Orgy of Souls

12

Requiem, a hole in the wall night club, used to be a church. The refurbished sanctuary was now the main dance floor broken by rows of columns. Clusters of tables and chairs separated it from the lounge and bar area, the words “Entertainment one better than sterno enemas” painted on a nearby column. A dimly lit balcony ringed the main floor as huddles of shadows watched from above. Roadies scurried about the stage that had once supported a pulpit and choir loft, preparing for the band, Madonna’s Abortion, to play.

An overweight girl with a feather boa draped around her shoulders and her hair pulled up sat in a corner of the club. A crescent moon caught in a shower of stars advertised tarot readings. Her business cards read “The Witch Cottage.” The prospect intrigued Samson; he’d never gotten a tarot reading before. He sat down across from her, attempting to hide the condescending smirk etched on his face.

“How much?”

“Fifteen dollars. You can ask me as many questions as you like. Here, shuffle these cards.” She handed him a stack of well-worn, oversized cards. Samson shuffled them awkwardly then handed the deck back to her. She dealt them in front of him.

“How long will I be married?” he baited her. He wasn’t going to let this turn into one of those eerie moments. He suspected how this worked: the more he expressed on his face or in his voice, the more information she’d have for the con.

“You will end up alone,” she said as if she didn’t hear his question. Studying the cards with a brooding intensity, Samson wanted to lean over to see what she was reading. “If you did the right thing, which you won’t, things might work out. You’re being punished by the Divine. What you’ve put out is coming back to you.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you too.” He threw a twenty dollar bill in the fortune teller’s face as he rose from the table.

Techno strains from the band drew him back to the main floor; the music was little more than violent whining, like rending metal to a beat. Maroon light bathed the stage and the fog machine worked overtime. Between the multiple strobes and psychedelic haze of smoke, the dancing figures were little more than shadowy faces crying in the night. Sticking to the periphery, he walked to the bar, discrete from the dance area in its own pocket universe. Candles created flickering pools of amber light from the lounge. Incense burned in scattered piles. Samson ordered a drink, but everything tasted gray.

No, tonight was about the hunt.

He turned his attention to the gyrating flesh. Reading people, women especially, was what he did. One woman strayed from the pack of her friends as if afraid to catch a case of popularity. She chewed on the tip of her right thumb, her hair pulled back in a low maintenance ponytail. Leather straps encased her small breasts. Boots came up to the knees of her lanky legs, a matching mini skirt barely covering her behind. Her face was androgynous, not pretty, though fascinating all the same, conspicuous by her paucity of makeup.

She lacked the smell of prey: too little of the neediness, the lack of self-esteem, the eagerness to please that Samson knew he could twist and pervert until she was happily signing her soul away for the self-validation of casual sex with one of the world’s most desirable men.

That was when he spied his true intended. She struck a pose of too-cool-to-dance, catching herself if her head bobbed to the music. Her tall frame possessed an awkward grace, her swaying suggested sexiness in its own way. She wore a blood red gown that flowed and swirled with her movements. Long ivory gloves, the sleeves slit up the middle, revealed lengthwise scars down her wrists. Her long black hair—too black, obviously dyed—draped down her alluring neck. Her skin chalked to a drained, grayish hue, bordered on whiteface. She met his lingering gaze.

She had probably spent two hours getting herself ready for the club, afraid to be seen without every hair intact, every visible patch of skin creamed and powdered to a ghostly white pallor. Afraid that others would see the missing parts of her if they weren’t covered in make-up, afraid that she was little more than a pretty thing others wanted to fuck. An Egyptian hieroglyph encircled her large eyes, giving them a vaguely Asian appearance. Radiating a special brand of vivaciousness, she would do. She sauntered over to him.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” she said with a deep, gravelly voice. A sexy rasp. Completely affected. Another layer of her mask.

“Because you’re beautiful and I want to make love to you.”

Her eyebrows rose sharply and a smile broke quickly onto her face, shattering her cool aloof exterior. “Damn! You don’t waste time with small talk do you?”

