Big Mark

Saturday May 8th, 1986

Third week of the job at the cab station, it pays very well, I can make up to 500 bucks every week, if I’m lucky. I called in sick today, I dreamt about the unicorn again, so I’ll go talk to Mister Debunker and see what he has to say about it. I’ve been dreaming it more frequently, ever since I saw the tall black man in the woods.

Mister Debunker’s studios are on the other side of town, in Pacific Palisades. It’s a long drive from LA’s suburbs, one that I have to do every few days, otherwise he will get mad at me and say that I’ll worsen my mental state, and that it’s important to look after your mental health and all that boring jive.

The studios are empty, always, no one else ever comes here when I do. Doctor said it’s because he wants to focus on me and me only and have no pressure; am I that deep end? I try not to think about it. I knock on the door three times, as I do every time, and this middle-aged white-bearded man with big, funny glasses greets me.

"Ah, Mister Krinkle, come here. I bought a few cups of tea, thought you’d enjoy them."

His office is sparkling and full of light, clean and pristine, glowing like crystals under the sun. The couches are soft, and I think they’re my favourite part of the entire office.

"May I know why you asked for this meeting, Krinkle? Something’s troubling you?" He asks me. He already sat down, turning a little spoon around inside the cup of tea. He was wearing the same pink shirt he wore last week, and the one before, and the one before that.

I sit down, nodding, as I take the cup of tea. "I’ve been having these dreams about a… a unicorn."

He grabs his notes, setting his cup down and replacing it with a pen. "A unicorn, mhm? Describe me the dream, everything you can remember, down to the littlest detail."

I frantically nod, clearing my throat. "Ok… I uhm… well, yeah, I’m out in the woods, and… like, it’s a big forest, everything is so cold and blue, I think it’s raining too. I’m not wearing anything, I’m freezing, and… oh! There’s also flowers, red ones."

"Roses?"

I shake my head. "No, they don’t look like roses… I don’t think it’s roses, they’re just red flowers. I grab one, I smell it, and it smells like blood." As I go on, he adds notes; I wonder what he writes on that thing, maybe he’s just trying to look smart. "Then, I see a unicorn, and it sees me too, and I just feel very, very angry, like, suddenly. I start chasing it but I can never reach it. It’s always like this, every time I have this dream."

He nods along, pointing the back end of his pencil to his chin. "What do you think the unicorn means, to you?"

"To me?" I chuckle, shrugging. "I’m not much of an artist, doc, I don’t know why it’s an unicorn."

"What about the flower then? Is there something you can trace it back to? I thought you said your mother was a botanist."

"Oh, maybe, I don’t know. I guess I just like flowers? Maybe it is my mother, yeah."

He narrows his eyes, pursing his lips and setting his notes away. He takes his cup of tea again, which reminds me I had been holding it too the entire time and had not taken even one sip.

"Well, Mister Krinkle, dreams are a complicated thing. Sometimes they can mean something specific, other times they have a great number of interpretation, but… most of the time, they don’t really mean anything."

He takes a quick sip, and nodding I take one too. It tastes very good, sweet, and it’s also warm.

"But… why have I been dreaming it so much? Isn’t that supposed to mean it’s something important?"

He hums in response, tea still in his mouth. "You’re hyper-fixating. Stop giving it much thought, and you’ll forget it soon."

He takes another, longer sip, which makes an annoying sucking sound that gets to my spine and causes a shudder to trail down my back. "I… uhm, alright, I’ll try, Doc. Thank you."

He stands up the moment I do the same, bringing his hand to my back to lead me to the exit of his office. "Just relax and keep a healthy routine, change working hours if you have to. Is there something else?"

"Yeah actually." I lean forward on the chair, letting the air pass through my teeth. "Some of my colleagues said that the town’s getting a bit rough for us cabs, you know? They say I should get a gun."

