Willis Gordon is a fiction writer located in the DC area. Born and raised in Canton, Ohio. Gordon is a Lost Highwayman, a traveler, a patriot and a hellraiser. He writes some social and political commentary online and is currently working on a blog. Gordon is also hard pressed to describe his writing style. So here's what he got from readers.
"Gritty realism; the true feelings of the jaded youth of this generation"
Willis is a "Politico.semiautobiographical.degenerate"
"postmodern drifter westerns being skullfucked by a bottle of tequila"
"Where Hunter S. Thompson meets George Carlin"
Look for "The Long Road Home" in stores this fall from Authorhouse.
Demons
We give ourselves to God when the Devil no longer wants us. I hate Sunday nights. The dark, quiet, restrained nature they have, the impending doom of work the next morning. After letting you run free for two whole days, you are once again subjected to the chains of the 9-5. A grueling, soul-crushing, fruitless ritual we do to gain power, and social status. Do a good enough job to earn a good enough paycheck to buy a good enough car to catch a good enough woman to have good enough sex and have good enough children and have a good enough life until you die under the eerie discomfort of dull fluorescent lighting and some temp on the graveyard shift dumps your body in the morgue to the shattering sound of no one caring. But what do I know? I haven’t been to work in a month. They’ve probably found a replacement by now, some worm to do the bitch work for them. It doesn’t matter who does it, we’re all faceless to them… Some folks get off on the power, flexing at other people. Making them feel weak and helpless. I knew an executive once who used to hire secretaries just to berate, belittle, and occasionally cop a feel, which led to tears and subsequent humiliation. After he fired them for being “Weak” and “Without vision” he’d be in a good mood for the rest of the week. We all have our kinks and our vices. We gotta get off somehow. For the past 4 weeks I was holed up in my filthy apartment with endless bottles of cheap beer and rot-gut whiskey, so I guess that’s my thing. Maker’s Mark and Knob Creek make being a drunk on a budget a painful chore. But she was always there; I had to stay sober long enough to make sure she was alright. One she’d pass out somewhere or go to bed on the mattress, I’d get up and walk into the kitchen with my guitar, light a cigarette, and pour myself a highball. She always loved the rain. It’d been doing a lot of it over the course of the previous 2 or 3 weeks, so she would camp out on the windowsill next to the radio and stare deep into the heart of the storm. Her shoulders rolled with the thunder and her eyes flashed with the lightning; a deep hazel that was once bright as the midday sun, but were now faded and sunken in by black circles. She’d brush her dirty brown hair over her ear and look over at me every once in a while and smile. I’d sit there at the kitchen table with a bottle in front of me and just marvel at her. The childlike wonder she had with the rain. Eventually when she’d move to the floor I’d walk over and sit down behind her, and she’d fall back a bit and rest her head on my shoulder. I’d whisper in her ear and we’d talk and watch the rain, trying to remember, trying to get back. Back when it wasn’t all about work, or money, or waiting on the Man. Every Tuesday there’d be a knock at the door and no matter where she was or what she was doing, she’d spring up and bolt for the money drawer and open the door. The Man was a shady looking guy, but I guess that’s a requirement in his line of work. She’d always get real girly and her mannerisms would become childish when he was around. The Junk took her energy most of the time, but after the first kick she would get a burst; dancing to the rock on the radio, spastic and idiosyncratic movements jolting through her body. And then when the first wave died off, she would just lie there, nearly lifeless but in a state of such physical and mental ecstasy that I’d be ashamed to disturb her. Eventually our routine of drugs, sex and drink got the better of us, and it started to run our lives. The Man came more often, and I was out to the corner store for more High Life, cigarettes, and whiskey. Eventually we got into a bit of debt, but he was pretty lenient for the time being. Schedules were made around passing out, waking up, lying down and shooting up. Before long those endless rainy nights faded into distant memory, to some other world, and we drifted deep into the swallow of excess. I woke up when the sunlight hit my eyes through the grimy kitchen window. I had passed out face down on the table at around 3am and was now trying to collect myself. The intro to Zeppelin’s “Since I’ve Been Loving You” steamed out of the radio and filled the apartment as I tried to get to my feet. My vision was hazy and I wasn’t as coordinated as I remembered, but I ambled to the living room to see her curled up on the mattress. I watched her for a moment, and then realized she wasn’t just serenely sleeping, but totally motionless. Rushing to my knees at her side, I grasped her shoulders and shook. Nothing. Called her name. No response. She was gone, and never coming back. I was finally alone. Clouds were still hanging over the sky that Thursday morning when I kissed her goodbye; another storm was coming. Every ounce of my being wanted to stay there, wrap her in my arms and howl in agony until