoo… and then the tap runs out before I could rinse myself. It was no fun either using a cold pitcherfull from the fridge as substitute.
I could not get hold of your mobile. I keep hearing a voice after the beep which says you will never be rich. You might as well quit the organ smuggling industry, especially when you are your own best costumer.
So I got in touch with Old Vincent. He made the gig sound so simple, as if it were just another hit: “Target’s one Arya Aquino, leader o’ de Seventh Seal Movement. Ayuh, the one who calls ‘emselves a charismatic group when cult would’ve been closa’ ta home. 1642 San Marcelino, Malate. Word is this Arya’s psychic, de real deal and she’s got one o’ us held captive fer an exper’ment o’ somesort. Prob’ly Fat Johann. Haven’t sniffed his stench fer some time naw… But whoeva’ Arya’s got, fo' sure he aint happy. That’s why Selene wants it done tonight. Capish?”
I capished.
Somehow, somewhere I found the strength to disentangle myself from the sheets and roll off of bed to welcome the carpeted floor’s embrace… And then the floodgates gave way. With every retch came pinkish spew, and with it came tokens from my latest escapade; chunks of half-chewed raw meat, a shard of banana peel, a hideously deformed half of a plastic bottle cap, a soggy piece of stained linen paper, a toe with blue-manicured nail, half an ear with a fake jade earring barely clinging and some undigested peanuts.
When the cramps subsided and my stomach had finally decided to keep the rest of its contents in, I tried to prop myself up with knees and elbows. It was then that I took better notice of the piece of linen paper swimming in my sick. Printed on it was the top left quarter of the alibata equivalent for the letter ‘a’ inside a circle. A calling card.
I gingerly picked it up with the tip of my forefinger and thumb and flipped it over. At the back, barely visible through the dark crimson stain, were half of the hand- scrawled numerals 9 and 6, and directly below it was “9:30” written in the same penmanship. I was being summoned. Route 196 at 9:30. And I just ate the messenger.
It would have been far less complex if you had just called, or had sent someone less flirtatious; someone with enough brains to just give me the card and wordlessly walk away on the first day of the blood moon. Fiona might have less than the brains the devil gave a duck, but she’s damn pretty, I’ll give you that. She gave a good head. So I ripped her’s off.
If it’s any consolation, it took me another half hour before I managed to stumble my way in to the shower as my head was still reeling, only to find that I had forgotten to buy a fresh bar of soap again. I had to content with lathering myself with anti-dandruff shampoo… and then the tap runs out before I could rinse myself. It was no fun either using a cold pitcherfull from the fridge as substitute.
I could not get hold of your mobile. I keep hearing a voice after the beep which says you will never be rich. You might as well quit the organ smuggling industry, especially when you are your own best costumer.
So I got in touch with Old Vincent. He made the gig sound so simple, as if it were just another hit: “Target’s one Arya Aquino, leader o’ de Seventh Seal Movement. Ayuh, the one who calls ‘emselves a charismatic group when cult would’ve been closa’ ta home. 1642 San Marcelino, Malate. Word is this Arya’s psychic, de real deal and she’s got one o’ us held captive fer an exper’ment o’ somesort. Prob’ly Fat Johann. Haven’t sniffed his stench fer some time naw… But whoeva’ Arya’s got, fo' sure he aint happy. That’s why Selene wants it done tonight. Capish?”
I capished.
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