Lord of the Matrix 

Chapter 7; Mid-Life Crisis, You Say?

Blinding gray fog surges the temperature to the a hell point where little bubbles boil on a swamps surface.  On occasion, caldron bubbles grow like the sad sack of a frog, hiccupping in their conclusion, splattering the landscape.  The fogs engulfs the swamp, trees, brush, animals, they are overtaken its solid nature, an object to break a piece of and stick in a wallet, in a back pocket, to be examined later.  The trees grow in giant resurgences of land.  Fat with fog, branches and giant leafs willow over slithering reptiles who corkscrew around bark and snatch winged buzzing bugs with a snap of their tongue.

	Her small hut is everything she expected they expected it wasn’t.  She dug through filth for months, tracing the circumference of huge rocks, prying them from the ground, to bear attack from hundreds of insects scattering and crawling along her arms and into her hair, one dares cross her cheek, she rolls with her tongue and catches it.  Crunch.

	Her small home is where these rocks come to rest, where hundreds of other rocks form an incomplete circular wall—what good is a home without an entrance?  Her ingenuity discovered that when the dense weeding of the swamp is sun dried, it makes quality rope.  She ties rocks and logs with it and critical support beams stand erect on four areas of the hut.  The quarters is four feet tall, a radius of five.  Enough for one seeking refuge, not three.

	In this hut, one sweats.  The second worries.  The third snaps her jaw, the lullaby of her heart missing.  Red gauze of a liquid consistency pile next to a simmering fire.  The slobbering fog soaks the firewood, saturating the fire.  The third agonizes what she won’t describe.  It isn’t the kind of pain which hurts.  It is the kind of pain where nothing fills what has gone missing.  Like amputees dreaming limbs, her belly dreams itself hard and round.  Now, it isn’t worth fighting over.  Her mind bears her delusions.  She has dreamed before…of something missing…or something extra.  Now she dreams the pain she isn’t feeling.  Damage has been done.  Blood has been bleed.  Skin has been ripped.  The evidence stares her in the face.  This is painful.

	He warned me…he told me not to go out.

	Their voices muffle in her ears.  It all muffles.  Blood squeezes from the cloths covering her wound.  The cracks from the dying fire.  The saddle against the rattle of the horse’s throat.   Nevermind, she hears the horse fine and remembers…

	In the killing fields, she grasps the horse.  Field’s plump breasts push against her.  The horse gallops across dusty grounds.  Rat-tat-ata-tat…  Rat-tat-ata-tat…  In a blink, the sun has set, the red replaced by this swamp…I must have blacked out.  Understand what is happening.  It can’t be that hard.

	The delusion won’t release her.  The meek red of dying wood burns like an inferno…and she would run, if it wasn’t for the hole in her.  The horse…  The horse…  The horse…  Why it is out there alone?  The horse who saved me…  Doesn’t anyone notice the horse?  How upset it is?  Can’t they hear it’s screaming?  It screams louder and louder…  It is not safe…something…anything…what?

	“Something is out there.”  Azoric’s purple curls lie flat, stuck to the wetness of his forehead.  The rest of his hair lies heavy and bothers his neck.  The shadows move along the slickness of his skin.  The void of his face, between jaw and cheek is a defined and deep pit.  His pulse vibrates his skin of his neck and his shirt has stuck to him.  The little fire worsens the heat, if it is boiling outside, it is nuclear in here.  He tolerates, so does Fields, she needs the light…  Sit he has, confused and in shock…my child is dead.  Dead before it was even born.  And now Raven will die…and he feels…no, he is useless to stop it, was useless, now, out there, in the dark, a beast brings danger.  A beast who must be killed.  “The horse is upset.  Keep working.  I will hunt.”

