The First Male (11 page)

Simon furiously ran down the block outside the club and turned the corner. He stopped and rested with his back against the cold brick wall of the building. All around him darkness and shadows shaded the area. His chest was swollen with adrenaline and fire, and he still felt the tingling in his fists from the fight. He had to catch his breath and figure out what just happened. He was slightly dizzy as he looked down at his hands and wondered how he had summoned so much strength. The power he felt was rabid and intoxicating; a savage joy overtook his heart. He didn't feel bad about what happened. Byron needed to have had the shit beaten out of him a long time ago, and Simon delighted in the fact that it was he who had delivered such a thorough and complete ass-whooping. In fact, Simon was so wired that he wanted to race back into the bar and punch Bryon a few more times on general principle; but, he held on to enough sense to realize that wasn't a good idea.

When he left, the man was barely moving, probably unconscious. At his core, he didn't care whether or not Byron lived or died. He couldn't have cared less if Byron spent the rest of his life as an invalid, trapped in a wheelchair or bound to a bed in some substandard nursing home. In his predatory state, he found the thought of inflicting more harm on Byron—or anyone who got in the way—to be
lustful
. He was overcome with a strong desire for blood and violence; a desire so strong that his loins ached.

He looked up toward the intersection in front of him when he heard a car screech to a halt at the red light, slamming on its brakes. A big, blue, hulking machine of a car with dark, tinted windows sat at the light with its engine loudly idling. Obnoxious rap music thumped against the windows of the car and shook the entire block. Even though the windows were pitch black, Simon could clearly see into the car, which was populated by two young black males, and a Hispanic man of roughly same age, who had a tattoo of a cross on the right side of his neck.

In one smooth motion, all of their heads turned in Simon's direction. Through the windows, Simon could feel their eyes on him and he pondered their next move.
Maybe they'll move on when the light turns green
, he thought even though he knew things would not be that simple. His intuition told him to be cautious. He was alone in the dark with no people around him, except for the thugs in the death machine at the light. He had few options to protect himself, but he felt no fear. He was still amped up on power. In fact, a part of him wanted them to approach.

The night suddenly seemed to dim around him and the shadows expanded. Something inside of him said
flee
, but something else that was far more urgent and primal told him to stay. He wouldn't be threatened or bullied. They would be fools to mess with him, especially on this night, of all nights.

The traffic light turned green, but the car didn't move. Its engine revved.
Vroooomm. Vrooooom
.

When Simon saw the driver's side window slowly roll down, his heartbeat quickened and the hairs on his neck stood on end. He was in danger; there was no doubt about that. He stood upright so that he would be ready for the coming assault. He could smell it, but it didn't cause him to panic. In fact, the smell of danger excited him in many ways; that lust for more violence ignited his body.

“Wassup?” the driver said. Even though his face was partially cloaked by the black hoodie that he wore on his head, his cold black eyes clearly showed his intention for no good. “What you doin' out here?”

“Nothing, man. Just chillin'.”

“This a lonely place to be chillin'.” His voice was cold and filled with a veiled threat.

“I just left the club a minute ago,” Simon said, already bored with the conversation. He was ready for them to make their move.
Let's get on with it
.

“Say, homie,” the Hispanic dude said when the back seat window rolled down.

“You got a smoke?”

“Nah, dude. I don't smoke. Smokin' will kill ya.” They chuckled at his choice of words. Simon placed his hands in his pockets and took a few steps toward the traffic light. “A'ight, y'all take it easy tonight. I gotta get going.”

“So soon?” the Hispanic dude said as he stepped out of the car and walked toward Simon, cutting him off from the main street.

All right, here we go
, Simon thought. The Hispanic dude, dressed in blue jeans, a faded gray hoodie, and utility boots, swaggered his way over to Simon. He stepped up on the sidewalk and faced
him. His stance wasn't threatening, but Simon knew to keep up his guard. Slowly, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I thought you needed a cigarette.”

“Nah, I'm good, homie. We just fuckin' with you.”

Simon watched him remove a cigarette from the box, put it between his lips and light it. Casually, he put the box and the lighter back in his pocket after offering Simon a smoke.

“I need to be going,” Simon said, but the man blocked his path.

“Say,” he said coolly, “my buddies want to go have a drink somewhere, but we ain't got no money. Help us out, homie.”

“My name ain't homie,
homie
,” Simon said with attitude. “And I don't have any money for you and your
homies
.”

“That's cold, amigo. Cold. My buddies ain't gon' be happy.”

“Sounds like their problem. Now, if you'll excuse me.” Simon tried to move around the man but he blocked his path again.

“I can't let you go. Not 'til you gimme yo' wallet.”

“You must already be high. I told you, I don't have any money; and, even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you.”

“So, it's like that, homie? You want me to take it from you?”

“Nah, I want you to
try
to take it, homie.”

The tingling returned, covering Simon's whole body. Quickly, the man pulled out a switchblade and pointed it at Simon.

“Give me yo' fuckin' wallet befo' I have to cut yo' fuckin' throat.”

Simon didn't blink. He remained completely still while the man teetered back and forth in an effort to prevent Simon from running.

“Stop fucking around, Juan,” the driver called out in a husky voice. “Stick that fool and take his wallet so we can get the fuck out of here!”

On command, Juan lunged at Simon with the knife. Before he made his move, Simon saw the move in his head and jumped out
of the way. As he moved, he shoved Juan hard into the brick wall, face first.

