It was a pretty big year for fashion, lousy year for rock n' roll
The people gave their blessings to crimes of passion; it was a dark, dark night of collective soul
Avery walked home. He always walked home. Not because he felt safe, but because could take care of himself. He always survived the tribulations life had thrown at him, and until his number was up, he'd continue to do so. The same attitude had served him well in the Corps, almost depressingly so.
He'd walked four fellow marines out of the desert in Iraq after their patrol had been slaughtered by a roadside bomb, but for what? They had all been redeployed, thrown right back into the shit, and now Avery was the only one left.
I was somewhere out on riverside, by the El Royal Hotel
When a stranger appeared in a cloud of smoke, I thought I knew him all to well
On these long, lonely walks home, Avery's company was usually the honking of horns in the distance, a rat squeaking away, or perhaps a buzzing streetlamp. Buzzing if only to be noticed, he thought. The Beretta at the small of his back was a comfort, a pain to get licensed for in California, and mostly unnecessary. But something was different this night. He kept thinking of those four comrades huffing along with him, crunching the sand and pebbles, lugging all the equipment they'd been able to salvage.
Just as he formed the thought 'are they with me even now?', but before the emotion could take hold, he heard it. It was a scraping, grating noise, as if someone dragging metal over metal.
It was slow, it was forceful. It was deliberate.
He said Now that I have your attention, I got somethin' I wanna say
You may not wanna hear it; I'm gonna tell it to you anyway
Avery didn't stop immediately. He knew what he heard, but at first he thought to keep the suddenly very real presence unaware of his knowledge that they were there. And they were there. He couldn't hear anything else, but he could feel it. His gut, his soldier gut, was telling him to wake up and think.
The rough sound had been performed as a warning. Perhaps his one and only warning.
The young veteran spins clockwise on the ball of his left foot in a quick 180, pushing his right back behind him and evenly distributing his weight. He bends his knees just slightly to lower his center of gravity and throws his left hand up into a guard. His right hand is already around the cold, comforting pistol grip behind him. The entire action is performed in one smooth movement, faster than the blink of an eye.
You know I've always liked you, boy, 'cause you were not afraid of me
But things are gonna get mighty rough here in Gomorrah-By-The-Sea
But there is nothing there. Not at first.
A few seconds later, a man steps out of the shadows. Actually, he eases out of a shadowed recess that looked too small to conceal a child, let alone this man. Avery was no shrinking violet. He was tall and stocky, but precise enough in his movements that most people could instantly tell they were outmatched.
But not this man. He was nearly as tall as Avery, but compact and muscular. He moved toward the Ex-Marine with predatory grace and long strides. It was dark, they were almost directly in the middle area between streetlamps and in the weakest light, clouds momentarily hiding the moon. The other man was in dark clothing, but his arms and bald head were bare, so a pale sheen of light reflected off and formed a silhouette.
He said It's just like home. It's so damn hot I can't stand it
My fine seersucker suit is all soakin' wet
That's far enough, mister. Avery says in a commanding tone. A tone that silenced all men, stopped them in their tracks. But this one did not stop.
He draws his weapon and aims. Not precisely down the sights-- this wasn't target practice-- but close enough for this range. He realizes the silhouette of the stalker has grown, he is much closer than should be possible. Instead offering another commanding threat, he commits to pulling the trigger.
But it doesn't happen. Avery's wrist is twisted and he loses his sense of sight and direction in a sudden blurry moment of weightlessness and vertigo. This is punctuated by a hard, soggy impact to his back... the ground.
And the hills are burning, the wind is raging
And the clock strikes midnight in the Garden of Allah
The soldier regains his senses more slowly than he should have. His hands are empty and he's lying in a puddle where he shouldn't be. He sees feet standing around him that shouldn't be there. Five pairs of combat boots, four of them coyote tan and covered in grit and sand, and one pair in the back; sleek, black, and clean.
A succession of unmistakable noises follow: the magazine of his gun being ejected and hitting a shallow water much like where he is lying, the slide being locked back, and the chambered round hitting the pavement nearby with a dull tick. Avery shifts his gaze up, seeing only the silhouette of his attacker.