the seas rose and the sun flickered out. But something in me told me to pack up and go. I staggered to my feet, crushed the blood-filled syringe under my boot, and packed a bag. My hands are bleeding. I must’ve tripped in the gravel. I don’t even remember it. I’m running now, harder and with more abandon than ever. But where am I going? I look around. I’m trying to get to 12th street so I can catch a cab… Get to the train station. She- We owe the dope man money. Have to get to 12th. I must’ve run right into the storm, it’s raining hard now. Christ, it’s raining. I’m nearly blind. I wave down a taxi on 12th and sling my bag into the cavernous backseat of the Crown Vic before spilling into it myself. I croak out my destination and the Cabbie cranks the windshield wipers into high gear and takes off. He’s telling me some story about a customer who called for a pickup and was dissatisfied by the hygiene of the taxi. Or something, I wasn’t really listening. Anyone who has ridden in a cab before knows the driver has a running monologue that goes on whether someone is in the back or not. Hands shaking, I lit a cigarette and slipped the lighter back into my jeans. I heard more musings on the divide between the haves and have-nots in America. Crazy bastard was still going. I took a long, deep drag as I saw the station come into view. We rolled in and he wrapped up, giving me some indistinct, formless moral to it all, and I mumbled my agreement. I gave him the last of my crumpled up cash and walked away from my home forever. I’ve been on this train for a day and a half now. I used my emergency cash and bought a ticket for the furthest thing headed west. I’m trying to start again, trying to forget the emptiness and Pain I feel whenever I think about her. Whenever I see her face. When I pulled out of the station that stormy Thursday, I watched the raindrops slide down the window. The paths they left looking like wasting veins, track marks. I have to shake that off now, start again. There’s still time. We all have our kinks, our vices…our demons. I know I have problems to work out, hills to climb; but you know what? So do you. I’m not saying that I’m running off to join the clergy and teach special Ed, because people never change the big things, but I can make adjustments. I know it. I have to believe it. There’s still time.
Suburban Horror It was at that exact moment that he realized how much his life had turned to shit. Reaching into the garbage can, he plucked an enormous gob of bright pink, double bubble chewing gum from the base, and dropped it into the bag. “Sweet Jesus.” He thought to himself, “What am I doing here? I had potential, damnit! I was gonna be valedictorian if that Asian bastard wasn’t so good at calculus.” … Portrait of a man, anywhere from his late twenties to mid forties. Imagine the horror when you discover you’ve lived your life on auto-pilot for years. That startling find, coupled with the crushing defeat of the 9-5 is enough to drive anyone insane. But our protagonist doesn’t crack; he doesn’t lash out, or go postal… He only reflects, since there is no soul left in him to crush, no life to be ruined, nothing left to cry out for Freedom. “They said I was gonna be somebody. What the Hell happened? I hate my job, but I don’t have the balls to quit, I don’t know what I’d do. I hate my boss, she’s always bitching about something, I could understand if I was some inept retard and she was a master of her craft, whatever the fuck it may be. But she’s not! She’s dumb and she resents all the smart people in the office, but somehow she’s the manager.” He swapped out the trash bags in one office and moved to another. “Who the Hell do all these people think they are? People in middle management who think they’re Kings in White Collars just because they got here before I did, always giving me shit for the way I dress, the way I talk, anything. Fuck them. Fuck all of them, I see why people go postal and kill everyone in the office. It’s all a bunch of horseshit! All they do is dump on people and talk about how much they get laid. I can’t even remember the last time I got laid.” He looked scornfully down at his cheap wedding band. “Was it after the Christmas party? Or New Years? I think it was New Years… Jesus H, it’s mid- June!” He gathered his things and waved to the Janitor on his way out. Walking into the parking lot, he fumbled for his keys, still rambling in his head. “Look at this car, what a piece of junk. I had a Camero when I was in High School; I just had to sell the damn thing. I hate this car, I hate these people, I hate this company. I don’t even USE the shit we produce! At least I didn’t until they started making us in the contracts. Bastards.” He drove down the highway, continuing his rant and swerving between lanes. “I can’t believe this shit. I was gonna be somebody!” A beamer cut him off, leaving only about an inch between the cars as it passed. He didn’t rage, he didn’t get scared, Hell, he barely noticed. As he made his way back home, he almost cried from the unbearable anguish of his realization. His existence didn’t mean a damn thing. He was going to live and die, and no one would blink. A useless speck of dust hurtling through space, just waiting to expire. He was consumed with self pity, horror, and helplessness as he got out of his car and walked into his house. The dog watched him come in, but didn’t move, and his plain looking wife turned around from the sink to greet him. “Hi, honey” she said, smiling, “how was your day?” “Great!” He said earnestly, “How was yours?” Outcasts from Heaven “When you stand before the sweet rays of that lady, whose bright eyes see all, you will learn of the journey of your life from her.”