“You muthafucka!” Juan screamed, as blood gushed from his now broken nose. He turned around swinging his blade wildly, almost blindly. Simon was fitter and faster and was able to easily evade the blade, much to Juan's disappointment. Juan grew clumsy in his frustration and the next time he lunged, Simon ducked and punched him in the nose. Juan screamed loudly, dropped the knife, and stumbled onto an abandoned Oldsmobile that was parked curbside.

Simon went on the offensive and unleashed a torrent of body blows on Juan, who was pressed against the vehicle, covering his face, helplessly. No defense from Juan would spare him from the onslaught. With each blow, Simon's appetite for violence grew more insatiable. Juan's body was pummeled like a boxing bag.

“Look at this muthafucka getting his bitch-ass whooped,” Simon heard one of the other men say. He heard the car doors open and the sound of feet rapidly pounding the pavement. Before he knew it, the other two men were upon him. They threw him against the brick wall and began to punch him while Juan struggled to regain his composure.

“You let this lil' bitch fuck you up like that?” one of the men said as he looked at Juan disgustedly. “He ain't shit!” Then, he sent a strong fist into Simon's stomach. Pain radiated throughout Simon's body and he doubled over. Quickly, each one of the two men grabbed Simon's arm and threw him against the brick wall, holding him in place. Simon didn't struggle to get free. Instead, he focused on what was to come. He saw it play out in his head before it happened.

“Get yo' knife and take care of this bitch fo' I fuck you up!” the driver commanded to Juan. His lips were snarled and his voice
was poisonous. Juan staggered over to the knife that was lying on the ground near the front wheel of the old car. He reached down and grabbed the blade and moved over to Simon.

“I got you now, bitch!” Juan said between clenched teeth, blood staining his olive-colored skin.

“Bring it on, bitch,” Simon said. His words infuriated Juan, who sprang into action. He lunged at Simon with the knife aimed at Simon's midsection. Right before impact, Simon pulled the driver in front of him and the knife dug deeply into his back. The driver screamed as if he had been gutted. He dropped to his knees, the knife jutting from his back between his shoulder blades.

“What the fuck did you just do?” the other man screamed as he released Simon. When he did, Simon wasted no time in punching him so hard in the face that the man lost consciousness. One blow. He hit the hard concrete with a thud.

Simon turned his attention to Juan.

“Listen, man,” Juan pleaded, “I don't want no trouble.” He backed away with both his hands extended in front him.

“You tried to rob and stab me, and you don't want no trouble?” Simon's voice was calm.

“Man, it was them. They made me!”

“Fuck you!” Simon yelled. In the blink of an eye, Simon was upon Juan. He had crossed a distance of ten feet without taking a single step. He grabbed Juan by the throat with one hand and lifted him off the ground. Simon looked into his eyes and saw that terror had fully taken control of him; his limbs flailed uncontrollably. In a quick motion, Simon threw Juan over the thugs' muscle car and completely across the street. He crashed into the door of another abandoned building with a colossal bang, losing consciousness upon impact.

“What . . . the f-f-fuck are you, man?” the terrified driver asked
when he saw Simon's feat of unnatural strength. His eyes were so wide that they looked as if they would bulge out of his head. He focused more on Simon than he did his deep knife wound.

Simon looked down scornfully at the man on the sidewalk; he seemed so small, so insignificant. He was like a speck of dust against the winds of Simon's hurricane. The bloody knife was now positioned at the man's side, its silver blade stained red. Simon looked at the knife and it flew swiftly into his hand. In terror, the driver shuffled on the sidewalk, trying to flee, fighting his pain, but there was nowhere to go.

Simon admired the knife in his hand, studying its design as if it was an ancient artifact. The blade was perfectly made for killing. Sharp. Sleek. Strong. Then, he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. He took a broad side of the knife and slowly ran it down his tongue, wiping clean the blood from the knife and then repeated his action on the other side of the blade. As he tasted the sweetness of the man's blood, his body shuddered in ecstasy; the taste was like a powerful undiscovered new street drug; it was almost orgasmic.

Simon turned his attention back to the man and kicked him in the face. The man flew into the brick wall. “Who am I, you ask? I am your nightmare made flesh.”

C
HAPTER
7

Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon. I felt you tonight, Simon
.

Simon shifted uncomfortably in his bed. While he slept, disparate and disturbing images and voices filled his head. He tossed and turned violently in the bed, struggling to regain consciousness.

In the middle of the room stood the old woman whose reflection he had seen earlier in his bathroom mirror. She was dressed in a ragged, red dress, and her image was largely translucent. She was mouthing words that Simon could not understand. He stared at her aged face. Had she been the one hissing his name? The longer he stared at her, the more he realized the answer to that question was no. The hissing he heard was from something else. There was something about her face that set his mind at ease; a kindness about her spirit, and Simon wondered why, earlier, he had felt threatened by her. From what he could gather now, there was no ill will in her intention. It seemed to him that she was trying to tell him something.

Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon
.

He heard the hissing again. It no longer sounded gentle. It sounded angry. Agitated. The black snake with yellow eyes materialized in the same corner of his room, but it appeared to be twice its previous size. It coiled itself in a menacing position as it stared at the hollow image of the old woman. It raised its head and let out a hissing sound that rattled the room. Its eyes
tightened and it stared venomously at the old woman. Even in his sleep, Simon could feel himself sweating. He wanted to wake, but something held him on the edge of sleep.

In a flash, the snake slithered over to the woman and struck her with his enormous fangs. Pain exploded across her face and in an instant she had vanished; her ethereal image simply faded into nothingness.