Nice car. I love those Bavarians... so meticulous
Y'know, I remember a time when things were a lot more fun around here
The shadow of a man reaches out to the side, holding something over a dumpster, dropping it in. Avery realizes he's in the adjacent alley from his initial encounter on the street, some ten yards away. The hand drops and the other removes something from the man's head, pocketing them. Glasses, it looked like.
The soldier rolls over, looking down at his fists as he pushes himself up on them. For a moment, the fog of confusion is a ringing in his ears from a blast, he is on hands and knees in dirt, not water. But it fades, and he jumps quickly to his feet.
"When good was good and evil was evil
Before things got so... fuzzy
Avery assumes a fighting stance, backing away a few inches. What kind of mugging was this? The guy had just tossed his pistol. Alright, tough guy, he says with false confidence. The tone of command had left his voice. Let's go.
The other took a quick step forward, and dropped low. They began circling one another, and as Avery's vision began adjusting to the darkness in the alley, he could tell the other guy was smiling. Something was wrong here. Something on a primal level. Soldier training and soldier gut were at odds with each other, one screaming fight, the other retreat.
"Yeah, I was once a golden boy like you. I was summoned to the halls of power in the heavenly court
And I dined with the deities, who looked upon me with favor
Avery steps in and takes a swing, a long jab with his deceptive reach, but it glances forearm, the other's guard raising faster than seemed possible. Two more, then a hook, parried. The counterattack is there suddenly, hitting Avery in the side hard, bruising ribs.
He lurches in, grabbing arms and butting his head. He makes contact with the assailants chin brutally, but is off his feet soon after, landing hard on his back once more. Scrambling to regain his direction again, he feels the tread of a boot on his cheek and jaw, hard enough to send him face-first into the murky inch of water.
"For my talents; my creativity
And we sat beneath the palms in the warm afternoons and drank the wine with Fitzgerald and Huxley
Avery feels the hand on the back of his shirt collar and grabs for it, but it rips him from the ground and slams him against the alley wall. Wincing, he is unable to open his eyes for a moment. But he feels the thick forearm under his chin, hard as steel and pressing him to the wall. His right hand is pinned low beside him by the man's other hand. Avery has only his left arm flailing impotently at a belt buckle, a slick shirt, fatigues, but nothing useful.
Opening his eyes, he is inches from another man's face, but not another man's eyes. What he perceived there, deep in the dark, was paralyzing. Horrifying. Unimaginable. It would haunt Avery for the rest of his natural life if he didn't forget it as soon as he saw it.
Which he did. He had to. It was that, or insanity.
The choking arm lifts, the hand pushing his head forcefully aside, and then there are teeth. Awful teeth, and then, a plummeting void.
"They pawned a biting phrase from tongues hot with blood, and drained their pens of bitter ink
Vainly reaching for the bottle full of empty Edens
Images scream through the minds eye of a different era. A different war. The soldier sees Normandy, not Iraq. He sees European orphans desperately sifting through building rubble for food, not middle-eastern ones. Wet mist instead of dry grit. But always the screaming.
The vortex of images blasts back to city streets, alleys much like this one. Young men with clubs, wearing jackets and newsboy caps, beating the hell out of someone. Grabbing one of those young men much later in under a railway from the shadows and breaking his neck. Faster the images come, until they make no sense. They end with a vision of looking up from a small, square hole. Shaky images of monstrous men stand around, some with lanterns, one of them with a sharpened wooden rod and a heavy hammer, but none of them quite human.
"Branded special for the ones who had come with great expectations to the perfumed halls of Allah
For their time... in the sun
One of the figures is saying something about eternity. His voice booming with an earsplitting resonance as he places the sharp end of the rod just below the field of vision. The image stretches in depth, the hand twisting the rod a mile high. The evil, indistinct faces gathered around were so high there should have been clouds between them. With every twist, Avery feels a borrowing sensation in his chest.
The hammer is raised, as is the volume of the voice of condemnation. At its peak, the hammer soars for a moment among the stars before falling heavily downward in an arc. Down it plummets, inch by terrible inch. Avery feels a pulling, grasping sensation as oblivion rushes to him headlong.
Thunk.
