He Used Babylonians

A Novel
By
Jonas Gagnon

The Immortal, The Killer, And The Zealot

The Immortal

It’s a rough looking bar with nothing to draw customers except the alcohol behind the bar. The place looked like it was as drunk as its patrons. They chairs leaned to the east; the bare wood wallls to the west; the bar to the north; the pillars to the south; and everything else in every other direction. And its patrons were worse. Very few had the ability to stand, even those who had the abilitiy before they sat down at the bar. “Circus” played on a rough looking jukebox but a voice rode over it and drilled through my brain like sixteen shells from a 30-0-6. The voice was sullen, high pitched, and twisted; so was the man, which is to say he blended in well.

“I want that money”

The sentiments pouring out of his mouth were not new. He was a man that was summed up by that statement, and, as he had little imagination, continuously repeated it to everyone he knew until he got his desire, or a broken nose.

His desire was legitimate as he did not have any money, and could not keep it long when he did, but now was the wrong time.

“I have connections, I can get that money, I’m asking you for your benefit. You’re what; six foot nothing and only two hundred pounds of muscle on that body. You’re not so tough that I can’t bring you down.”

“It’s two hundred and twenty pounds. And you forgot to mention my brown hair and my wrinkled clothing.”

A fire headed broad walked in wearing strappy high heals, a red dress and not much else. She found a seat right behind the voice’s head and sat down.

Seeing he’d lost my attention he started to bob his head and curse rather amazingly. None of these things cured my hangover, and the threat of death tasted like the morning after a three day bender. I downed my whiskey, showed him my iron and told him I was leaving.

“Guns and alcohol don’t mix drifter.”

He didn’t know the practice I’d had. I got up, he reached for his gun, then fell over. He would have hit his head on the bar as he fell. Then the man the voice had put behind me stabbed me right where you can’t itch. I shot at him over my shoulder until I heard someone, or something fall. Regardless he didn’t try anything else. I walked out of the joint, and immediately regretted not getting a bottle to go.

I liked this Jacket. Now I had to get a new one. My clothes have had short life times recently.

I sat down and wished I was on the other end of a bad cliché. Just then the skirt walked out. I was in no condition to talk to a dame, so I went over and introduced myself.

I came out of the gates with a winner, “H-hi.” She looked at me like I was a drunk hobo, which wasn’t far of the mark; but coming from a girl like that it just didn’t feel right. I tried a different tact; I shut up.

“Need some help?” Her voice was that of a fallen angel.

“I’m fine.”

“The knife in your back doesn’t bother you?”

What do you say to something like that, no it’s ok; or oops I forgot about that yeah could you please take the knife out of my back? I solved the problem by not saying anything. She looked at me for a couple minutes, then walked around and pulled the knife out.

“Thanks, can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“Is my coat beyond repair. Blood is damned hard to get out.”

“Nothing a womans touch can’t get out”

“You know where I can find a good one?” Sometimes my humour is too sharp for some people. But when a girl starts talking like that it’s time to throw up a couple of protective barriers.She gave me a brittle grin a let it go. Tough girl.

We walked back into the bar. The bartender looked like he would shoot me if it would do any good. But seeing as that was not an option he gave me the bottle of whiskey and a martini for the lady.

She was my type. The type that didn’t cry when you left, but sent a bullet for company. She was the type that didn’t need a Man, or a partner, just someone to lay with for a while.

We were having a good time when the cops came. A sadly used man, he commanded enough respect to garner a laugh before the men went back to drinking. He could have closed the place down then and there, but his one hand wasn’t quick enough and his other hand had long since shrivelled into his sleeve.

“You’re under arrest for murder.”

“No”

I think he took a step back at that reply. He may not have been respected but he wasn’t used to such blatant disobedience, he did have enough power to take, or make your life miserable. He looked confused. But failing a better idea he continued on with his spiel.

“Put your guns down and come with me.”

The bartender walked over to him and whispered in his ear. They had a discussion, then with a red face he apologised because I was “not the man he was looking for,” and walked out.

After a couple of drinks we went back to her place. Once there I can’t remember what happened but I can make a pretty accurate guess.

“So what did Daniel want?”

