“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.
The minute Samson stepped back into the black lights of the VIP room he saw the girl with the “Porn Star” shirt mount the stairs with five others in tow. This was going to be easier than he expected.
“So where’s the party?”
“You sign these contracts and the party starts right now.”
Samson held up the bag of cocaine and all of their eyes zeroed in on it. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed them the contracts and the pen.
“What kind of contracts are these?” The girls took the papers without reading them and instead looked to Samson for clarification.
“They are contracts giving me sole ownership of your immortal souls. Sign them and I own you forever.”
Samson laughed ghoulishly to lighten the mood. They all laughed with him.
“You’re crazy.”
“Just sign the contract so we can party.”
“Is this for real?” One of the girls asked hesitantly as the others squinted, trying to read the fine print.
“Yup. I want to own your souls before I take your flesh—that way even our spirits can make love. Love is, after all, the desire to unite with the love object. Fucking is so incomplete in that regard. It’s just a marriage of the flesh. This is a marriage of the soul.”
“Man, you talk pretty. My mother always warned me about pretty talkin’ niggas,” said one of the glamour models, a black one with a large afro and big hoop earrings. She had big brown eyes, thick pillowy lips, long muscular legs, and an ass like an Olympic sprinter.
Samson smiled back at her.
“Maybe your momma was right. If you ain’t down you can always leave the way you came. But if you stay you have to sign.”
Another girl piped up with another question, but he’d quit listening. In the end, she’d sign, too. She was a typical model type, six feet tall, blonde, and barely a hundred pounds. He thought he detected a slight Swedish accent. She’d probably worked hard with a vocal coach to lose it. Probably thinking her accent was the only impediment to her acting career and not the fact that she looked like every other would-be-actress in California.
Samson dehumanized them in order to make the kill easier, but he knew that being naive and superficial were not sufficient flaws to merit what he had planned for them. He’d have to kill them knowing that he was taking innocent lives. After the murders he’d already committed, he found the notion surprisingly easy to swallow. His brother’s life was worth more than every cum-dumpster in this club. Their deaths would open up more room on the world’s casting couches for other self-deluded sluts.
The girls still squinted at the papers, trying to read in the darkened club.
“Samson, you are one twisted dude. But hell, I’ll sign the shit. I’ve been wanting to fuck you forever!” said the little porn star. She was already too high to care.
“Please, allow me,” He pricked her finger with the pen, “You have to sign it in blood.”
“I’m so high I just want to feel your cock inside of me when the Ecstasy kicks in. There’s nothing like fucking on X, you know? I hope one of these bitches licks pussy. That’s the best feeling ever. Getting fucked and licked at the same time while you’re high! Oh my God! I almost came just thinking about it! Hurry up bitches and sign the man’s contract! Let’s get ta fuckin’!”