He raises his hand up, grimacing. "That’s out of the question. I understand the concern for your safety, but you are not within the mental capacities to carry one. If the town’s too dangerous at night, then start working during the day." He stands up, and so do I. With a hand on my back he leads me to the door. "I’ve been telling you this for weeks. Trust me, you’ll feel much better, Henry."

I nod, watching him open the door for me, waving him off as I leave. There is only one person in the dimly-lit waiting room, who darts me an odd look. I just smile and walk away.

The ride back from Debunker is always something else. It’s different from coming into Pacific, it’s a deep, slow descent into the dirty suburbs. It’s like if Dante had to crawl down back to Hell from Heaven, as the clean streets were replaced by thugs and scum and whores and filth. They throw trash at my car, they throw trash at other cars, they break stuff and they yell and cry and scream and kill. One day God’ll send his armies down on Earth and all these bastards’ll rot in Hell. I know he will, otherwise what’s the point of going on?

I come back home, and everything is same as it ever was. I turn on the TV, watch a movie, cook an omelette, get some sleep. Sometimes I like to turn everything off and listen to all Jazz records I have while I lay in bed, and drift into sleep. Ever since I’ve been having these dreams about the unicorn, I don’t sleep much anymore. I don’t like it, I don’t know why.

I just don’t want to feel that way again.

It’s a nice thing the windows of my apartment point West: I can get all the light in the afternoon and watch the sunset. I do it every day. I do a lot of things everyday actually, but sometimes something different happens, like my landlord coming to take my rent every month, or the ghetto thugs throwing stuff at my window to annoy me. One time, my neighbour knocked on the door, but all he wanted was to ask me if I could turn the music down.

I’ve been living like this for years. I’m fine with it. If it was meant to be different, then God would have made it so, don’t you think?

When the clock strikes six, I get up from bed, or stop doing whatever else I am doing, and head off to work. Working at night is good when you have nightmares, and I have them. I have a lot of them. Sleeping is overrated, it’s over-glorified death, just a few hours we spend sleeping because our body demands for it. I don’t think we ever needed sleeping, we just got used to doing it and we evolved like this. Why would we ever be made to require rest? It’s dumb, but then again so are people.

Los Angeles at night is even worse than day. The star-un-ridden sky is not of any consolation, just a thick veil that hides all the filth and mud that nobody cares about cleaning up, not even those whose job is to do just that. The skyline full of lights is just another fancy cover to a badly written book. They stole all the stars from the sky to build this city.

I meet all kinds of people when driving: hobos, drag queens, addicts, prostitutes, rich snobs and the occasional never-shuts-up idiot who wants to talk to me. I don’t like talking while driving, I just want to listen to my music and do my job. Hell, I had people get laid in the back of my cab, but I never complained, long as they don’t bother me.

Beverly Hills is not like Pacific, but it’s still nice. Sure, there’s some trash here and there but it’s not hell, it’s like the top of Purgatory, the holy garden. This man in black suit and tie gets inside my car, as he frantically looks around.

"Venice Beach." He tells me, a he takes his sunglasses off. There’s white powder on his sleeves.

"Man, you have no idea where I just got out from." He begins. I groan, already knowing how this is gonna go down. "There was so much shit man, you should have seen it. Fuck, there was so much coke, oh lord. And-and-and Patricia! Man, Patricia is something else let me tell you. I have never seen a woman with those curves…" he bursts into laughter as I simply nod along.

"Must have been fun." I tell him, stopping at a red light. I look outside the window to see a group of black thugs running away from a guy, wearing a wig, I think, some kind of drag queen, and they’d just stolen his bike.

"Lord, these fucking niggers, I tell you!" The man retorts at the view. "They go around thinking this is their fucking ghetto. Holy shit, I just hate them. Oh oh oh, they better not try anything with me, know why? Do you know why, cabby?"

I look at him from the rear view, shaking my head. He clicks his tongue: "I mean of course you don’t, why would you? It’s because I’m always walking strapped. You can’t survive without a gun. ATF wants me to wait four months? Fuck the license, I’ll ask Grandpa Joe. Do you know who Grandpa Joe is?"