It was the morning after, and although I had a hangover I was feeling good. This was the type of hangover which you relish, the kind that says last night I had fun.

“Hey, what did Daniel want?”

“Who's Daniel?”

“The man you killed last night.”

“Money”

“Why?”

“Cause I owed it to him.’

“You borrowed money off of Daniel, and didn’t pay it back?”

“Yeah. why?”

“He wasn’t lying when he said he had friends. He does business with some pretty serious people, and if you borrowed money off of him you borrowed from them.”

“So”

“Do you have no concern for your life?”

“Not really.”

“ If his friends come I’m not taking a bullet for you... By the way how is the knife wound? You’d think it was healed by what we did last night.”

“Hm”

“Let me see... wasn’t it right here.”

“Don’t remember.”

She was confused. The whole conversation did nothing but turn her around and push her over. But she was tough, and part of that toughness was a complete lack of curiosity, so she let the subject drop. This was my type of girl. I made up my mind to stay just a little bit longer than I had originally planned.

The next couple of days were as close to domestic bliss as I will ever get. She cooked, Microwave dinners every night; then the bar; and then breakfast at five o’clock each morning at the all night dinner. I even earned my keep, the horses and cards were good to me. We chatted at the dinner table about the important things in life; the bar we should go to, how much money we had left, and whether we should have sex now or later.

We settled into a routine. I endured it for a while. Longer than I had before, but with the added incentive that Daniel’s friends were coming into town I left. I left as I always did, she was passed out, I wasn’t.

I had almost got out of town when some of Daniel’s ‘serious’ friends caught up with me. There were five of them and only one of me. I was shot sixteen times, but in the end it was me that walked away from their carcasses, well it was more of a limp.

After a a respite at the next inn, and stop to get some new clothes. I walked on until a bar caught my interest. I stopped to see if it met my expectations, seeing that it met my lofty expectations, it served alcohol, I stoped in for a drink. The next morning when they rolled me out of the bar, the first thing I saw was a red dress.

If you are a close reader, and have you’re wits about you you know the broad in that dress, or know her as well as I do. And you will expect, as I expect, trouble. She is a hard one, and brighter than I gave her credit for if she found me here, with no clues to lead her on. The second thing I saw was the barrel of a gun. My second thought was ‘oh shit this is going to hurt.’ And it did. I’ve never grown used to the kiss of a bullet. Funny how the kiss of a broad can become boring, and her caress annoying; but any touch from a bullet is never anything but agony.

She was surprised that I got up, so she couldn’t be that smart. Now it was going to be a bad break up. I would have to explain why I left, or something. Neither of us was good at this, i usually snuck out, and if anyone left her without her kicking them out, they got the present I got, only this time she got more than she bargained for.

“Um.... Sorry I left.” By this time she had forgot her surprise and continued her glare, perhaps thinking that would achieve what the bullet didn’t.

“You asshole.” She said it like she was ordering a pizza.

I took out my cigarettes. That brought fire from her eyes and her gun. My cigarettes were gone and so was a good chunk of flesh from my hands. So she was a good shot, but I knew that from the pain in my head. I needed bullet proof clothes just to be able to keep an article of clothing more than a day.

Her anger drained out of her. Now she was aimless and confused, this made her angry again, then, as she couldn’t vent it, it became confusion. You could see her emotions circling like sharks. I kinda liked her so I took some pity

“I really am sorry I left. I know I should have told you but I just couldn’t stand the thought of your pretty face in tears. I had to go. There are people chasing me, and if I stayed you would be in danger. If I get out of this alive I’ll come back to you.” And here’s the clincher, “But I probably won’t get out of this alive.”

She bought it. With all she had just seen. She cried. Put down her gun, and I almost cried with relief.

“Just once more for old times sake?”

Almost. I almost gave in. But I knew the tender trap was waiting to clinch me. I had to turn her down.

“Got to go. Sorry babe.”

“But Chandler...”

Chandler P. Marlowe. I love that name, I took it from my favourite author.

“No, just go before you make this to hard for the both of us.” Her emotions were clouding her judgement if she believed a line like that. But she did. She turned her back and walked away. I was scared though. If she found me after I slipped out like that, then she could find me anywhere. I know bounty hunters that would kill for a talent like that. Ignore the bad joke. We all have talents though and I can’t say I was disappointed by mine.

