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.