"No, I don’t think so, sir."

"Man, are you dumbfounded?" He snorts. "He lives downtown, he can get you the best guns at the best of prices. Sure, it’s illegal, but you’re not dumb enough to let that be known are you?"

Throughout the entire ride he just brags about how rich he is, how sexy the women he sleeps with are, how annoying his wife is and how ugly her boyfriend has gotten after his finally surgery. There is no escape from the filth, even in Beverly Hills. The devil makes himself nice and clean so he can trick you, but I won’t let him. He’ll never win, not against me.

Tuesday 11th May 1986

I woke up this morning very early. I worked out a bit, push-ups, squats, legs and shoulders. I need to get back into shape, I’ve been getting too lazy. In those few hours of sleep I was able to get in, I dreamt about the unicorn again. It was different this time: I wasn’t angry anymore, I was chasing it like it was something important that I needed, I was desperate. Now I understand, I’m not angry at the unicorn, but something else.

The entrance to the shop was ridden with trash, mud and papers, leftovers of food and some filth carried by the water as a result of the rain. Inside, the guns weren’t the first thing I noticed: it was the man standing behind the counter, a short, fat and ugly bearded man with aviators and a jeans jacket. The music that’s blaring is loud and it sounds like a bunch of screams without any melody. Maybe whoever made that music was very angry.

"Ah! If it ain’t my neighbour. Henry, right?"

Neighbour? He is my neighbour? Why didn’t I notice that?

"Uhm, yeah, it’s me, Henry. Uhhhh…" My eyes dart on the badge on his chest, with his name. "Jack, isn’t it? The one who came to ask me to turn the music down?"

"Yup! That’s me. What can I do for you?" He asks while crossing his arms.

"Well… I think I need something robust, like, kinda powerful, but easy to carry you know?"

He turns his back on me and crouches, taking out a case. He opens it, and there’s a gun inside. "This is a Snub-Nosed 44. Magnum. Cops used to use this gun back in my days. It’ll turn a man’s head into squash." He takes it out of the case. It has such a clean, black finish, and the wood of the handle is dark and warm.

"Take it, it’s not loaded anyway, get a good grip."

Grabbing the handle, I instantly feel something within me, like I was holding mjolnir. I feel powerful, unstoppable, dangerous. I aim down sights and pull the trigger, and the cylinder rolls.

"It’s… it’s a nice gun, yeah, how much for it?"

"Since you’re my neighbour and this one’s been on the shelf for a while, I can make it one-fifty. You got a license?"

A license? Oh, right, I need a license to carry the gun. "I uh… don’t have it. My psychiatrist won’t sign off my condition."

"You’re telling me you walked into a gun shop without a license?" He looks at me as if I had just punt-kicked a child.

"I mean… you can sell that, right?"

He looks at me with furrowed brows, and then starts laughing. "Boy, you’re something else!" He slams his hand on the counter. "I can’t buy one for you, you gotta get it. They’ll give it to you in like a hundred or something days. Either way, if your psychiatrist isn’t giving you the green light, they won’t do anything."

"Uhm, alright then. I guess we’ll be seeing each other sometime else. Thanks for lending me a hand though!"

"It’s ok kid. Look, you can always come by, and maybe at home we could have a drink or two. There’s also a shooting range in the back if you want to practise."

I shake my head. "I already know how to shoot, sir. Dad taught me when I was younger, I think."

"That’s alright. I’ll be seeing you, Henry."

Can’t even buy a gun to protect myself with because of some “condition”. Bullshit. What time is it anyway? Damn, I have to get to the station.

The sun is slowly setting on the city of angels. They call it the city of angels but I only see demons. The devil lives in this town and I think it’s coming for me, he’s been for some time now, and after what I saw in the woods he’ll only keep coming more.

The days are endless, I can hardly sleep anymore. They keep coming, more and more, and everything is always the same: nothing can break this flow, this loop. What scares me isn’t that I’m in a loop, it’s that I only noticed that now after years. Where was I even years ago? I remember my dad, my mom, my family, I reminisce youthful days of old but there’s something between them and me being here, a dark chasm that holds nothing. The abyss.

