Wednesday, April 15, 2009

"Synapse" - 6

As I mulled the past, the Lada seemed to be executing random direction changes of its own free will.

Madeleine and Jonas. Love blood. Those names hit me hard; but somehow my corpulent stalker knew that. Leverage.

Madeleine was only a child when we met. I’m not sure who fell harder for whom. Our passion keened on the edge immolation.

She didn’t care what I did, who I broke, why I held her so tightly in the middle of the night; past sins bled on the alter of her shoulders.

Pain euthanized in the mercy of her passionate grasp. In her I found peace from the war I fought with others; and with myself.

Then, suddenly, the note.

The rushing of blood to my temples. The ceaseless pacing. The sleepless nights.

The package delivered; the severed head. Red locks caked in blood.

My alter was gone, as surely as my past sins regained their grip on my conscience.

I slipped to the floor, beat my hands bloody on the door stop. I was too stunned to cry, my anguish keening in silent tears.

And Jonas? Cut from her womb and placed in the kitchen dust bin. Just to let me know they knew where I lived, I suppose.

In the ten years since they ripped her from my life I have attempted to find succor at the alter of a strangers’ flesh. An empty icon.

Until I discovered that the new alters’ efficacy was greased somewhat by the bottle. As a combination they kept the pain at bay.

Sobriety and loneliness tended to bring back memories of Madeleine’s smile, her breasts, her passionate longing.

Now, the only longing I felt in my heart was for a sea of emptiness that only the stranger can bring.

As I turned into Boulevard Malesherbes I pulled the chest flask from my inner jacket pocket.

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Moses Armstrong. Agent provocateur. I work alone. Some may say I'm a mercenary, but that would imply I care... I am an agent of fortune, a spy, an undercover intelligence office. My past is checkered. I had a wife named Madeilene, a son names Jonas. They were killed. I take lovers, prostitutes, women, blonds, into my bed for succor. I drink heavily, scotch whiskey, alcohol. Some would say I'm an alcoholic. They'd be right, but it's only self-medication. Some have called me Jack Bauer, 24, James Bond, but they have more scruples than me. I'm more like the Joker, Batman and his Dark Knight. I fight against both governments and criminals; against terrorists, terrorism, Muslim fanatics, pirates (Somalis, African, Kenyan, doesn't matter), enemies of justice. I have no friends, excpt the bottle and my cigarettes. I live by night, sleep by day, visit the underbelly of Paris, my current landing place. I am American, lived in London. My fees are high, because I only deal in bodies: blonds and corpses.