- Dante Alighieri One man’s journey to the Middle East in a hot, hostile summer leads him to find things he never thought he’d see in that part of the world, so far away from home. Cynicism loosened its grip on his heart, if only for a little while. This is his journal, a chronicle of his time there. This story is a small look in the window of his mind, just as it’s starting to change… I have peered into man’s Heart of Darkness, and saw very little that surprised me. Of course you see the worst man has to offer, but I was startled to also find the best. Riots in the street. People vs. Establishment. You have to go 8 ½ hrs ahead, halfway around the world to find someone actually “sticking it to the man”. Kent State happens bi-weekly. It’s all part of the routine. A man’s skull was opened up with a Billy club, another blinded by mace. One young man shot and killed, and his older sister, call her “Abigail” rushing to his side. The rifle raised and leveled and the whole world slowed down. Pushing a few people out of the way as I ran, I grabbed her around the waist and threw us both to the ground, immersed in the crowd. I never heard a shot go off. Looking down at her, the world came back to real-time. She was sobbing, swallowed entirely by despair. No sense of self-consciousness or restraint, just pure, unadulterated sorrow. In a way I had never done with another, I felt for her, identified with her pain. But there was no time for tears or goodbye if we were to survive. As I rushed her to the car, I looked back to see if we were followed; what I saw was protestors protecting a riot cop who’d crippled a man not 30 minutes before. If they hadn’t, it was certain death. The rioters were out for blood. Their brothers and sisters were being mangled and broken and the nation had been cheated. They were howling for a sacrifice, but the keepers of democracy, the keepers of the true meaning of the protest; they had a clamp on integrity and wouldn’t let it become Lord of the Flies. Not this time. My mind didn’t process the gravity of this scene until much later on. “You know, that’s bad for you.” I heard her say. “Yeah, so is throwing rocks at riot police.” I said, probably harsher than I’d meant. “Well,” I puffed, recovering, “a little cancer never killed anybody, right?” she smiled, but tenderly, almost a wince. It was then I saw that she was truly and uniquely beautiful. Her face shone anew, hair tossed, but befitting, and my fresh, crisp T-shirt. She was a new age, liberal woman from the Middle East, wearing Jeans even. England had given her a taste of Western style, and she never looked back. Her brown eyes seemed to call me to her, and I walked closer. I heard her voice say, “I don’t want to hurt for so much” as she rubbed her hand across my unshaven face, and drew me into her mouth. Her tongue danced gently with mine, and she took off my clean, white, shirt. I was quick to follow suit, and as we kissed, I reached around for the clasp of her bra; her hands scanned and rubbed my back, as I exposed her pert, humble breasts. Kissing her neck, she let out a staggered exhale, and I worked my way down to the inside of her hip, below the navel. She trembled, and I took hold of the back of her thighs to steady her. Arching her back on the bed, she slid her pants down to her knees, and I removed them, tossing them back as I kissed up her thigh. Soon I was inside her, and her rhythms were not quite virginal, something she picked up in England, probably. She whispered and moaned in Arabic, but somehow I knew what she was saying. Her eyes grew wide, and for a split-second I thought I’d hurt her, but what I’d mistaken for pain turned out to be a wild, rapturous climax. She dug into my back and I soon followed, collapsing for a moment into sweat, flesh, and ecstasy. As she slept, I sat smoking on the edge of the bed, realizing what had occurred earlier in the day. My evaluation of man is savage by nature, wicked by deed, and holy by official record. The entire sinner/saint paradox struck me as impossible, or unlikely. I wasn’t entirely wrong. It is still unlikely, but the capacity for good in man exists, and I have seen it. Not just in the altruistic impulses to jump in front of a gunman, not some disaster area relief fund. But in the shades of moral gray where the light flickers through. Jesus, that policeman couldn’t have been 25. He thought he was on this side of right, as did the protestors. He cracked open another young man’s head like it was an egg; they could’ve been classmates. But wild, rabid crowds lose individuality when they turn savage, and the brothers on opposite sides of the conflict are swallowed by the conflict itself as history has proven time and time again. But a group of young protestors, the real deal wanted to cease the savagery, stop the blood flow, save a life, if not just for this moment. They protected him not because they agreed with his ideals, but because he represented life. And life, no matter what side of the politics it’s on, was sacred. These boys showed me that the Heart of Darkness, while vast, is not all encompassing. And for that, I thank them. Sunday Morning Dawn. I’m still awake. Shit… I reach for the bottle of Speyburn; empty. Sunday morning