I can see it, everywhere, that same energy that’s tying me down to the ground, the looks people give me, the subtle mumbles they make when I walk or ride past them. I can hear them making comments under their breath when they get inside my cab, and when they’re not making comments they don’t even notice me, it’s like I’m simply not there. What is going on? What is Satan’s game?

Here I am, downtown, and this familiar fellow, this bald, tall black man, with a long fancy and sprinkling coat and a dumb pair of sunglasses. With one hand behind his back, knocks on the window with the barrel of his gun. I feel the hair on my arms rising as I open the passenger seat’s door and he gets in, holding the gun below the cockpit but still pointing it on me.

"Oh, so you a smart nigga, aren’t you?" He tells me, frantically looking around. "C’mon fool, hit the gas, c’mon!"

I just nod, looking around the street for cops, but there are none. Then again, he would probably shoot me in the head the moment he sees what I’m trying to do.

"What’s your name nigga? Uh? Tell me right now, or I pop yo ass! What’s your name?" He repeatedly taps the barrel of his gun on the cockpit.

"Henry, mister. And I’m not a nigga." I answer him after a few seconds. I can’t concentrate on talking while I drive.

"Well alright Henry. Now, here’s what happens: You bring me to Skid Row, and you do exactly what I tell you to do. I’ve been watching you for a while, me and my men, so don’t do anything dumb or we’ll see you at your apartment."

Now I realise just why he was familiar. My mouth slightly opens as I attempt to protest, but I refrain. I can’t believe they had been watching me the entire time and I just let them do it.

"Take this." He hands me a smaller gun, a nine millimetre I think, I only got a quick glance at it. "Are you dumb? Take it, fool!" He shouts again, as I finally take the gun and put it on my lap.

"Now…" he leans on the seat, resting his gun as well. "When we get there, you’re going to follow me, and do whatever I tell you to do. If I tell you to shoot, you shoot. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to stand in front of me, you stand in front of me."

He isn’t taking his eyes off of me, and even if I can’t take my eyes off of the road I find myself glancing at him, afraid of what he might do.

Skid Row isn’t too far away. Driving there’s not unusual for me, but I hate it every time. He points his finger at a dark alleyway, and when I find myself inside the alleyway, the lights of my cab clash with the lights of another car.

A man stands in front of the opposite car, a look of surprise appearing on his face once he sees my cab.

"Nigga, did you seriously get a cab to drive you here?"

The man looks me in the eyes, motioning towards the door, as he gets out of the car.

"He’s a friend of mine bruv, his name’s Travis. He’s a whitey but he’s cool, I tell you yo. He helped me steal this cab from some fucking loser called Henry. I know where that white ass lives so he gon try nothing, know what I’m sayin’?"

So not only he gives me a fake identity, but he also calls me a loser and dares to associate me to him?

"So you stole a poor idiot’s cab just to get here?" The other man bursts into laughter. "Nigga, you crazy!"

The other follows along to the laughter. "Dude I tell you, if them cops saw me coming to the crib with the new ‘Lac you know they would have asked for the slip."

And as they laugh, I stand there and watch, and all I can do is force a smile.

"C’mon now, Travis, how about you follow me inside?" He pats me on the arm, encouraging me to follow to the door at the gates of Hell, a decrepit and fetid building full of weed, drugs and whores.

"Make yourself comfortable, fuck ‘em if you wanna, me and my bruv here are gonna take care of business, Travis." The two walk inside a room, and I’m left alone with the girls.

They’re all so young, yet look older than they actually are, I know how to see through the layers of make-up. They tease and call me, just begging me to please their lust, and instil it within me, poor children of God. Why must they be object to this kind of torture? Someone’s ought to do something, since the police isn’t looking to do anything about it.