I contemplated killing her, she had tied a string to me, a string that I wasn’t sure if I could break, and that was a crime punishable by death. But it would take someone harder even than me to kill a dame he’d slept with in cold blood, especially when she still loved me. I couldn’t pull the trigger, but I hoped someone would.

So I walked, knowing that this was not the end, and not looking forward to that end, when it came.

And so it went. As it always did. I walked, drank, drove, fought, killed, was beaten, and then drank. Life on the road. It suited me. I could never deal with staying in one place for long. It was unbearable.

The only lady that could hold me for long was The City. She was beautiful, and after a long boy’s night out with the road I was headed back to apologize and hop back into our beautiful relationship.

You see the lady had everything, and asked so little. You could wander her streets for days without retreading a single metre; and even if you did, it was always different. You could lose yourself in her streets; and, more importantly, you could lose everyone else. It was the closest to thing being alone without losing all the convienience and amazing array of everything that people offer. And She offered far more then any other city in the world. The culture and sheer undying life of the city is hers in amazing amounts.

There always comes a time when the road seems too small. When every town I stop in becomes the same, and all the peons think they know me, Always offering, a ‘good day neighbour’ as if they were my life long ‘pal.’ When I get sick of all that ‘chummyness’ (even the word is hockey and it emmbaresses me that I even know) I head back to my glamorous, cold hearted bitch, the city.


The Killer (Corneilles)

He died. The sweet warmth on my hands like a sip of whisky. The power over life left me drunk. There’s not a man alive that can escape my hands. I kill. That is my job, passion, and hobby. It is my lone talent. Each time I can almost feel their life in my hands, and with a tug I seperate them from their souls. There is no feeling like taking someones life. You have taken over the very job of Fate, of GOD. I decide who lives and dies. I pick who will see tomorrows sunrise, and the ones who will never see it again.

I put my cut throat britva away. A razor is the only way to kill a man. If you can’t kill someone with a razor than you should become a cop. Then everyone can enjoy your oversized phallic symbol you call a weapon. No the pleasure doesn’t come from being able to push someone around. Any one with a big enough gun can scare people. When you take someones life it is so much more than that. You’re power is so much more.

I laugh. It scares people; laughing when you’re covered in blood. Gets them scared. Makes a lot of them mad. They don’t like being nervous, the big ones with the guns. Oh, but I can see it in their eyes.

I walk away. Turned my back on some people not accustomed to such a lack of fear. Pisses them right off. But they know, they didn’t know it before, but now they do. They know I am a wolf, a wolf among sheep, baaaah. They may be big tough sheep, maybe even the biggest and the toughest, but when a wolf comes, a sleek black wolf, no matter how tough, or big, that sheep is; it will die.

As I walk away I can feel them trying to get up their nerve. Trying to convince themselves they can stab me in the back and get away with it. It makes me smile. Their fear feeds me.

I saunter away, each step a hidden barb. Angering them til the mask of red completely covers what little sense they have, and then, if I am lucky they will come for me. If they have the balls. And with each fight I will prove to them that I am better. That they are nothing to me but mutton to feed my appetite.

They don’t come though. They walk away, as compelete a defeat as posible without their death. So I go home, well to the hotel, on the way I pick up some throwdown; 2 corndogs and a coke. I eat them on my way up, and when I get in there’s nothing to do. I try to watch tv, but the fake blood splashing everwhere does nothing for me. I shut off the T.V. without touching the buttons; sometimes violence comes too easy. I don’t have the money to pay for the t.v. so I leave, to sleep another night outside.

It’s so late even the drunks and homeless have gone to bed. It’s almost time for the morning rush hour, so the hooligans have slunk off to their holes to wait for another night to make trouble, too bad.

The blood in my veins is boiling. It’s pissing me off because there’s no one to use this energy on, which makes me want to kill someone. I can’t sleep, I can’t hunt, I can’t do anything except prowl the streets of the City.

So I prowl. Waiting for someone to stick their head out, waiting for someone to kill. I don’t like to murder, not like a fight, but sometimes I have to. I try to keep my appetites to the underground, the liars and robbers, the rapists and gang bangers. I don’t always succeed, but I usually do. It can get hard, and when some fucker mouthes me off... Who cares if I’m annoying them, they should be grateful that I let them live.

