by Dan Swanson
A few days later, it would prove to be a bad night to be on the side of bad in Lower Manhattan.
Velvet had been having a slow day; if she went back to the corner where her pimp Smooth Daddy was sitting in his big car waiting for her without at least another hundred bucks, he would beat her black and blue for sure, and then send her back out for the rest of the night. She stepped out of a darkened doorway and spoke to the short, round man in a trench coat and slouch hat who had just crossed the street to her corner.
“Wanna date, honey?” she asked in her most seductive voice, sizing him up with an experienced eye. Probably carrying about $60, she decided. Gotta make this one quick. I’ll need at least one more tonight.
He stopped and looked her over. She shifted her overcoat, the chill giving her goosebumps as she showed off her red and black lingerie.
“Maybe. What do you have in mind?” he answered cautiously.
She shivered. His voice was so low it was creepy. But she was used to creepy; this was a creepy neighborhood, and since she was working for Smooth Daddy she couldn’t afford to turn away any clients. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private,” she said, nodding toward the nearby alley, “and we can work it out.” She winked and took his hand. He followed her obediently.
His submissiveness vanished in the shadows. He removed his hat, revealing a frightening visage: a gray, fleshless skull that glowed faintly. She shuddered, then realized it was a mask. “Role-playing’s extra, unless you wanna come back tomorrow,” she warned him in a quivering voice, hoping role-playing was all he wanted; she wished she’d just let him walk by. An instant later, she was just hoping she’d live through the encounter.
Faster than she could follow, his hand was at her neck, and she felt something sharp pricking her just below the ear. His other hand held the front of her coat. She wouldn’t be able to wriggle away. “I’d like to meet your pimp,” he whispered. “Tell me his name and where I can find him, and you won’t be hurt.”
“He’ll kill you,” she protested in a fearful whimper. “And then he’ll kill me, too, real slow.”
“I’ll kill you right now if you don’t talk,” he snarled back. “I suggest you tell me, and then get out of town — tonight!”
Velvet told, then could hardly believe it when the short man let her go. “Out of town, now!” he ordered her. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
She had some money from her earlier dates; it would be enough to get a bus ticket back home to Toledo. She’d come to New York to find fame and fortune, but found nothing but degradation. She was actually thankful to this person for forcing her to do something she knew she should have done weeks ago. She stepped into the street to hail a cab.
***
Smooth Daddy wasn’t happy. His girls had all been having slow days, and a couple had even dared to come back short. He’d punished them by only giving them half of their normal hits. He could sell the rest of the stuff and make up the shortfall. A few days without a decent fix, and they’d be working harder than ever. But he was going to take his whip to Velvet if she came in short tonight. She was late; he figured she must have been giving some guy a freebie. He’d warned her about that before. This time she’d pay for sure.
His head jerked around in shock when someone tapped on the side window of his car. There was no way anyone could have gotten close to him without him seeing the guy coming, but there he was — a short guy with a slouch hat pulled down over his face, and a heavy overcoat that hung to the ground. As soon as he saw Smooth Daddy turn his way, the short man reached through the closed driver side window, which shattered but didn’t even slow him down. Before Smooth Daddy could even blink, a hand closed on his collar and pulled him partway through the shattered window. Smooth Daddy was a big man, about two-hundred and fifty pounds heavy, but this little guy pulled him like a sheet of facial tissue from the box until he was jammed halfway through the window, his arms pinned at his sides. Given a few seconds, he could have wriggled free, but the short man wasn’t giving him that time.
As the short man’s hat had fallen off, Smooth Daddy could see that he was wearing a shockingly ugly mask, like half a skull — the mask of the Ghast. He was carrying a big, ugly survival knife, and he had the saw part pressed against Smooth Daddy’s cheek.
“Who do you buy your coke from, pimp?” the masked man demanded. Smooth thought his car might be vibrating to the bass in the guy’s voice. He didn’t answer. The saw blade slashed a ragged cut in his cheek. “The nose comes off next, pal,” the smaller man promised with an evil smile.
“He’ll kill me!” Smooth Daddy yelled. He began regretting setting up in a dark, empty neighborhood — there was never a cop around when you needed one, not that Smooth Daddy had ever needed a cop before.
“At least you’re talking now, so you get to keep your nose… for a while!” The pimp tried to scream as he felt incredible pain in his right ear, but his tormentor had stuffed something into his mouth.
“Ready to answer my questions?” the Ghast asked. “I’m starting to get a little impatient. It might be faster to kill you and find some other source.” He dangled Smooth Daddy’s ear in front of his face. “No screams now — just tell me how to find your coke dealer.” Smooth Daddy nodded his head violently, and the Ghast pulled a wad of cloth from the pimp’s mouth.
A few gasped sentences later, as the spectral shadow faded into the darkness, he gave Smooth Daddy some advice. “Somebody will be coming after you for squealing. You probably better get out of town.”
Smooth Daddy spent a couple of days in the hospital before he was shipped out to prison. The doctors were unable to reattach his ear, and he would have a violent scar on his cheek for the rest of his life.
Every day there was something in the news about an underworld upheaval. Not-so-Smooth Daddy considered himself lucky — a lot of other people had ended up in the hospital that night, each a further step up the rungs of the social ladder of crime. He was pretty sure nobody was coming after him for squealing, though, as anyone who might have been interested in a small fry like him was probably still in intensive care. The Ghast was looking for the boss of bosses, and not for a social call.
***
The Ghast’s encounter with the drug dealer shook her to her core. The dealer had been reluctant to give up the identity of her patron, whose gang offered her protection in return for a significant share of her profits. Holding her out the window by one ankle had loosened her tongue. The Ghast had planned to drop the woman once she learned what she wanted to know, but instead found that was unable to let go, as the thought of actually killing someone caused so much revulsion that she actually felt sick.
That’s absurd! she told herself. I’ve killed dozens of people in the past without the slightest hesitation. But she couldn’t force herself to let go. Reluctantly, she pulled the dealer back inside, where that woman passed out from relief.
No, you have never killed another person! Your entire past is fiction! the voice of her mind reminded her. Almost everything you remember about yourself is fiction. But now you are real — and you don’t have to be that fictional being. You can decide who you want to be!
***
Somewhere, Satanus moaned and blasted a pane in the wall with a bolt of demon fire, while Blaze chuckled at him. “Another of your schemes goes awry, brother. Your latest murderous monster is learning to think for itself!”
He screamed in wordless agony, and then the two turned their attention to other panes in the viewing wall. One flawed plan could only occupy their attention for a short time, after all — immortal demons always had hundreds of irons in the fire. They didn’t really notice that the shattered pane had already been magically healed, all part of the magic they’d designed into the wall.