We were stokin' the fires and oilin' up the machinery
Until the gods found out we had ideas of our own
Avery lands heavily on his knees back in that dank alley in Sacramento, collapsing back against the wall. Oddly, he thinks of how lucky he happened to fall backward instead of forward. Had he went the other way, he'd have went straight to his face without a thought to brace himself.
He feels a tickle at his neck and realizes he's bleeding. Weakly, he slaps a hand to his neck an applies as much pressure as he can. Panting hard, he looks across the way. There, directly across from him, was the other man. He was crouched, arms spread. He was fiercely gripping a drain pipe in one hand and the front of a dumpster in the other, as though he were about to launch himself like a slingshot.
A deep, rumbling voice rolled out from him, asking pointedly What. Did. You. See?
And the war was coming, the earth was shaking
And there was no more room in the Garden of Allah
Avery doesn't answer. He senses the guarded, almost hesitant demeanor of his attacker's body language, and takes action. Gut and training were no longer at odds. The vote was unanimous. High on a sudden burst of adrenaline that sends his heart into a gallop, Avery bolts.
He doesn't care about the exact route, but he heads in the general direction of his apartment. Pumping his arms for added momentum, he flings himself headlong down the street. Avery has never ran so fast in his life.
Today... I made an appearance downtown
I am an expert witness, because I say I am
Young Avery's flight of terror is halted abruptly when something traps his ankle. The whiplash snaps him down to the asphalt, face-first. A shattering pain explodes from his nose. It is instantly broken, but before he can move to comfort himself, he is flipped over on his back roughly.
He sees nothing but stars, but can plainly feels the presence crouched over him. The coarse, grating voice is right beside his ear. Low, Forceful. What did you see!?
"And I said 'Gentlemen-- and I use that word loosely-- I will testify for you
I'm a gun for hire. I'm a saint. I'm a liar
There is a few moments of silence as Avery tries to summon his voice. The mouth is at his neck again, and he braces for the worst. But there is no living nightmare this time, no visions of a parallel past, only a sickly, confusing euphoria that becomes more calm and complete as his essence is drained away.
"Because there are no facts, there is no truth, just data to be manipulated
I can get you any result you like. What's it worth to ya?
Then, it just stops. Avery lays there for minutes before his eyes begin to focus again. Looking around, he realizes he's spread eagle in the middle of the road. Apartments on either side, cars... new and junkers alike. He was in the right neighborhood, but...
"Because there is no wrong, there is no right, and I sleep very well at night
No shame, no solution, no remorse, no retribution
Pain. His hand goes to his neck, but nothing is there. No wound. It's his nose. Blood is oozing from the nostrils steadily, and his whole face feels bruised.
"Just people selling T-shirts. Just opportunity to participate in the pathetic little circus
And winning... winning... winning'
Avery looks down, seeing red all the way to his belt buckle. His nose had apparently bled quite a bit while he lay there, semi-conscious. That explained the woozy feeling.
It was a pretty big year for predators; the marketplace was on a roll
And the land of opportunity spawned a whole new breed of men without souls
The mugger-- or had it been muggers?-- had gotten him good. He could only remember blurry bits of a fight, probably because of a concussion. Had to have been more than one guy.
Avery considers the hospital, or nine-one-one. But all he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep for days. He was going to pass out soon if he didn't get off his feet, so he pushes on.
This year, notoriety got all confused with fame
And the devil is downhearted babe, 'cause there's nothing left for him to claim
Avery shuffles along the street, stopping to force his nose back into place with the base of his thumbs. The spike of pain is almost as bad as the initial break, but he'd done it before. Like a great many unpleasant things, it gets easier the more you do it.
There is to much pain to comfort. Everything hurts, but he eventually begins to numb. Not tomorrow, Avery bets. Tomorrow he'll feel like cooked shit. No more walking home. He was getting a car.
He said It's just like home. It's so low-down, I can't stand it.
I guess my work around here has all been done"
As the battered man walks along, he looks to the sky. Blowing clotted blood through his nostrils to clear the airway, he notices something to the side. On the roof of one of the many old converted apartment buildings, something is watching. Two orbs of reflected light gaze at him from the darkness. He is reminded of an animal, but what exactly escapes him. Then one orb disappears for a second before shining back... as if... as if it winked.
And the fruit is rotten, the serpent's eyes shine
As he wraps around the vine in the Garden of Allah
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