I walk past some arrogant fuck on soap box, a soap box I shit you not, preaching to me about my need for salvation, sounds like he just thinks I need him to control my life. I think about killing him and quieting this area of town a little bit, but I’m sure he’s not doing it just for kicks. Maybe he really believes it. I would hate to kill someone who might actually bring soome light into the world, maybe he will. He kinda soundes legit.

I try to walk it off. Hoping that I could tire myself out and not have to hunt down some poor old lady that deserved more than being fodder for my fucked up psyche. Everytime I even came close to killing one of them I came even closer to killing myself.

I know I’m fucked up. I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that. It’s not normal to feel the need to kill. But this world isn’t normal. It’s at least as fucked up as I am, so I don’t feel so bad.

I finally get some sleep hunched up at a subway station. All i remember from my dreams is the sweet flow of red.

How rude of me. You’ve seen my sordid life and I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Corneilles. I can hear you chuckling from the other side of the page, the funny thing is I chose the name for myself. For many people the name conjures up a small mouse of a man with coke-bottle glasses who rarely finds himself outside of a library. And though I am not a large man, and like books; this description, as you probably know, does not fit me. I chose the name for what it means, for those who actually know something. It means crows, plural, as in a flock. This, to me, is fitting.

I have structured, for now, my persona around this name. Have you guessed it yet? Yes I wear lots of black clothing and my hair is, drum roll.... black. Quelle surprise. It sounds kind of corny, but it’s not as bad as it seems. I am not some sort of goth. I do not where leather trench coats or trousers. I am not some sort of matrix style fashion victim. All black can be pulled of with taste. All you have to do is look at Johnny Cash. Few people even notice my all black attire.

The Zealot

I got off the box I had been standing on to get the attention of the passerbyers. I had chosen it for it’s clean smell, it must have been used to ship some washing product. The sun was going down and I needed a torch now to continue to preach in this dark city. All of the lamp posts were dead and a flashlight would serve to highten spirits and gain attention where the disheartened would usually simply walk by in the dark trying not to be the next casualty in an on going war for everything. But with my light I could make them look up and see the terror of the world around them and draw them to the comfort of light and the warmth that light promises.

Terror is everywhere now. There is no comforter for the poor, no protector for the week. They have traded God for a low, sordid existence. I am the only light in this darkness to bring these people back to a right place with God. I will show them the peace and lovethat they seek.

But they don’t listen. They are to dumb to listen to their salvation. Instead they accuseme of selling fluff. FLUFF!! Like I would live in poverty, and stand before them to get mocked just for fluff.

Let me give a brief tour of my ‘home.’ Here follow me. Down this alley. You see that box, no thats not my home now, I’ve come upon a windfall, but just past that. See the yard, and the ‘garden shed.’ Well it’s not a garden shed that’s my home. I even have a bed now. No toilet but thereare enough publice toilets to go to the washroom and I rigged a shower using the garden hose. ‘cleanliness is next to Godliness.’ Inside isn’t much, just a pallet and some rusty garden tools. I’m saving up for a gass burner, another month and I’ll be able to afford it. I’v paid half a years rent and I’praying that the next six months comes to me before Iget kicked out. I really don’t like living on the street. I should get back to preaching those people on the street need me.

“Oi! Rein! Get the fuck off our street nad stop trying to convert these people. They’re my people. I won’t allow any damn preacher and his puffed up God to take away their fear.”

“Here comes trouble. Everynight they come. I think tonight will be bad. But I won’tleave until I win someone over...I hope I’ll be able to get up tomorrow.”

“We told you to leave, and then, you little fucker, we had to tell you again. We’ve told you too many times. And now we will show you why you have to leave. You see this chain, his knife, my gun. Now you leave because if you don’t leave you will be an example of how week your God is. do you think people will cometo someone who is barely able to talk, nevermind walk. You will simply be a laughing stock. For the last time, FUCK OFF! Somebody hit him so he’ll say something.”

“Unh”

“Now whats he doing?”

“If someone slaps you on the cheek you must turn the other cheek.”

“What a self righteous prat. This may be funner than I thought.”