Cesspools
Or
What Is So Wrong About Me?
Why do all the little people run in terror? Why do all the scum and vermin and hypocrites and merchants of temptation run from me? Do they not realise that they themselves are far more frightening than I?
Terrence Guthy is the kind of name that invokes a middle class man, with slicked back hair and a briefcase, speaking in a voice slightly higher pitched than usual.
However, if you asked any of the folks in the same estate as him, the name Terrence Guthy invokes only one word.
Fear.
Terrence Guthy is a drug dealer, pimp, and all round nasty piece of work. If you added together the number of people he himself has killed, or had killed by a member of his 'Anonymous Profit Organization' with the number of people left with their lives ruined by him, you'd have a number in the area of 126.
Incidentally, that was the number of his apartment.
Located on the 12[sup]th[/sup] floor of an apartment block, that itself was located on the mid west side of the city.
During the day, he would feed his cats, swear at his wife, maintain a semblance of normalcy so that if the police came knocking, as they inevitably would from time to time, he could pretend to be surprised that they were there, show them round his home, prove to them there were no illicit substances stashed between the kitchen tiles, and send them on their way.
Then he would snort the substances in between the kitchen tiles and collapse on the couch.
It was in this state that he saw a man appear out of thin air and collapse on his carpet.
"I'm definitely going to be speaking to my suppliers in South America about this..."
In an alley leading onto a colourfully lit main street...
A dog whined in the shadows. A man carrying a woman on his shoulder, who giggled at his drunken jokes exactly the way she was paid to. And Garth Calierie closed up his stall, pushing the last of the unsold merchandise into an unmarked bag.
Garth had come to the city with big dreams. He had achieved a few of them. Get a job, check. Buy an apartment, check. Pay rent on the apartment for more than a month, check. The rest were shadows, mocking him from their havens in his mind. Make money, no. Sleep with a woman he didn't pay for, no. Move out of Terrence Guthy?s neighbourhood, double no.
Garth lived under the crime lord, as everyone in this block did. You either worked for him, with him, or you stayed the hell out of his business and didn't meddle. However, those that stayed out were often pulled in, and those who resisted were often found dead in their homes. Just another day on this estate.
He picked up his bag, sighed, and walked out of the alley.
The dog turned its face, and a bat like snout and ears dispelled all notions that this was any ordinary Labrador.
Drane had never gone to any place like this in his previous stage of existence. Firstly, he would never have been allowed to, and secondly, he would never have wanted to. Being a man of god after all, why would he ever visit a place such as this, a place so heavy with the sin of its inhabitants? They would
all need to be redeemed.
Terrence was not fond of having strangers in his place of living. They tended to sell any information they got to the police, and that would kick off another visit. So when people materialised above his carpet, as they rarely did, he was immediately suspicious.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Emanuel rose, dusted himself off, and stared at the gun.
"Um... Visiting your delightful abode?"
He couldn't help it; sarcastic comments were in his nature.
"You think you can barge in here, then insult my home and get away with it? Is that your game? Well, that idea can fuck off back to where it came from."
The safety was flicked off. Terrence really did not like having strangers in his apartment.
"Now, I think you're mistaken. See, I never barged in here. Merely materialized. Big difference."
He really did have to stop, but the man was clearly off his head, and toying with men off their heads was too much fun.
Garth's day had never been that good. He hadn't sold that much merchandise, the whores had all been too expensive, and now there was a monster sitting on his chest, babbling about the lord.
"You sinners, you fiends from a dark pit! Have you no decency? No common self respect? I am..."
Fiends from a dark pit? He was one to talk.
"...light of the lord shall purge you all! Your fiendish wickedness will perish while your souls are dragged into the deepest abyss..."
"Hey, uh, sorry to bother you, but as an Atheist, this doesn't apply to me."
For the first time, it actually seemed to focus on him.
And he didn't like that.
"You are even worse? You are one who decries the lord, one who lives with no morality, with no restraint? You will have special treatment."
The way he said it implied this was not a prize.
"Don't worry. I shall make sure you quit your sins before my hour with you is passed."
BANG.
The sound ricocheted around the apartment as if the bullet had missed.
But the bullet hadn't missed. Red flowers bloomed in a blue garden striped with white.
Terrence Guthy fell.
A smoking gun, in the hand of his wife.
A confused stranger, wearing out of place clothing and carrying a sword at his hip.
A black shape at the window.
Shards of glass on the floor.
The wife, still with the gun in her hand, with her back to Emanuel now.
A monster, with its arms around her.
A spurt of blood against the wall.
Two corpses, two living.
There was no forgetting the figure that Emanuel saw. This was almost certainly his opponent. And he couldn't think of a witty one liner.
Odd, for him.
Drane recognised this man. He must be his opponent, his stepping stone on the path to godhood. His obstacle to be removed. His enemy. And any enemy of his must be an enemy of the lord. And any enemy of the lord must be purged.
Emanuel drew his rapier. Drane flexed his claws.
"How about a sporting duel? Best of three?"
"A single fight. Loser dies."
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that."
"Sinners don't get to dictate the rules."
A lunge from Drane both started the fight proper, and silenced any rebuttal from Emanuel. Claw met rapier. Rapier slid off claw. The combatants retreated. Emanuel stabbed at Drane's chest. Drane grabbed his arm, digging his claws in.
Red flowers bloomed once again. Emanuel grimaced, and then stabbed Drane in the arm with his dagger.
A howl from an anonymous apartment.
A dark shape fleeing from the window.
A strange figure holding his arm staring from the enclave of brightness down into the darkness below.
An arm descending from the patch of darkness above the window.
A man in strange clothes falling twelve floors down.
Eleven.
Shit. Shit. Shit. The beast had dropped him! Grabbed him then hurled him down. And his arm still hurt.
Ten.
He could still turn this around. The fight wasn't over until he was incapacitated or dead.
Nine.
Unfortunately for him, death seemed to be the likely outcome.
Eight.
Shit.
Seven.
Maybe if he grabbed onto the windowsills...
Six.
Didn?t work. And now his other arm hurt.
Five.
He had never imagined going out like this.
Four.
He had imagined that he might forfeit a duel or something.
Three.
Then maybe his opponent would take his life in payment.
Two.
Wait! Forfeit! That?s it! He would lose the fight, but keep his life.
One.
"I hereby forfeit my fight!"
Zero.
Drane heard a distinct lack of crunching noises. He assumed he must have been too high up. However, he did hear a voice in his head.
"Drane wins by forfeit!"
Wait, what?