	Fields continues at what used to be Raven’s lower belly.  In some places Raven’s skin shines, mostly, she is black from the blood coating her body.  The uterine wall is a giant hole, sizable enough for Fields squeeze her fist into.  If I work hard enough, a miracle might happen.  She knows better.  The almost developed child rests inside Raven.  The only chance is to tear it out, possibly from the wound.  Fields formulates plans, amongst her heavy breathing.  Several times she holds her hands at the wound, trying to find the will.  And while she debates, Raven closes her eyes, opening them infrequently.

	Fields, you’ve got to get it together.  The child is dead.  If you can’t do this, Raven will die to.  

	Outside, Azoric’s bow and arrow are drawn.  However, his eyes can’t see through the fog.  And the humidity causes trace scents to bloat the area, disarming his untrained nose.  Azoric’s ankle collapses in a weak slip of mud.  He lands in the wet and shakes his head.  He has never been in a situation like this…think Azoric, Marrin must have told you something.

	Like a ghost in the wind, a voice carries over the humidity.

	Trust in yourself...

	Azoric’s instincts question the authenticity of this voice.  However, he listens without prejudice.  This world is not one of garage bands and copy shops.  Here, anything has proven itself possible.

	“I am not a vampire.  I can not do what you do.”

	The voice doesn’t respond.  It has said what it came to say.

	“Trust myself.”

	Azoric raises the bow and for the first time in his life, follows the lessons of Marrin.  To not see, smell, feel, hear or taste his way to an enemy.  No, there is an entity, a power at play in the world.  With the fog, his lackluster abilities couldn’t find a grizzly.  Yet, his arms move left…and they move faster…his foot rotates.  Why have I stopped?  He stands still.  Am I supposed to shoot now?  

	The arrows fires…a body falls.

	“Hold your fire!  Hold your fire.  We come in peace.  We come in peace!”

	Azoric reloads and waits.

	The voice appears from the fog.

	“foodmart?  How should I have known?”

	foodmart stands with guards at side.  Commander V-man leads, bruiting from the heat.  Sweat pancakes the underarms of his uniform, a toilet ring of moisture around his neck.  His thoughts are simple: I have a pistol.  I could end this now.

	foodmart does not wish it so.

	“You should have known.  You know how much I love her.  When Commander V-man told me you had escaped…it is unimportant.  I can save her.”

“My dear lad, it has been a long slumber!  You must be tired!  Oh wait…it has been a long slumber, not journey…you must be rested then!”

	Duo sits hunched over, confused.  For an hour before his waking, he showed signs of life, a twitch of the eyebrow, a flicker of the wrist, a jostling of the knees and then the protection the cape provided with such strict dedication, peeled away.  His brain feels like it can’t think.  He spits to the side of the cave every minute or so, trying to rid the taste in his mouth.  He runs his hands through his hair and stops, the long, shoulder length, practically punkish blue of Duo’s locks have grown to his mid-back, and hangs in a movie star greasiness. 

	“I still don’t get it.  I don’t understand what happened.  I can’t remember…no, I can.  There was a fight, wasn’t there?”

	“Yes, there was a fight.  A terrible fight.”

	Somehow in this daft cave, Rekiski has produced a full English tea set.  He pours from a delicately kilmed piece of ceramic, leading into a sweeping gouge and a gold rimmed spout.  The set rests on a large boulder, cut flat for a table.  The two sit across from each other.

	Outside, Duo see the world he remembers.  Green, alive…  Then he sees the world he doesn’t.  Red, death…

	“I guess you don’t have to tell me who won.”

	“You shouldn’t let it bother you.”

	Oh yeah, right… Duo thinks.  I am responsible for the end of every living universe.  I shouldn’t be the least bit moved by it.

	“You were at a distinct disadvantage against Backstabber.  Foolish Steve Bateman…even with your magical talent.  You could never learn enough in time.   Backstabber is the third oldest entity—behind Mylene and Steve Bateman.  His magic’s are perfect, not through skill or grace, but through millennia of practice.  But you needn’t worry about that any longer.”