“Not when I find what I’m looking for, when I find someone worthy of what I have to offer.”

“And what is it you’re offering?”

“Freedom. I’m offering absolute freedom through total subservience.”

“Oh, you’re a dom then? I would have never guessed you were into all of that. You don’t dress the part,” she said as she stepped back to get a better view, taking in Samson’s Bruno Mali shoes, Hugo Boss jeans and Versace silk shirt.

“Why else would anyone come to a club like this?”

“Most people come because they have no idea what they want or what they are.”

Samson leaned over and breathed his next words directly into her ear. “Oh, I know exactly what I want and exactly what I am.” His deep, resonant voice vibrated against her earlobe as his lips brushed against her jaw line.

“And what’s that?”

“I’m looking for Life,” he said.

“Well, there’s no life here. Usually, only the lost come here. I think you’re looking for what we all are—love.”

“Love?” Samson laughed out loud, the bemused expression on his face bordering on pity. “My father always told me that there was no such thing as love. It was just a four letter word you used to get pussy. People toss it around too casually for it to mean anything. I don’t believe in love. Fuck love. My way is much better.”

She nodded, though her face appeared pained. “Yeah. Fuck love. It’s overrated. I haven’t really loved anything since my mother died when I was two years old. I never even got to know her. Only a smell I always imagined my mother would smell like, a mix of tea rose oil and a soft scent, like baby powder. I don’t even know if that’s how she really smelled. It’s just all I can remember.” She chuckled without mirth. “Two loveless souls finding each other, that’s quite the coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason,” Samson said. “It must be someone’s plan.”

“So you still believe in God?”

“I never said I didn’t. Who else would you blame for your mother’s death or my parent’s never giving a fuck about me, if He didn’t exist? I just don’t get His sense of humor.”

“Me neither, but then, I’m not a believer.” She wrapped her hands around his, curling his hand into a fist.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“To where? Do you know where the after-hours party is?”

“The only party that matters is the one at my house. Do you want to party with me?” He smiled when he said it. Then he reached out and caressed her cheek with one hand while still holding her other hand. She returned his smile, her eyes already clouding with lust.

“I don’t do drugs or anything anymore. I’ve been clean for almost a year.”

“I’m not offering drugs. I’m offering me.”

“I’m not really into the whole B&D thing either. I don’t really get off on pain.”

“The type of submission I’m talking about doesn’t require whips and chains. I want you to submit your soul to me.”

“My soul?” her face twisted into a scowl and she stepped back from Samson as if he’d slapped her face, “What are you. some born again Christian or something? I told you, I don’t believe in God.”

“I said I wanted you to submit your soul to me, not Christ.”

“Well, that does sound kinky.” She smirked at him again, attempting to be coy and seductive.

“I want you to give me your immortal soul. Your soul…” He turned her hand so that the palm rested against his hard pectoral muscles, then began to slide her hand down his chest, over his rippling abs, over his belt buckle, to the thick swell of his cock bulging through his jeans. “…for my flesh.”

Her hand trembled as he slid it back up his body, over the striated muscles beneath his silk shirt and up to his pursed lips. He kissed each finger, then released her hand and let it fall back to her side. The woman took a deep breath to calm herself. Still, her voice shook when she spoke.

“That’s…that’s a pretty high price. Are you worth it?”

“It’s not so high a price for an atheist. If you don’t believe in God, then what do you need a soul for? This should be a bargain for you…and yes, I am worth it.”

He winked at her and licked his lips, looking her up and down.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be the one offering me your soul to sleep with me?”

“Sex is easy to come by. You are beautiful, but beauty in a woman is expected. It’s not so terribly remarkable. Just look around this club. There are beautiful women everywhere. I could pull ten girls a night out of this club every bit as lovely as you. How about you? How many men like me could you pull out of this club?”

She took a head-to-toe appraisal. “Okay, so there aren’t a lot of men as fine as you. But is that worth my soul?”

“Come with me and find out.”