hates my guts. My jacket is starting to hug my body in a way clothes do in the third day of wear. Taking a walk down the empty street, I look at the morning light coming over the trees, dancing between the pines and touching down on parked cars. A homeless man lay passed out behind an Element. Even in his sleep, he has no class or style. I’ve only drank myself sober three times in my life, and this was one of those times. Watching the sun come up with nothing but a bottle of scotch and a feeling of emptiness and decay gets a man to thinking. “What happened to my life?” We’ve all heard the awful excuse that some things are beyond our control, but those are never the things that matter, are they? You go bald, you lose the promotion, you disappoint your family, who cares? How did you lose your step? How did you get so dead inside? It wasn’t the drink, it wasn’t the smoke, it was The Dream. No one ever tells you how hard life is going to kick you in the balls until it’s too late. They always wait until you’re kneeling on the ground cupping yourself and gasping for breath to tell you that people don’t change, they’re out for blood, and love is just a lie. A fairy tale to help you sleep at night, next to a stranger. The wicked thing is you want to believe it so bad. I did. Time and time again we get beat over the head with reality, and here we are, crawling back into the shadows of illusion, of lies, of comfort and bliss. I look at my watch, nobody’s open for another hour and a half. It may take that time to walk to Linda’s diner. I might have enough money for a cup of coffee. I can’t even count the hours I’ve spent in avoidable pain. Staring at the phone, too foolish, stubborn, or drunk to get up and go to sleep. Maybe they were spent in shouting matches, fighting so hard for something we aren’t sure we even want. We’re supposed to want it. That’s what they tell you to do. And it feels so damn good when it’s right, a safety net, a security blanket, making sure you don’t ever have to be alone. But I know better; you’re born into this world alone, and you’re damn well going to die alone. There is no escape. It happens to all of us, what matters is what we do in-between. That’s where I am. Wondering where the Hell all my time went. Friends dead or alienated, women infuriated, and only a flicker of the past to guide me into the murky future. I cut through the factory yard and over the fence onto concrete. I hear a crack and a crunch. There goes the back of my left shoe. Sunday mornings hate my guts. I look at my watch again, it’s almost 7 and I can see Linda’s in the distance, her red F-150 is there already, she’s opening up. I take off down the hill and reach for my cigarettes. Even though I can predict our behavior pretty well, I just don’t understand people. How many times can you get up after you’ve been hit, and walk right into the same thing, all in the name of happiness? Self fulfillment? I understand fighting the good fight; I try to do it every day. At least I realize some days I’m going to kick ass, and other days, I’m going to get my ass kicked. Some of us thing we’re fighting, when we laid down and died years ago. That’s the worst part. I feel even more hollow waiting to cross the street. All the dead 7am faces, corporate zombies hungry for mediocrity. They trudge through the morning without thought or effort as if programmed to go out and make scenery. I walk into Linda’s; it’s always warm in there. She greets me emphatically and puts on a pot. “You look like Hell, son.” She tells me. “Sunday morning, huh?” I nodded, rubbing my chin to confirm my mental image of myself, broken down and haggard. Linda is a very understanding and kind person. I suppose it comes with the territory of being a large, southern raised woman. After becoming a widow her luck soured. Her oldest boy died in the dorm fire 4 years ago, and her other son is in Afghanistan. Somehow she maintains, appearing to have not a care in the world, an unbreakable smile, and the best damn diner in the state. I put my change on the counter and she hands me my cup of coffee, then she sizes me up, and asks about breakfast. I slap my pockets as if to say, “I’m broke.” But she just waves me off and starts making eggs for two. Linda has hope in this world with her sorrow, so I guess I do too... Drinks with Death "Man, on the day of his death, falls down before the angel of death like a beast before the slaughterer"
“Abigail” had stopped crying for the most part when we arrived at my hotel. I told her my name, and that I was an American Journalist on assignment. I knew she understood me, she looked about 23, I’d later learn she went to England for college, Oxford specifically. She composed herself and said simply, “Thank you”. We went upstairs to my room and I told her to make herself comfortable, clean herself up a bit. We were covered in dust and my elbow was bleeding. She washed her face and insisted she was fine. “Well” I said, standing as she emerged from the bathroom, “I’m gonna shower. Please, sit.” I took off my clothes and stepped into the warm shower, my shoulders relaxed, but I made sure my mind didn’t drift far, and my ears stayed open. A few minutes later I heard her begin to weep all over again. My mind went to my own brother, gunned down in broad city daylight on a Sunday morning across the ocean. Again, I felt for her. She had stopped by the time I got out and put my pants on. I walked out as I pulled my shirt down over my head.