	“Really?  From what you’re saying, I’d say I am still at a distinct disadvantage.”  Duo grasps his head, which is overtaken by pain.  Rekiski reaches to help.  “Don’t worry.  Just a headache.  I’ve at the party for five years…this is just the hangover.”

	“I’d offer you some coffee but they say it doesn’t work.”

	The time lapse was instantaneous.  The second he woke up…his first thought was…Oh no!, the same thought before Backstabber put him in a coma. Time was seamless.  This second is no better than the last…even if the last lasted five years.  His arms are crafted.  His chest, board.  Not a boy any longer…and his magic’s are far from childish.  And this stupid cape is tugging at my neck.  Which it never did before.  It feels used, second hand, better yet, old hand.  Useful for throwing massive bashes by the beach.  The cape is the tool of a magician.  A person famous for magic that isn’t real.  There is nothing fake about Duo’s magic.

	The cape falls.

	“There, you see.”  Rekiski sits proper, back straight, right leg over left, pinky out.  “You haven’t been awake for an hour and you’ve already let go the weaknesses holding you down.”

	“Weakness?”  Duo clinches the cape in closed fist.  “Do you have any idea what this is?  The power it holds?  Do you have any idea what I was before it?  What I am without it?”

	Rekiski speaks: “All I see is a security blanket which has lost its meaning.  At one time, this cape had a persona, emotions, opinions, didn’t it?”  Duo nods.  “Just like a blanket to a child who can not cope with what the world asks of it.  And the blanket seems real.”  Duo nods again.  “But it is not real.  Now you see this blanket for what it really is, a piece of fabric.  You see Duo…the cape is a piece of fabric.”

	“You’ve seen what the cape does.  How could you say it is not magical?” 

	Rekiski lowers his cup to a silver tray.  “Sooner or later even Aladdin realizes that any carpet can fly—so long as there is a genie on it.  The cape was never magical.  It isn’t alive and it isn’t a source of power.  The cape did not make you magical.  Instead, you made it magical.”

	“My subconscious convinced my brain it was real?  That it could do all the things I saw it do?”

	“How else would you explain it?  Certainly it did not do it on its own, it is just a cape.”

Apollyon stumbles the halls, hiccupping and hissing alcohol and laughter.  His hands roam along her body, they kiss, he presses her against the wall.  She pulls away, tugging on the sash around his shoulder, reading, Birthday Boy.

	She pouts and whispers.  “Whose my little Lord of Fire and Flame?”

	“Me, sweetheart.”  Apollyon grips her bum, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms.  Her black Cubano heals dangle off her toes.  For Apollyon, this should be a good night…and despite the passé birthday party and predictable gifts, he intends to make his party a rumpus, even if he has to do all the work himself.  Anyone of his minions would have served properly, as luck had it he ran into Adreanna just as Savage prepared a spell to transform Apollyon into a figure of apocalyptic lore during the final days of judgment.  The two had been having a series of disagreements in the last months.  In truth, it wasn’t just Savage.  Apollyon found all of them despicably status quo.  They really fried his nerves…oh thank the Maker that idiot foodmart wasn’t there…I don’t think I could have handled that.

	He tosses her onto the bed, and she yells in delight, her body dispersed on softening springs and a little crackle from the plates holding the headboard.  She opens and motions, he obliges and find his way between her.  She traces the third button of his shirt.  “What does my birthday boy want?”

	His lip quivers…eyes distant…in that lustful nothing-matters-but-this-moment kinda way.

	“What every man wants, a birthday present.”

Punkr dresses in black double-breasted, grey on grey shirt and tie.  His shoes shine no more than his slicked hair and smooth cheeks.  Nervous in a way he can’t describe, he adjusts his tie, eyeing himself in a mirror on the bartender’s wall.  Manhattan in hand, he stands alone, sipping on escapeness.  If he survives without completely embarrassing himself, it won’t be due to firmness of mind.  Alcohol will not rob him of every thought—or position—he has of Britney, it will merely control it.

