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”.