She looked up at me, eyes still red, “Thank you again, I-” I held up my hand. “Stop. I just did what I felt was right… And I know how you feel, what you’ve lost.” She looked at me, puzzled for a moment, as if I couldn’t possibly comprehend her heartache and woe, but ready to understand in the next. “I lost my brother the same way. Murder. I wasn’t there, but I should’ve been.” In that moment, she seemed to understand. She leaned into me and put her head to my chest. “Does the hurt ever stop? Will it get better?” Her voice was breaking, “Eventually” I lied. “But it’ll hurt like Hell for a long time.” She grabbed hold of me and lied there, helpless, broken. “I don’t want to hurt for so much. Not now. Mother and Father, for country, and now for my baby brother.” She stopped and choked, then buried her head in my chest. I rubbed her shoulder and kissed her head to try and console her, but I thought I’d change the subject. “Now look, you’ve got blood on your shirt.” “Not mine.” I stood and walked to my suitcase, pulling out a white T-shirt and offering it to her. I turned my back to give her some privacy, walking to the window and lighting a cigarette. I had disarmed the smoke alarm 2 days prior, so I had to cross my fingers about the room bursting into uncontrollable flames without my knowledge.
The storm was raging across the desert that night. All the barflies, tourists, and journeymen sought shelter inside in a little bar off of Route 26. Rain whipped violently against the siding, and only a very few attempted to brave the weather and ride out that night.
The Man sat at the bar alone, for the most part. There were people to his left and right, but they were engaged in their own conversation, their own lives, their own worlds. He had gone through six and a half packs already that day, and was thankful he carried two more in his pockets from the carton in his car. Lighting up, he signaled for another beer. He looked like a vagrant, wearing an old suit that was worn, dusty, and broken. His hat sat back on his head, and his tie looked as though it hadn’t been untied or washed in years. The bartender kept an eye on the Man all night, he’d be damned if this tramp was going to fall out at his bar.
The Man didn’t fall out, but stayed hunched over the same growing mountain of cigarette butts in the ashtray, not spilling a drop of booze. He was a clean drunk, and that seemed to be the only thing clean about him. He watched men play pool and eat at their tables and booths, giving the waitresses all kinds of Hell. Downing the last of his beer, his attention shifted to the rhythm of the storm outside. Thunder shook the building and lightning would brighten up the dim place for a split second, exposing its filth and ugliness to anyone who’d care to look. The Man felt sick to his stomach, he turned back into his cloud of smoke and watched baseball highlights over the bar.
Outside the sound of a Chopper grew as loud as the thunder itself and was silenced. The door opened. Wind and rain crashed in and the entire bar swung its focus towards the door. As it closed, a small, shirtless American Indian boy walked in, dry as a bone. Stillness fell over the place as the boy walked up to the bar. The Man was in deep thought, and after being startled by the noise, went back to his drink. The boy tugged on his coattails, looking up at him silently, not seeming to blink. After a few tugs the Man turned around and stared into the face of the child, and saw his own, bedraggled, grimy, unshaven reflection in his eyes. “Who’re you?” The Man rasped, as if he hadn’t spoken in days. Thunder boomed outside and in a flash of lightning, the boy stepped back and morphed into an enormous shrouded figure. The base of the figure was engulfed in flames for a moment, and a low, terrible roar came from beneath the hood. Suddenly all the men and women who were reluctant to brave the weather and ride on had vanished in a mad rush.
The flames went out, and the figure, standing around 7 feet tall, took his hood down, revealing the face of the archangel Samael.
The Man sighed. “I knew you’d come lookin’ for me again someday. What do you want?” “It’s time.” Death rumbled, his voice sounding horribly unnatural, a mixture of highs and lows, hundreds of voices speaking as one. “Cut that shit out, I know you. You ain’t foolin’ anybody.” The Man said, kicking back the last of his beer. “Might as well sit, I’m not going easy.” Death looked him over, sized him up, and sat down next to him.