	A waiter maneuvers, scoots, and pooches himself around many low hanging chandeliers in the main dining area.  He sucks in his gut, sliding between cherry tables and white cloths of silk with silverware of an admirable reflection, atop plush napkins.  He enters the bar and takes a moment to breathe, crossing the main dining hall is an exercise in disaster.  Some drunk idiot swings his had and hits a server, or a diner pushing his chair out unexpectedly knocking over the dessert tray.

	Then, from behind the waiter, Britney appears.  The waiter doesn’t point at Punkr but extends his arm in the general direction.  Britney and Punkr share glances and she accepts Punk’s arm, wrapping her own in it, after he approaches.  Her gown snuggles her midsection and squeezes her lungs in a way she doesn’t enjoy.  She can’t help it, she shopped the last two days straight and only found this dress today.  It is perfect, or as perfect as perfection wishes to be.

	Unlike the paint, or school girl out-fits, Britney has surprised the room.  Her dress is an Indian gold, shimmering in a long elegant pattern.  The slit stops at her knee, and her ankles stand in four inch matching gold strapy sandals.  Tiny spaghetti straps round her shoulders, and her chest is decorated with a diamond heart necklace.  It screams taste, and uproots a respect Punkr has never considered before.  Perhaps…could she be the one?  The one he wishes the spend the rest of his life with?

	The rest of my life with?

	Bear his children, help raise them, grow old with him?

	Old?

	Instead of obsessing the skin, bust and bum…does he wish a life of quiet monogamy?

	Shut up, you stupid narrator!  That isn’t what I am thinking at all!

	They seat and Punkr runs a match along the back of the book.  A flame sparks and he lights to skinny candles on the table.  Britney smiles…she thinks it is corny but can’t deny the sprouting butterflies in her stomach.

	“I must say, you look stunning.  Will what’s-his-name be joining us?”

	“Oh, stop it with your discreetness.  Justin threw a big hissy-fit back home.  All because I told him I think I’ve found a real man.”

	“A real man?  Well, as your shrink, I should say—it’s about time!”  Punkr laughs and coughs it off.  Her voice, her eyes, her dress, the way her hand has taken his so smoothly he hasn’t even noticed yet.  It is insulting for him to joke.  Girls like guys who make them laugh…only at things that are funny.  “I’m sorry.  You look lovely.”

	The waiter pours two glasses of house Chardonnay.  Punkr accepts, and Britney follows his lead.  They both sip and set the glasses on the table.  They talk.  They smile.  Punkr reviews his days in the Fellowship, his friends who he hasn’t seen in years, how they fought to save the universes.  The first glass of wine passes.  Both find each other so captivating that Britney ignores the chronological snafus of Punkr's story and supposed life as a doctor.  At some point, both stopped caring about it.  Little bubbles surface in their wine.  They travel less and less.  A third glass is poured.

	Soon, it all sounds very intoxicating to them.  Dreary candles flicker.  Her necklace sparkles.  Their wine is replaced from a tinted green, gold on black labeled bottle.  The more they drink, they more they move slower than time.  Life becomes abstract, her foot, out of its sandal, rubbing his ankle.  His eyes lost in hers.  Neither speaks but remains caught in a stare, until the room around them disappears and he can’t recognize where they are…

	We’ve been drugged.

He can not listen to Raven’s cries any longer and with reluctance, agrees.  Fields says nothing.  Grief has taken both of them to different parts of semi-consciousness.  For Azoric, he can not lose what he has lost.  The denial is fresh and painful.  For Fields, she looks at her bloody red hands, her matted hair and filthy body.  She doesn’t understand what happened…how did I become this?...in another world, another universe, she would have never touched mud…except for when the occasional photo shoot required it.  Even then, at least it would have been clean mud.  Bug corpses and predator piss contaminate her, in some form or another.  If this saves Raven, brings her back for one moment…so maybe their friendship could be what she remembers, then she can’t say no.

