Samson checked his pockets. In his shirt pocket he had a prescription bottle labeled Acetaminophen. Eight hundred milligrams written out to Jacque Willet. Samson knew there was anything but Tylenol in that bottle. It contained at least twenty hits of Ecstasy.
He opened the bottle, and pulled out one of the pills that he popped it into her mouth. She sucked his fingertips lasciviously before she swallowed the pill.
“Tell them the party favors are on me tonight.” Samson kissed the little porn star, tasting the bitter chalkiness of the Ecstasy. Then he unhooked the velvet rope that separated them and walked past her into the club.
The flashing lights, the artificial smoke, the club goers in lace, leather, and latex, gave the club a haunted house ambiance that Samson found rather silly most nights, but tonight it felt almost inviting, as if everyone in the club sensed the bloodbath that was about to ensue and welcomed it. Grateful to be released from their pathetic pseudo-death, their garish mockery of the undead. Grateful for a chance to experience the real thing.
Samson checked his other pockets as he dove into the sea of humanity, sweating and gyrating around him, their flesh pulsating and undulating with the techno drum beat. In his pants pocket he found what remained of Jacque’s stash of cocaine. It might be hard for Samson to find enough people willing to sell their souls for sex, but in a club like Requiem, he was willing to bet they would line up to sign the contract in exchange for a few lines of coke and some Ecstasy. Killing them all afterward would be the most difficult, but also, certainly, the most enjoyable.
Samson approached another bouncer. He was dressed identically to the ones outside, right down to the hormone enhanced physique, except that he was white and had blonde dreadlocks down to his ass.
“Hey Samson, what’s crackalackin’, Bro?”
“Hey, Milton. How do the ladies look tonight?”
“There’s some thoroughbreds mingling about. A dime piece or two here and there. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Samson hated white boys who affected black slang. He found it offensive and condescending. It made what he was planning a lot easier to stomach.
“Hey Milt, you want some X, man?”
“You ain’t sellin’ that shit in here are you?” Milton brushed his dreadlocks away from his eyes and narrowed them at Samson.
“Nope, this is just for my friends.”
The bouncer glanced up and down the stairs to be certain no one else was watching. There were so many people wearing dark or mirrored sunglasses in the Stygian gloom of the nightclub that Samson wasn’t certain how the man would have known if anyone was watching or not.
“All right then, what you got?”
“Coke or X. Whatever you need.”
“How about a little of both?”
“There’s one catch though.”
Milton crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Samson suspiciously.
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“I have this contract that gives me ownership of your soul. You sign it and you get to fly for free tonight.”
“Man, you crazy!”
“I’m serious. I’m collecting souls tonight and you’re my first.”
“You want my soul? Like a vampire or some shit? I didn’t think you were into all this Goth shit. But all right, what the fuck then. Let’s do it! Give me that shit. I’ll sign it. But I want a little more than just some drugs if I’m going to give up my soul. You know what I’m sayin’?”
He moved in closer to Samson until his erection pressed against Samson’s leg. In the black lights, the whites of Milton’s eyes and teeth shone neon green, creating a gruesome ghostly effect. With his thick nest of dreadlocks swirling around his head he looked like a wild banshee. Samson gripped the knife in his pocket, eager to draw the man’s blood, drain out his soul drop by drop. Even in his relationships with other men, it seemed to always come down to sex. He’d have to examine that with his therapist one day.
“I didn’t know you were gay.”
The bouncer smirked. “Look, I ain’t gay. I fuck around a little bit here and there, but I ain’t gay. I might be bi or some shit like that. I ain’t never let nobody fuck me in the ass if that’s what you mean. I do the pitchin’. You know I’m sayin’? But I just ain’t never seen a muthafucka as pretty as you. I just want to make out with you a little. We don’t even have to fuck. You can just jack me off or some shit like that.”
Samson smiled. Killing this one would be fun. “Some place private then?”
“We’ve got a little closet up in the VIP room. I’ve got the key.”
Samson followed him up into VIP and into the closet, laughing quietly at the irony. Milton flipped on a light switch and a tiny fluorescent bulb in the back flicked on. The closet was empty except for some old boxes filled with party decorations from Christmas, New Years, Valentine’s Day, and various other assorted holidays. They shuffled back amongst the Styrofoam Santas and Easter eggs and big cardboard hearts until Samson’s back touched the wall.
“How about that X?” Milton’s eyes already twinkled with the effects of some type of amphetamine, his pupils were the size of silver dollars.
Samson popped open the little prescription bottle and handed him one. The bouncer swallowed it dry, grinning wide in expectation, his erection tenting the front of his pants as he stroked it through the coarse denim fabric, leering at Samson. Samson tapped out two neat lines of coke on the back of his hand and offered those to Milton as well. Milton kneeled down and snorted up both lines like a pro.
“Now sign the contract and we can play.”
Samson withdrew one of the contracts from the roll of papers in his jacket and seized Milton’s finger, jabbing it with the tip of an old fashioned ink pen, drawing blood.
“Ouch! Don’t do that shit, man!”
“It’s just a nick. Relax. You need blood for the contract.”
“You’re serious about this shit, huh? About wanting my soul and shit?”
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
“Cool. I’m cool with that, Mr. Lucifer or whatever you think you are. You want my soul? It’s yours. I ain’t doin’ much wit’ it anyway.”
He scrawled his name quickly onto the contract then turned and wrapped his arms around Samson, kissing him sloppily. Samson slid the tanto knife between the bouncer’s ribs, up into his heart, neatly severing his aorta. Milton sighed, went rigid for a second, and then dropped, his lifeless body collapsing like a punctured sex doll. Samson watched the body convulse amongst the party ornaments, voiding all its fluids as Milton’s brain starved for blood.
The bouncer’s soul enmeshed him immediately, still horny, still wanting to fuck as his spirit adhered to Samson’s flesh. Samson sucked in several quick breaths as Milton’s soul invaded him. The sensation was shocking, bitterly cold at first like a splash of ice water. The spirit coursed through him in a heady rush, the sensation a cross between having the meat flayed from his bones and being caught in the throes of an orgasm.
Samson stepped out of the closet, his shirt stained with blood, certain that no one would notice or care. He was reeling from the powerful sensations of this third soul charging through his veins like a blast of nitrous oxide, filling his capillaries, his muscle tissue, his every sinew, every organ. Even his skin crackled with the energy of Milton’s spirit, sparking in the air like static electricity. He could feel it following the path blazed by Jacque and Tara until it had permeated every iota of his essence, joining with Samson’s own spirit, enervating him. He was starting to enjoy this feeling and wasn’t so sure he wanted to give any of these souls away.
Even to save his brother.