They heard a whimper escape from under the bar. The Man looked at Death, and then to the bar. He stood up and leaned over it, finding the bartender cowering in sheer terror between two cases of whiskey. “The Hell are you doing down there?” He asked, pulling him to his feet by the collar. “What the Hell is that thing?” The bartender said, looking at Death with hopeless dread and terror in his eyes. “Didn’t you ever go to Sunday School?” The Man quipped. “He’s an archangel. The angel of Death to be specific.”
“Ho-lee shit.” The bartender exhaled, gawking at the behemoth before him. “Well, not really holy per say. Actually…” The Man said, turning his attention to the hulking metatron sitting next to him. “Are you holy? I mean, your job doesn’t suggest the sweetest of backgrounds.” “There is nothing unnatural or unholy about death. It is simply a fact of Worldly life.” “Point taken. But seriously, the voice; it’s killing me. You’ve never used that before.” “What you heard was a voice in your head, not my voice in your head.” “You sneaky little ethereal bastard.” “The true sound of an Angel’s voice would rupture your internal organs. Turn your heart and brain to jelly. It would kill you instantly.” “So what? That’s your job isn’t it? Killing people. You’re a righteous spiritual assassin from another realm.” “It wouldn’t be any fun that way.” “Oh, now he gets a sense of humor.”
“Barkeep!” The Man howled, slapping his hand on the bar. I need a bottle of Tequila and two shot glasses. Jose`?” “Patron`. Are you high?!” “Good choice.” The shaky bartender got his hands to stop just long enough to place the bottle between the two and retrieve a pair of shot glasses. “You know how this goes, pal. Salt and lime me over here.” The man said, gesturing to the open space on the bar where he moved his ashtray and bottle pyramid. “It’s been a while since Tijuana, huh?” “I spend a lot of time down there; I try to make it down once a month to spend a week or two.” “Jesus, no wonder that place is such a dump now.” “Which Hilton where you staying in?” “I’m just saying man; it wasn’t nearly as dangerous or shitty when we were down there.” “Give me that” Death said, reaching for the salt. The man jumped a little, hopping back and keeping his hands away from Death’s cold, bony touch.
“You’re scared.” “Cautious.” The man said. He looked down at the salt, sprinkled across the bar like new fallen snow and raised his eyebrows. “Wow. You got good at this.” “It’s a miracle!” Death said sarcastically, waving his arms. He waved his hand, and the limes fell apart into small chunks. “Small, insignificant little parlor tricks.” “Insignificant? You know how much you could clean up shooting craps with that?” The man said. Death shrugged “We can’t gamble”. “But you can drink?” “I don’t make the rules. I suppose we’re allowed but one vice.” “Could I be able to do that? Move things?” “Of course not. You’ll be dead before morning.” “I don’t know… you’ve got a bad track record with me.” “Please.” Death scoffed, slamming his shot-glass into the salt. “You think you’re bad? Do you know how many times I had to kill Reagan? It’s unnatural. Rasputin was no picnic either. Some of you are just like cockroaches.” He tossed back the shot and bit the lime.
“I’m flattered, really.” The Man chuckled, shaking his head and grinding his glass against the salt. “Being compared to a cockroach is what I always wanted to do when I grew up.” “No, you wanted to be shortstop for the Dodgers.” his eyes grew wide as he wondered if the supernatural being could read his innermost thoughts. “Relax. You told me in Tijuana. Photographic memory is essential in this job.” The Man pounded back his shot and sucked on the lime, his nerves calming for the moment. “I’d forgotten about that. I still got away, though. Bet Reagan wasn’t blackout drunk when he cheated Death.” “You’d be surprised…” “No way.” “Gandhi took a swing at me. Genghis Khan cried. JFK was pretty indifferent. He just asked I make it memorable.” “My God… I think my brain is going to explode. But I gotta know, what was the King like? I mean, when you came to get Elvis, what’d he say?” “When I came to-? Oh, please. Don’t be a child.” “What’re you talking about?” “Elvis Aaron Presley works at a Carl Jr’s in Jackson, Mississippi. Couldn’t be happier. Everyone knows that.”
