Quality

“Hail Satan,” says the man on the street as we converge. It sounds less like a statement than a question. Does he need affirmation from me? What should I do?

I’m getting religion now, right? Should I murumble, uh, hail Satan? It works better when you say it out loud though. Why can’t I say it out loud? He seems like a nice old feller. Not like those wolves loitering around the steps of the temple for free bread and soup and socialization. I’ll give them the signum satanus. There. It’s okay, nobody saw anyway. Invisibility, the one ability I squeeze from an able body. There’ll be no consequence, for anything.

“I said, Hail Satan,” the old man says again, re-appearing from nowhere. I was flanked, stalked. What’s he waiting for? There are wolves out here.

“What do you want from me, sir?” I say as the adrenalin cycle begins. I should meet his eyes, gauge the gaze, but I half want to run, to the temple. He could decide in a split second that I’m not his kind, he might want my blood. I’ve been told my blood is good, type G, which we all know is rich with analgesic alkaloids – and those old folks may be feeble, but their noses are experienced. Why didn’t I bring the dread side-arm today? Because I was blissed-out this morning, and now I’m gonna pay. The martial arts course would have paid for itself, if I’d gone, instead of hibernating that month.

In the middle of inner-dialog, I’m gripped from the side and spun around, with a clamp on my arms and waist. Something slices into my exothroat, followed by a suction funnel binding to the breach. Feeble old man, didn’t make it to the jugular. Yet. A shot rings out and he jerks me forward like a sodomite, then slumps to the street in front of me, clawing my shoulders on the way down with a half-second of life. I stumble out from his grasp, nearly falling myself. The suction cup is spurting my blood out of a tube segment in rhythm to my pulse.

Now I see one of the wolves with a smoking gun, the half-naked, body-pierced child of fifteen or so, who saved my life.

“You owe me,” she says, licking her lips. I nod.

“Can’t stand those geri vampires,” says another wolf, a long-haired waif in a ballcap. Fuck, is this enough spiritual experience for one day? Can I get some peaceful worship now? The devil may care.

“Hey, nice immune system you got there man,” the waif tells me. My exothroat isn’t spurting blood anymore. It’s foaming scabs. I guess I should be proud. I rip the suction cup off my wound, sending pink globules of foam into the air. The tube flops around on the ground like a dildo.

“Hell is rancid electrons,” says somebody, like it’s a message for me, like it’s profound. He’s going gray in the beard, but he sounds like a wolf.

“Pack,” I say, and salute them punks. This is obligatory, they get off on it.