Tim Marquitz - Resurrection

“I hadn’t…hadn’t thought of it like that,” she stammered.

“Of course you didn’t. That would require you to have a heart, feelings.” I bit my tongue, swallowing the venom that frothed and clamored to be spat out. Only the fact that she was beholden to Baalth kept me from lashing out. “Once upon a time, I’d have given you anything, Veronica. All you had to do was ask.” I stared into her teary eyes, my gaze unwavering. “But those days are gone. You nearly cost me the only link I had left to the man who raised me, supported me. Loved me. If ever there was a line in my life, you crossed it.”

Her face dropped, her eyes staring at the ground. “I’m sorry.” I saw tears hit the sidewalk. “I didn’t realize.”

I shook my head, exhaling hard. The sad thing was there wasn’t any point in asking for the blood back. No matter how sorry she said she was, she’d taken it for a reason. As it always was with Veronica, only her needs mattered. It felt like we were married all over again.

All sorts of emotions were rattling around inside me: rage, hate, disgust. But somewhere under it all, a small, plaintive voice still cared. It whispered to me in sugary tones, begging me to let my anger go. To pull Veronica into a tight, warm embrace and let the past drift away. It railed for forgiveness, for reconciliation. None of it mattered, it explained. All of these negative emotions would be washed away in the haze of time anyway, so why not discard them now and take pleasure in the moment? That’s when I realized where the voice came from.

My penis.

Selfish little bastard. He’d never liked my heart much.

I sighed, the momentum of my fury stalled. In all my years, I couldn’t remember one argument I’d ever won against my crotch. I probably wouldn’t win this one either, but I wasn’t quite ready to concede yet.

“Why’d you really come here?” I had the feeling there was more to her visit than fence-mending. There always was.

She looked up at me, her eyes still moist. A flicker of hope danced across her face before retreating at the sight of my frigid stare. She wiped her eyes dry and sniffed. “Baalth wants to see you.”

What a surprise. “Baalth can kiss my ass.”

She snorted. “He figured you’d say that. He told me to remind you about the contract you two have. He’s calling it due.”

Damn it. I’d forgotten about that. In the midst of Asmoday’s world-ending adventure, I’d signed a contract with Baalth pledging to do some unspecified, minor task in trade for his help. It wasn’t a big deal. Demons did it all the time. It was the currency of the Demonarch, the demon world. However, if I failed to live up to the terms of the agreement, my soul would be forfeit. My energy and life would be devoured by Baalth, forever to be a part of him.

On the best of days, it wasn’t a good way to go out.

“Tell him I’ll stop in and see him in the morning,” said the puppet on a string. “If that fits his majesty’s schedule, that is.”

Veronica nodded. Baalth must have known I’d say that too. “He’ll be at Club Dread around ten. He says to not be late.”

I dug Candy’s cell phone out of my pocket and checked the time: 4 a.m. I groaned as I put it away. “Well, if he expects me to be on my best behavior, I need sleep.” I half-assed waved her off. “Night.”

She turned to go, then stopped cold. She cast a glance back at me over her shoulder. “Are we all right?” Her voice sounded quiet, shaky almost.

I met her gaze. “No.” Her chin drooped, her eyes drifting down. A twinge of times past rattled my heart, no doubt spurred on by my dick. “Maybe we will be… someday.” I swear the little guy is a ventriloquist.

A slight smile graced her lips as she raised her face to look at me. She knew better than to say anything, to push her luck. She’d gotten all she could hope for. She gave me a curt wave and disappeared into the darkness.

Alone at last, I went to the door. The mystical wards set up to guard my house had been ramped up as well, during the renovation. Almost as soon as I felt the gentle tingle of their scans, the front door popped open to let me in. Once inside, the door closed behind me and secured the property.

I guess the new house wasn’t all that bad. It had its perks. The security system was nice. I didn’t have to worry about losing my keys anymore, which happened a lot in my line of business. Hard to keep things in your pockets when your pants are always being burnt off or shredded.

DRAC also replaced my damaged, worn furniture as well as all of my electronics, which had been destroyed by McConnell’s blast. That was the most noticeable difference inside the house. I’d gone from a knobbed tube-television and an 8-track player to a 50” flat screen HDTV with a DVD player and a house-rattling stereo system. Talk about culture shock.

It took me two weeks to figure out the damn buttons to work the TV were on the side. I’m not even gonna admit what I thought the remote was used for. Let’s just say it took a while to un-stick the buttons.

Exhausted, but my mind too active to sleep, I strolled into the living room and plopped down in my old, wobbly Lazy-Boy; the one piece of furniture to survive the devastation. It squeaked its appreciation at our reunion. We’d been together a long time.

Comfortable at last, I snatched up the remote and turned the TV on. As the screen flickered to life, I leaned back and set the remote aside. If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least find something constructive to do.

Who knew porn would look so good on a big screen?

Up just in time to make my meeting with Baalth, I whipped into the almost empty parking lot, wiping sleep from my eyes. At least I hoped it was sleep. It’d been an explosive night. There’s no way to reliably account for all of the fallout.

I’m sure my maid loved me.

As presentable as I could bother to be, my jeans and t-shirt almost clean, I got out of the car and slipped around to the front entrance of Club Dread. While an ominous moniker to be sure, the place didn’t quite live up to it. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few things that went on there that inspired dread, but little which truly fit the spirit of the name.

As the sole surviving Goth club in El Paseo, Club Dread had a monopoly on the souls of the disenfranchised. A rundown, ramshackle hunk of a building, which fit snugly within the shadows of its towering neighbors, the inside beckoned its black-shrouded customers with the lure of the perverse. Stone-faced ghouls and grinning gargoyles hung guard along the walls, squeezed in amidst the somber portraits. Images of suffering and joy set to canvass in mournful reds and blacks.

A handful of battered tables sat huddled in crowded corners while a couple of worn and stained couches held court on a raised dais. Lifeless pillows were scattered about the room. Willowy curtains, stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke and incense, dangled from the dim light fixture.

If those couches could talk, they’d say, “Eeeeewwwwwwww.”

The dance floor was a concrete slab that made an open grave look spacious. A seizure-inducing disco ball dangled over it. The bar across from it was stocked with the barest of wares, Absinthe showcased prominently amidst the cheap whiskey and red wines. Above its shelves hung the trademark tools of the club’s ministerial mistress, Delilah; the whip and the paddle.

If ever there were to be dread found here that didn’t involve a three-hundred pound man wearing face paint and a ragged black dress stumbling into the bathroom stall behind you, it would be Delilah who provided it. Quick to anger, and even quicker to punish, if the paddle were in her hand, someone was going home raw.