head to the apartment

I rip the door open on the heap and crash inside. The snow hasn't completely covered my windshield. No one else on the road. I take out the car bottle of bourbon and pour myself a shot, no glass needed. Yeziroth needs one too, I reason, so I take another. I feel it burn in my throat and close my eyes. "Show me." I whisper.

The Battlefield. Swirling angel feathers, their tips on fire, lazily float passed me. I stair down into a canyon full of and horror. The screams of the dead and dying roar up at me, a cacophony of madness. I grit my teeth and take another slug of bourbon. "No, you bastard. You know what I want to see." I say to myself. The image shifts. The burning feathers become floating, soothing lights. The screams of agony become the oily moans of liquid sex, orgasms, and the subtle sounds of silk running over smooth, pale skin.

My eyes snap open. Its still snowing.

I fire up the heap and pull out onto the road, my tailend swerving. I don't even think about stopping for red lights. Its 3 AM on a Wednesday (Odin's day. Norse Day. Snow day. Go figure) and if anyone is going to hit me, I'll just skid off like a pinball.

I make it to the apartment and go up on the curb. The wind rips through the false, whiskey-bred warmth I've been working on as I make my way to the door. The doorman shivers at me in what might be interpreted as a wave and a nod. I ride the old manual elevator up to my floor and stumble on home over a threadbare carpet. I go to put the key in. The door's open a fraction of an inch.

I freeze.

I draw my .45. I don't need to check the chamber since I know a big, fat slug of a bullet is waiting desperately to rip someone in half if I put 2 1/2 lbs of pressure on the trigger.

"So, its that time, eh?" Yeziroth says in my head. I feel my eyes shift from hazel to an impossible burning ember shade of red flaked orange. My muscles pull against the bones and my blood pumps like the pistons from a locomotive.

"Maybe. Maybe not." I whisper, and slam my shoulder into the door bringing that big .45 up and staring down the barrel, ready to spit .

My mouth drops open, and stop.