One of them, I finally notice, isn’t a girl… no, it’s a drag, of course. I can recognise him: I saw him while I was driving the guy in Beverly Hills, who had gotten his bike stolen by some thugs. There’s scratches and marks all over his arms and legs too. He’s been giving me the stinkeye quite a lot, compared to the girls.

"You, dragshow." I call him out.

He turns around towards me, with a scowl. "I’m off the clock, get one of the girls: they like ya."

"Yeah, I can see that. You don’t like me though, do you?"

"I’m paid to like dudes." He blows the smoke of his cigarette towards me, almost as if he was repelling me.

It doesn’t take the thugs to finally come out their room, and my newfound so called friend was now carrying… a horn, a unicorn’s horn. This has got to be a sick, twisted joke of fate. God, what game are you playing? Have I ever committed such grievous sins that I deserved to be treated like this?

"Yo, Travis, let’s get outta here now."

I have no choice but to indulge him. Oh no, this won’t pass, I need to get that horn. Soon as we’re inside the car, I’m driving over to the most desolate of places I can find.

"Alright Henry, you behaved well. Now, bring me back downtown, how about it."

"Sure, can I take a shortcut?"

"Yeah, I’m fucking tired, I wanna sleep."

He even talks to me as if he is a friend, how disgusting. He was too tired to realise whatever shortcut I was taking was going to lead him to his impending doom; I drive down the darkest of alleyways I can find, and when I finally get the chance, I pull up the cab.

"Henry? Fuck are ya doin’?"

I get out of the car, as I start walking towards the other side to his door. He stares me with half-open eyes, dazed and quite confused; I open the door and pull him out of the passenger seat, in spite of his protests. His gun is still in the car, good.

I start stomping the bottom of my boot straight down his big, ugly face. The more I stomp, the more that face becomes a distant memory, a mere fragment of what a man’s face should be. A monster like him doesn’t even have a face, just a mask: me meeting him and making this decision should be divine intervention, right? Surely, it cannot be such a bad thing to kill an asshole like this guy? That horn… I need it, and he had to die.

Finally, after watching him take his last few, pitiful breaths, I take the white and sparkling horn off his corpse and then I realise: it’s just a funny little horn-shaped box, with cocaine inside. Did I kill this guy for nothing? No, it cannot be for nothing.

I need to get out of here, give myself a good wash.

Wednesday 12th May, 1986

I killed a man, I beat his face to a bloody pulp until grey matter was splattered all over the floor. I can’t take that image off my head. What else was I supposed to do? That guy knew where I lived, what I do and everything. He deserved it. What is going on in the world? Just feels like everything is crashing down upon me and the angels have abandoned me to my fate.

Same old, same old. Drive all the way to Pacific to meet Debunker. Nobody in the waiting room, sun always shining, he is always smiling. It’s such an empty smile, fabricated, like everything else about this town.

"Come in Henry, make yourself comfortable."

He always says that, every time I come here. I come inside and he says those words and I get the chills.

"So…" He begins as he sits down in front of me, wearing the same shirt and carrying the same block notes, in the same position. "How have you been feeling recently, mister Krinkle?"

"I… I uhh… not that good, Doc. I just feel tired, like… like there’s something surrounding me, like some kind of energy, you know? And it’s pushing me down, it’s chaining me to the ground and everyone’s watching, laughing." For a moment I cannot go on, my tongue is paralysed. All I can do is scan around the office and it’s walls painted white and black.

The air pierces the lump in my throat and I finally am free. "I feel like- something happened, the last day we met. It was… not nice, and I did something I didn’t think I would ever do, but I did. I had to. Just feels like the entire world’s turned around me recently."

The entire time I speak he would relentlessly nod his head along, taking notes with every few words I said. His gaze was lost and empty and cold. Was he trying to stare into my soul? Maybe he just doesn’t care.

"Well, Krinkle, you’ve been working night shifts, right? You see, you’re probably not getting good sleep, and it’s making you irritable, depressed and paranoid. Perhaps you’re even hallucinating." He retorts, the patronising prick. "Nowadays society has become much, much colder and generally unwelcoming, with all the news we see on TV other things that, in one way or another, get to you. Why don’t you spend some time with friends?"