	Commander V-man disapproves of the whole idea.  As a member of the Fellowship, she deserves it.  This whole death—to him, is all very poetic in a hard lined, non-rhyming, militant and orderly sort-of-way.  To those who oppose the Backstabber.  To those who question his vision.  Let this be the punishment.  However, Backstabber has entrusted Lord foodmart in dealing with the Fellowship.  V-man can’t stand it though and his hand has stocked the butt of his gun for the better part of an hour…his thoughts in circles, I could end this all now.

	This all happens outside…while Raven awaits their decision. 

	She hiccups little breaths.  Her sweat has become a paste on top her chalk white skin.  Everything about her seems ready to die.  Even the wound, once alive and bleeding has drained.  It looks dead, dry and hardened.

	foodmart enters the hut and lowers himself to Raven.  He feels at the wound.  Raven gasps.

	“Do not worry.  I can fix it.”

	His eyes confuse her for a moment.  Only for a moment…

	“No…  No…  No…”  The words labor themselves from her throat.  Raven tries to lift her arms, foodmart restrains them, his hands on her wrists, pushing in the dirt.  “Don’t…please, don’t.”

	foodmart disregards her will.  He makes it quick.  Lunging his mouth to her neck,  puncturing her skin.  Her muscles tighten, and a tear shreds from her right eye.  His throat’s reflexes with his swallows, sinking his teeth further…and Raven’s just cries.  Sobbing large tears, his hands holding her wrists with such strength, they’ve cut along the hard floor.  She can’t fight him.  She can’t stop him.  All she can do is cry.

	He releases his jaw grip and abandons her neck.  Blood drips over his mouth, and off his teeth, along his chin and falling to her exposed chest.  Raven’s eyes are closed, her head has fallen over, exposing the lethal pits in her neck.  She would have died anyway.  Eating her is just the first part.  He runs his hand along Raven’s cheek.  “You won’t be able to think so little of me when you are me.  I will be your creator and you will be grateful.”

	A half inch by two length blade unclips.  foodmart stabs his forearm.  He drags the knife along his muscle.  Blood seeps out and he lets it run on Raven’s body.  He waits until he feels he has bleed enough.  He has to drain, so that she does not feed on her blood…but the blood of the demon. A half minute passes and foodmart places the cut over her mouth.  It only takes a moment… her tongue pricks the cut…he inhales in pain…lips quiver around it…her strength returns…

	Bite!

	foodmart wants to fall over, pull away, and tuck his arm under a protective cloth.  What is she doing?  He had transformed few but it has never been like this.  I can’t…I can’t…  The pain makes his head want to explode and foodmart tugs his arm from her.  Her teeth bite harder, they hold.  foodmart lets his feet find ground, he uses them to jump away from Raven.  His arm rips, the skin peeling like an uneven piece of tape.  He looks at his forearm.  A giant tear of flesh is missing, his arm now exposed muscle and seeping blood.  The wound sticks fear in foodmart…her mouth chews.  

	Raven sits up and dead-stares while the skin hangs out of her open and chewing mouth.  Within the minute, she has consumed the flesh.  foodmart assumes she has been satisfied.  She is not, and her mouth springs at him, jaw open, teeth sinking in the round of his shoulder.  Foodmart collapses against the wall, sitting up…Raven sucks so hard the insides of his demon body move along his guts.

	Minutes later, foodmart falls over, drained.  Raven wipes her mouth.  She has taken too much. 

	She sniffs outside the hut.  A five course meal…

	All for me.

Upon the morning of the day after the date which commemorates the date of his birth; but is not actually the date of his birth…Apollyon notices he is not a young man any longer.  He stares in the mirror, smiling at his handsome self…well, I am certainly not old, but I’m just not as young.  And in his older age, the same nuances which pleasured in prior moons have become the redundancies which suffocate his very soul.  He pioneered this world to do what he liked with his minions…while atop a bounty or bosom.