Half an hour later the bottle had barely enough for two more shots and the two were beginning to reel a little from the tequila. “Are you drunk yet?” The Man asked. Death shook his massive head. “We may have a problem.” He said, lighting up. He held the pack towards Death, but he waved him off. “I quit.” “What? Death himself is a non-smoker? Jesus, what is the world coming to?” “Who do you think turned the Indian’s on to tobacco? This guy.” “You can get back on the wagon for one night, can’t you?” “Whiskey is next, right?” Death asked, subtly changing the subject. “Yeah. Make it Jack, will you?” “So how’s life been treating you since Mexico?” “Like shit.” Said the Man, “Most days I feel like a motherless child, an orphan, cold and alone. I had to quit gambling, I have too many problems as it is. I don’t need to help matters by getting in with the sharks.” Death nodded as he poured whiskey into a six glass pyramid on either side of the circular wooden table. “I don’t have any prospects. Just living day-to-day. I’m so damn apathetic, but I can’t help it. This feeling of emptiness fills me and I can’t shake it. I fear I’ve seen the end of days come to the sound of cheap beer hitting concrete, with only warm whiskey and cold women to keep me company, and I can’t bring myself to care… Shit.” He slammed back three shots, bared his teeth, and pounded the table. “Sorry.” He coughed, I needed that. “Sounds rough” Death murmured, kicking back a shot. “The problem is that when the Pain comes; in those wee hours when your mind wanders right before you go to sleep, I can barely stand it. All the guilt and the sorrow comes rushing up, the nasty things I’ve done. My ex-wife and kids I never see, the string of other kids from here to Trenton, everybody I ever hustled, the whole deal.”
“That’s why I’m here. It can all be over soon.”
“I may be tired of running, but I’m not finished. Not by a sight.”
Death put back another shot and evened the matchup. Three full shot-glasses remained on either side of the table. The two locked eyes for a moment, Man and Death, and realized that however unnatural this kinship was, it was indeed genuine. The Man had drifted into a daze, falling into the chasm of his own mind, reliving things that needed to stay buried, and Death had started to get a little woozy from the drink. In that suspended moment of pensiveness, lightning struck and a monstrous thunderbolt jarred them from their reverie.
The Man shook his head and closed his eyes tight. Opening them, he reached for the shot-glass in front of him, cigarette wobbling in his mouth. He removed the cigarette and downed the shot in a motion that could almost pass for graceful. Death got a tiny smile on his face, the kind that you try and hide because you don’t want anyone to ask you what’s funny. In a very deliberate, calculated motion, he reached over and picked up the glass, staring into it for a moment, and then slamming it back. He was beginning to show signs of fatigue. The Man knew better than to get confident. This had happened in Tijuana and Death had kept going strong for another two hours. The signs of slowing came long before the Archangel would actually stop.
90 minutes had passed and they had killed the whiskey. The barkeep had started bringing out pitchers of beer, one each, and already one empty pitcher sat beside both of them at the table. The Man was starting in on a new pack of cigarettes; lighting up, he put the pack in his front jacket pocket as smoke swirled around his head. “You know,” Death started, “You think you got it bad. Do you have any idea how rare this is for me? To actually talk with someone? No one wants to see me coming, they’re all terrified, scared out of their minds. Even the angels steer clear of me, just because I work for both sides. That doesn’t make me some ghastly “Agent of Satan”. He’s a jackass anyway. You know, I shouldn’t tell you this, but he was lobbying hard for Simon and Garfunkel before all the Heavy Metal guys started pledging their allegiance to him. He’s a big folk-rock fan. He still listens to Peter Paul and Mary for weeks on end. I t’s a little gay.” “I guess the Prince of Darkness isn’t so dark after all.” “No, he’s still dark; he’ll torture people for decades on end just for the sport of it. He just has queer taste in music. I swear I heard The Captain and Tennille one day.” “Sweet Jesus.” “Tell me about it.”
All the while they talked they downed the beer like it was water, trading stories and laughing heartily. Ten pitchers later, the two began to feel the effects of the night’s consumption. The Man started to get drunken tunnel vision, focusing on one point in the room for minutes on end, and then breaking back into reality for a moment. Death’s eyes had begun to glaze and his great, massive body swayed back and forth in the chair. The Man wasn’t sure if it was yet time to make his move, he looked over at the Barkeep, who kept a safe distance behind the bar eyeing them cautiously. He let the smoke into his lungs and held it, trying to gather his thoughts in his liquor-soaked brain. As he let it go, an exasperated exhale escaped Death’s mouth and he put his hand out. “Give it here.” “Ha!” The man said, visibly pleased with himself, “Nobody ever really quits. I knew you had it in you.” He pulled a cigarette out of the pack and handed it to Death. He put it to his lips and leaned in as the Man held his lucky Zippo and lit it for him.