I cackle at that proposal. "But doctor, I don’t have friends."

"Really? Not even from the cab station?"

A sigh and a shrug are what I muster. "I used to hang around them for a bit, but… they don’t call me anymore, and I work night-shifts all the time so it’s kind of hard."

"But what about your free days?"

A gentle cold breeze came in from the window, carrying the salt of the sea. "Eheh, I guess they just… they just don’t like me."

He nods. "I see." He flips the page of the block notes. "What about your unicorn dream? Still getting it?"

"Mhm-mhm." I nod.

"Right. Anything changed?" He asked while noting something.

"Nothing worthy of notice."

He sighs, clicking his tongue and tapping the tip of his pen on his nose. "Well, I suggest you rest more, may try getting different shifts, as I’ve been telling you for a few weeks now? You could also find another job. Taxi driving can be dangerous, Mister Krinkle."

"Alright. Thanks Doc."

Like last time, there was only one person in the waiting room, eyeing me like I was some kind of doe and he was a famished wolf. I run outside and get into my Corolla. I’m not going home, not now. There’s far too many variables, everything is getting heated and I can feel the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I need guns. Guns’ll keep me safe. It’s time I pay Grandpa Joe a visit, and thanks to Jack I know exactly what I need.

Grandpa Joe’s building is not too different from mine. There are voices of kids playing in the other apartments and floors, people spending their days together, having breakfast and whatnot. I knock on the spruce door a few times, and I see an eye from behind the slit glaring at me.

"What do you want?" He asks me.

"Guns."

He closes the slit, and I hear a great number of locks being opened. When the door is unlocked for me I finally see everything but a grandpa. He looks old, but not that old. He’s tall, bald, his beard is short. I see a green jacket by the entrance, carrying a badge.

"Next time you wanna ask me about guns, try doing it more discretely, alright?"

I nod. He walks over to a folder and opens it, taking out a briefcase. It’s empty inside, but it looks very elegant, with that red finish.

"Put here the guns you wanna buy." He tells me as he keeps rustling inside a bag.

I look around the small apartment: the walls are scraping off and there is no bed, just a pillow and a blanket on the couch and a television.

"Want something specific?"

"A snub-nosed 44. Magnum. The kind that cops used in the old days, that turns heads into squash."

He chuckles as he takes just that piece out. It looks identical to the one I had seen in Jack’s gun shop, if not even cleaner.

"Great gun, good handle, very good action too. Nice little piece. It’s good if you have to kill a couple of punks feeling lucky while looking intimidating too." He hands me the weapon, then goes back to rustling into the bag again.

"Ah, just what I needed!"

He smacks his lips, groaning. "Not done yet." A smaller handgun appears in his hands. It looks similar to the .44, but it’s much, much smaller, and it’s got a white handle. "This is a .38, great gun as well, easy to conceal. I have a snub-nosed version of it as well if you want."

Easier to conceal? Well, that’s a nice thing to know. I can carry two small, powerful guns with me, I only see positives here. "Alright." I put the .44 inside the briefcase, as I grips the .38 and put it with the other revolver.

"How much is this gonna cost me?"

He tilts his head to the side. "One-fifty for the .44, two-hundred for the .38. I take credit."

Who in their right mind would go around with that much money in their pockets out in these streets? That’s insane. "Alright, uhm… can I pay you fifty now and the rest another time?"

He shrugs, pursing his lips. "Just keep your word. I would hate sending someone to collect the money from a fellow like you."

"Right." I look inside my pockets, as I take out my wallet. All I had inside were two twenty pieces and four tens. That should check out well enough, I still have enough money for something else. I’m hungry.

It’s a quick ride back home from Joe’s building. I just wanted to drop the briefcase home, I need to eat something.