	Adreanna lies on the bed, under sheet, her hair combed from its morning mess.  Cream cheese melts from a bagel she hasn’t touched.  The orange juice sweats through, on no coaster does it park…and it methodically soaks into the Beachwood of his nightstand.  He has noticed it for the last six minutes…eye on clock…seven minutes.  He doesn’t move it, it seems to prissish.

	A knock on the door.

	Apollyon swings it open.  Cindy stands there with his laundry.  “About time, I thought I was going to have to wear this robe all morning.”  His attitude comprises of seventy-five percent hang-over, twenty-five percent sweating glass on the table.  Of either percentage or combination bothers him no more, no less.  The fact it bothers him at all worries him the most.  Those days on the Soyokaze, his minions in super future sailor uniforms, blue skirts with white trim…where he did what he pleased and the subject matter mattered more than where their orange juice sat.  The robe is bothering him much.  Actually, it is black satin, with playing cards on the back.  He thinks he looks quite cool when wearing it on the night porch.

	Apollyon slams the door in Cindy’s face.  He killed a few billion life forms to be a Lord, he might as well slam doors too.  “Where it is?  Damnit, I can’t find it.”  Apollyon rips open the bag of laundry and unloads it on the table.  Most of it remains folded, just sideways and bent over.   “Ahh, here it is.  My favorite shirt.  I can’t believe I spilled wine on it…it…it…it…

	“CINDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

	Cindy knows better than to return.  Adreanna, Apollyon’s favorite minion for years rushes to his side, caressing his solders and comforting his ailing heart.

	“Oh, I know…don’t worry.  We’ll get you another one.  Even if we have to get Backstabber to use the Matrix.”

	“Oh, you don’t understand, it won’t be the same.”  Apollyon sobs and snots.  His hands carry the shirt like wounded animal of some closeness to him.  And just under its right chest pocket, like a bleeding bullet wound…is the wine stain, washed, dried and pressed into every fiber of the shirt.

	“Oh, my poor Lord.  I promise, I can make it better.”  Adreanna climbs over and on top of him.

	“No, you can’t.  You really can’t.  There is just something wrong with this world.  I can’t describe it.”  Adreanna begins to motion up and down, along him, her hands touch and her face rubs his cheek.  “Don’t you see that?  Ever since Backstabber took over…that is when things starting going bad.”  Adreanna pulls open the first button of a shirt she borrowed from Apollyon’s closet.  She pulls the shirt out and breathes heavy.  “I mean, just look around.  At everything here.”  Apollyon eyes open wide, aware now of what he must do.  “That’s it!”  He jumps to her feet and Adreanna falls on her ass.  She curses and rubs her broken bum, while her slick legs find their footing again.  “I know what I must do.  I now understand why nothing is fulfilling any longer.  And it was so obvious!  Right from the start.  I’ve forgotten my purpose, my place.”

	“Yeah, well you forgot about the half-naked woman on top of you.  Big surprise you forgot your purpose.”  Adreanna rubs the back of her head even though it doesn’t hurt.  It feels like an appropriate motion.

Britney has a wonderful idea…it is so Sleeping Beauty. 

	“Punkr?  Punkr?  Please wake up, please wake up.  This is the just like when the Prince kisses the Princess and wakes her up at the end of the movie!”  Her cheeks warm to the red of her sweet canal and her eyes become lazier than the stars at night.  “Sure, it is in reverse a little bit…but it has to work!”  Britney lays Punkr out and places his hands over stomach.  “Still something’s missing.”  She tapes her foot and pouts, finger against chin.  “I know!”  She pulls a few daisy weeds growing from cracks in the cement.  She gathers a nice bouquet, evening out the whites and yellows.  She gives a little girlie smile and holds them to her heart…oh, this is so romantic!  He is going to be so happy when he wakes up!  She places the bouquet in his hands, pretties his hair and straightens his clothing.