Death took a drag and leaned back in his chair. He breathed the smoke out and chuckled to himself. “Well, who wants to live forever?” he said, looking at the cigarette between his pale, bony fingers. Two more pitchers sat down before them on the table, and the Man started in on his first. Death began to stagnate, getting about halfway done with his pitcher and pausing to try and clear his head. The Man saw his opening.
“I gotta take a leak, or I’m gonna explode over here.” He said, standing up carefully. “Bladders are overrated. I don’t have that problem.” Death gurgled at him. The Man lurched toward the bathroom, trying to keep the bar from spinning. Walking in and closing the door, he looked around for a window, or some kind of escape route. Finding none, he staggered to the mirror and grabbed hold of the counter to keep from falling down. Looking into the mirror he began to think to himself, preparing himself for the challenge that lie ahead. “Ok.” The Man said out loud. “You’ve done this before; nothing to it. Just disable the motorcycle, and run like Hell. You can make it to the car, then just drive until you find someplace to hide out. He can’t touch you. You can make it. You can make it.” He splashed cold water on his face and jumped around in place.
Death was nodding in and out when the Man walked back to the table. He shot a glance over to the barkeep, who was staring right back at him, wearing a look that seemed to scream, “Go! Run, you idiot!” The Man look at Death, who seemed to be unconscious, picked up his half empty pitcher and drained it. Then without a word, he bolted outside into the colossal, ferocious, 4am storm.
As soon as he stepped out into the jet-black abyss, wind whipped at his eyes and rain drenched him in a matter of seconds. The Man looked around frantically, squinting into the storm to try and see where Death’s chopper was parked. He trotted around the outside of the bar, only his and the bartender’s car remained, but there was something near the side of the building… something moving. He made his way over to it, expecting it to be some massive motorcycle that ran on human souls and the fires of Hell. When he was right up on it, he heard a mighty snort, and in a flash of lighting stood face to face with an eight-foot, elephant of a pale horse, who reared up on its hind legs and whinnied so loud that the Man’s knees buckled under the sheer force of the noise. He shuffled backward for a moment, and then stood to his feet with one hand out in an attempt to calm the beast. “Easy, easy now.” The Man whispered. “Good Lord, you are a big boy…” he said as he eased back toward the gargantuan creature and carefully untied it from the post. The horse didn’t move. The Man stood still for a moment, waiting for it to run free, but the creature didn’t budge. “Damnit! Christ, what’s wrong with you, you big stupid animal?!” He tried to run at it and scare it into moving, and still it didn’t budge. It took a step towards him and snorted, and it was all he could do not to run in the opposite direction. He stood and looked at the horse and kicked the ground in frustration.
He looked inside the window closest to him and realized where he was, and dropped to the ground as Death stirred at the table. Rising slowly, the Man peeked over the ledge to confirm that the Angel of Death was in fact, still down for the count; but when he looked back in, no one was at the table. He heard the bartender scream before he was hurled across the bar, through a pool table and smacked clean against a wall. The Man started to run to his car, fumbling for his keys in his pockets, he got there and opened the door just in time to look back and see Death crash through a window and land on his feet in the midst of the storm.
The Man scrambled into his car and started it up, looking in the rearview mirror at Death standing in the rain, drawn up to his fully height, shoulders heaving, looking as if he were going to destroy the entire world. But he wasn’t, it was just him he was after, the Man was alone in his danger. Swallowing hard, he slammed his foot on the gas and burned out in an attempt to escape. Death reached a bony hand out from beneath his cloak and swiftly flicked his wrist in the Man’s direction.
The Man was looking into his mirror with horror when the back tires gave out and he went into a spin. He wrestled the steering wheel, fighting for control of the car before giving up and bailing out. He timed it just right and fell in a sprawling drunken heap out of the car onto the pavement, on his hands and knees he coughed and spit, shaking his head and trying to refocus. He squinted into the distance to see Death unsheathing a long, battered, viciously sharp sword and mounting his behemoth steed. The Man knew that this was his last chance, in those few seconds he felt all the terror and anxiety that was resting at the bottom of his soul well up and burst somewhere in his throat. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he thought. “Alone in the dark and rain somewhere in the Oregon desert, being run down like a mangy dog.” But that’s how it was happening and he had to try and do something about it.
Stumbling to his feet, the Man wiped his bloody hands on his pants and gave a defiant last look at Death, then sprinted with all his might towards the highway. He had done it before, and he believed he could do it again.
Death sat on his horse and watched the Man run away, listening to his mortal heart beating heavy and loud in his chest, and in the core of the unrelenting storm, he raised his blade and gave chase.
adam s - 2010-05-07 11:14:18
Very Good Brother, I so dig it..