Going out for a walk felt nice every other week, but today it’s not nice. There’s constant murmuring, side-glances and glares. Bad fellows on the side-walks eyeing me specifically, as the sun is perpetually hidden behind the clouds and darkness befalls the city. The slugs are starting to come out of their shells, the rats have smelled cheese, but no one’s set up any trap… house owners don’t care about disinfestation anymore.

The pizzeria near my house is, well, near, but the walk feels so endlessly and needlessly long. Every step I take I feel like everything that’s in front of me is being pushed ahead and I cannot reach it. I cannot scream, because if you do, the devil hears it and he knows you’re weak, and when you’re weak he can tempt you.

No escape from that.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat in peace. Even when sitting down at the table all alone, trying to have some pizza, I can see them looking at me. The girls smirk at me, like I’m some kind of walking joke, a living corpse; they’re all planning something, everyone is planning something, they all know something about me and they intend to use it. Whores tease me, attempting to make me fall into their clutches, the dirty succubi. Pimps, thugs, hobos, thieves… they’re all surrounding me. Cops are no good, they’re the reason these bastards roam free. There is no justice, they all want to see me dead.

It’s here, you could feel it too if you were me. The triangle, it watches. No, not the fucking Illuminati, but you’d wish it was them. No, I remember… it’s so hazy, but I remember, the men in black and blue, they watch. The thing in the woods, maybe it has something to do about them? Why can’t I remember? Why is this so familiar? I stand up and leave the restaurant.

I want to go home. I’m tired. I’ll stay at home tonight, I need to rest.

Friday 4th June 1986

It’s getting worse. I can’t sleep at all anymore. I see it everywhere, the unicorn, I hear it neighing and flying and chasing me while I should be the one chasing it. Where do I come from? Who am I? Is my real name Henry? There is a void in my head and I cannot fill it, it’s all too hazy, too muddled. What the hell is happening inside me?

Debunker sent a mail, he said he’s worried I haven’t showed up the last two times. I don’t think I will ever see him again. I’m breaking the monotony, I’m getting a hold of my life. I can see it now, something has been hidden from em the entire time, and maybe he was the one hiding it, the fucker. I decided, I’ll find it, Today: I’ll go back in the woods and try to find it, the thing that started this all, the Devil. I know it’s him, it’s always been him, he’s made my life a looping hell and his imps have been observing me the entire time. They wear the skin of men and women and children or they don’t wear no skin at all, but I see through their lies. God is with me. I won’t take it anymore. But first, I have to go back to Skid Row and put an end to those niggers’ regime, they’ve oppressed the weak for too long.

In these dark Skid Rows, only the moon is my beacon, like the North Star, showing me the right way. This way does not lead to him who is king of Man, but to my Destiny. It was always meant to be like this, I was meant to save people, my father always said I’d have to use my power to protect others, and today I will do it. I will kill those bastards.

Brothels are always open, and today is no different. I still remember when I came here the first time, and everything is still the same: the low, red lights were like fiery hellish pits, which only left a few corners in the dark, where evil comes shrouded in the shadows. Only one guy, that’s all I have to kill, I think.

He’s sitting at his desk, in the room on the left by the entrance, counting money. There’s coke and a card on the table too, and every movement he makes is accompanied by his jewels shaking and bristling. I peek by the door, smiling.

"Good evening, sir."

He perks up, shooting me a glance. I don’t think he even recognises me.

"Bitches are across the room, leave me alone." He barks at me.

I already have my hand inside my coat, holding the snub-nosed revolver’s handle. I quickly pull it and begin spraying bullets his way, as the prostitutes in the room start screaming and crying. Glass shatters and many things get broken, a vase too I think, and I finally hit the fool in the head and the chest, as I watch him fall down from his chair with all his money and coke.

I should be done, or at least so it seems, until I hear quick, loud steps from the hallway. I turn around but it’s too late, another guy has come and with his weapon trained on me he starts spraying; I duck down, but a bullet catches me on my right shoulder. I try shooting but all the gun does is clicking, so I stand back up holding the .38 and start spraying in that idiot’s direction as I charge towards him. I catch him out of ammo, and so I jump onto him and I’m able to stab him with a piece of broken glass, over and over again, first the eyes then the chest. It’s getting all smeared across the walls and over my clothes but it doesn’t matter.