	She walks to the other end of the room, back turned.  Just like in acting school…you count to three and start the scene.  After you kiss him, he’ll wake up.  One…two…three…

	“Oh my fair Prince, what has thou evil monster done to you?”  She raises her hands to her chest and gasps in horror.  She rushes to his aid, her head leaning.  “Fair Prince, I can pull you out of this restless and awful sleep.  The old woman at the creek, she said, that the love of the one who loves you…or possibly one who loves me…”  Britney looks to the ceiling.  “No, I think it was the love of both of us…oh, it doesn’t matter what the old hag said, Punkr, I love you.  I need you and I fear I can not live while you live not.  My great man, please awaken and take your Princess.”  

	She caresses the skin of his cheek and in a flush of momentum, wild violins stream out of nowhere, strike cords and fill the room with one, long exploding note.  Her body leans to his.  She heads for his mouth.  The violins prick carefree springtime…while Chellos resonate passing love.  Britney’s hand runs along his peck and shoulder…the violins tense up, and the Chellos rock…she fells at his neck and replaces his top lip with her own, brushing noses…

	She heaves and spits.

	“Geez, haven’t heard of breath mints, have we?”  She rolls onto her bottom and tries to relax her mouth, stuck in its gross-out position, her tongue lazily hanging.  Britney picks up her purse and ingests a little minty-mint candy.  She pops one in Punkr’s mouth…thinks twice…and pops another.  She returns them to her bag.  “Lets try this again.”

	Britney gathers her motivation.  “Oh Fair Prince, what has thou monster done to you?”  She grabs hold of his arms, her eyes tear up.  “The old women….she said something…and then something else…blah blah blah…but I love you, Punkr.  I love you.”

	She brings her lips to his.  They swap saliva and she nibbles on his bottom lip.  She pulls away, his eyebrows haven’t flinched.  She pouts…and then notices a certain part of Punkr has awakened and it quite ready for action.

	“What a surprise…I should have known that is why the Princess is awaken by a kiss and not the Prince.  I’m sure if I kissed that you would wake right up, wouldn’t you?”  Punkr is still unconscious.  “Well, you’ll just have to invest in a night cap then.  Don’t me give me that look…yeah, that look…its all your fault. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you could hold your liquor.”

Azoric awakens, covered in blood.  He rubs the back of his neck.  He smells death.

	“What happened?”

	He can’t remember.  He steps and trips.  He lifts himself from the mud and spits black crud.  He notices fresh blood flowing on his arm.  And then he notices what he has tripped on...  Fields is dead…by the look of her, for some time…two teeth marks in her neck.

	“Fields, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have let him…I shouldn’t have let him…”

	foodmart, V-man and the rest have left.  Possibly not long ago.  Azoric reaches for his bow…it is gone…with everything else he loved.

	He looks over Fields once more.  The blood isn’t flowing from my arm, is it?  He feels at his neck, his fingers slick along the syrup, to its source, two deep pits.  No skin or muscle, just holes.  Am I…am I one of them?  I don’t feel any different.  My heart is beating…  It moves at a pitter-patter in his chest.  I must be alive.  Raven was full when she finished with Fields.  She drank as much as she could of Azoric…and left him to die…that is what happened, isn’t it? 

	He knows he will remember soon.

Apollyon orders Adreanna off his motorcycle.

	“I am going to ride myself…and I won’t be needing any of your help.”

	Adreanna cries.  Cindy and rest of his staff gather at the exit.  They collectively whine…  “What is the matter Lord Apollyon?  Why are we not pleasing to you?”

	“Because I am eeeeeeeeeeee-VIL!!!!!!!  I don’t like birthday parties…I don’t like being brought clean laundry…and I certainly don’t like that I dislike people who drink from a cold glass and don’t use a coaster!”  When did I turn so soft?  “I am against and want to destroy everything.  You call this a utopia?”  Actually, they are slaves and view it as eternal damnation…but that doesn’t mean they are incapable of sympathizing.  “I tell you, right now the only thing that’d make me happy is to run this entire place into the ground.”

	Apollyon kick starts the motorcycle and revving the engine, drives off into the red landscape.