I stand back up, holding my shoulder. Nobody else is coming, and the prostitutes have all either run away or hid themselves in a corner, crying. I take a deep breath, as I look around all the broken glass, all the blood and the splinters of cement and wood. The bullet holes, especially… there’s so many of them: these guys couldn’t shoot for shit.

I stand once again in the cold of the night, as I open the car door and get inside my Corolla, gripping the sturdy leather wheel and feeling the warmth emanating from the sound of the engine; the motor cradled me like a gentle mother, but as soon as I pressed my foot on the pedal it roared like a hysterical lion.

This is it. This is my final ride.

Finally, it shows itself: the white mane, the sparkling light glowing in the darkness like glittering stars in the sky. It graces the street with its majestic hooves as the horn glows with ethereal light and it begins galloping away under my very own eyes. I must follow it.

The sparks and glitters lead me towards the darkest pits. I’m descending into a dark, endless void like the one within my mind. The only light is my car, and the mystic equine. I remember these woods… this is where it happened.

This is where I found it.

I get out of the car as I clutch my .44 into my hand. I get it. Won’t give up now. The unicorn stands besides me, stopping just by the threshold of the forest; I dare not touch the heavenly creature for my hands are impure and unbefitting. I enter the pitch black woods. Thank God for the rain and thunder and car lights, otherwise I would be lost.

I clutch the gun into my hands as I explore this twilight, dark moon, cold forest where the righteous path is lost. How painful and torturous it is to take a step into this forsaken place, my soul being gripped and strangled little by little as a dark silhouette becomes more apparent the more I walk.

I aim down sights, and I pull the trigger. A loud bang rings out, one that would have busted my eardrums in any other occasion, but I’m out in the open with the rain. It’s just another sound. The Devil doesn’t flinch, it remains concealed in the shadows of its cloak.

"Come on, fight me you weak freak! Show me what you’re made of!"

I pull out my .38 as well, as I begin spraying both guns upon the beast. It’s the apocalypse around me. Gunshots confuse themselves with thunderbolts as the wind howls with the wolves at the full moon and the rain crashes on the green, soft grass of this dark root garden I am desecrating with my boots, and on me. The freak begins taking steps forwards towards me, but I keep shooting and reloading as much as I can, shooting and reloading until I don’t have anything left to shoot anymore.

My doom has come. I am done for. The devil has won but I have fought, and I shall die with my honour intact. I kneel but no end arrives. The beast has no eyes, it has no cloak, it is a cloak. It has no mouth but it speaks, and no arms but it touches and grabs and breaks and shatters.

I run back towards my car, only one final solution is left. As I drive it into the woods I shift all gears and I pick up all the speed I need.

"Do it, monster, take my soul, if you can!" I shout with as the world crashes upon me. Everything flashes into nothingness as my enemy charges at me and I charge at him with my car. one final thunderbolt strikes, and it hits me and the devil as we clash.

Everything becomes a blurry messy dream. I’m dreaming, it’s not real, but it is? It feels like it. I can feel so much fading away, the void is moving, I feel it sting in the back of my head. There’s screams resounding in the night, as I drive the car into oblivion.

I open my eyes, and I see it again. I see it riding besides me not into darkness but into light as I drive back to life. I am free, finally, from all the evil and the wickedness of my enemy.

A thunderbolt strikes, and after the light I see the night, and the bright lights of the city. I have returned, but everything has changed: it’s different now, I can feel it, too much time has passed. I look at my hands, and the skin is peeling off of them: it’s rotting, I am rotting, yet I breathe. My head pounds and burns as clear images of chaos and cosmos blink in and out of my vision and I travel worlds known and unknown with the will of my desire.

I can sense them, those like him, like the Devil. The car is with me now, part of me, and it shall be my steed as I ride against the seeds of evil.

I remember everything now.

tagnone

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