It was around eight to eight ten p.m. and I was walking home after I bought a couple of sticks of BBQ from the dirty street stall 'round the corner when I met him. He walked in the opposite direction towards me. He had on this ridiculous outfit. Well, them clothes would work fine on maybe Eastern Europe or fuckin' Greenland, but at this tropical heat--even during the night--a dark trench coat and a pair of gloves are as rare as virgins on Fields Avenue. His left hand had an unlit cigarette held together by his index and middle fingers. It was dark, so I couldn't make his face. Besides, he had this grey or dark blue (not really sure) hooded sweatshirt on underneath his coat and the hood was pulled over his head. As soon as we approached speaking distance, I stopped. I was thinking "who in the green hell is this joker?"
"Attorney, can I have a light?" He said.
I forgot I had a Marlboro on my mouth. I quit earlier in the morning though. I just started smoking again that evening. The nicotine delivery business is making a killing out of suckers like me who can't kick the nasty habit. I figured he knew me and maybe I know him somehow and I can't just remember who he was--I get this a lot, because in the back of my head, I conceitedly think that I have some sort of fame or infamy thing going on--so I reached for my right cargo pocket and handed out my cheap Cricket automatic. I never hand out my own cigarette to anyone whenever somebody asks for a light for their own if I can help it--especially to strangers I meet on the street. I think that's too dirty a practice even for me.
I looked on his face, or where it should be, but I can't make out anything. The shadow from his hood was heavily obscuring his facial features. This is where I noticed that his cigarettes were those slim deals with orange or lemon flavors. I remember some girls from law school who smoked them artsy-fartsy type of smokes. He lit that shit up and handed me back my lighter. I don't know why, but I asked him, "So where you've been?" I was not too paying too much interest on who he was exactly, or what the heck he was doing on my street, or what the fuck he wants from me apart from the light. I was just too bored and he felt too unimportant to deserve my time. That sort of rude attitude is another bad habit of mine.
"Hell." He said.
"Excuse me?"
"Attorney, don't you recognize me?"
"As a matter of fact, I really don't." I confessed.
He pulled back his stupid hood and there it was, a face I haven't seen before in my entire life. He's Eastern European from the looks of it, alright, but he speaks perfect Californian English. You know it, the kind Filipinos do when they stay over a month in LA, or San Diego. Hell, even my sisters-in-law speak that way. The kind of English where the speaker sounds not too sure of what he's saying. A la Claire Daines, Drew Barrymore, or Ben Stiller or Keanu Reeves in Bill & Ted's. "You know, like, somewhat, what-ever..."
" Who the fuck are you?"
He just smiled. Like the fat fag on Project Runway, with his free hand hoisted on his waist. Then as I was staring at him, thinking hard if he was someone I've met before in a dog fight, two antler-like and curly spikes grew--like the way we see those bean-sprouts grow in fast-motion on National Geographic--on both sides of his forehead.
"No way!" I said.
"Yes, I am him." He said in self-satisfaction.
"Fuuuck, you're that deer guy on cable!!!"
At this point, he dropped to his knees and started bashing the earth with the bottom-side of his fists.
"No, no, no!!!" Then a whip like tail of sorts grew out from his ass, and its end resembled a harpoon blade.
"Stand up, you dumb sumbitch, I was only kidding." I said. It was embarrassing. people could've seen us. Queers, all they bring to the world is shame.
He stood up, and said, "Really? Now you recognize me?"
I said, "Yea, you're that tiger guy on the Ringling Brothers' Circus, how can I not?"
"How can I help you?" I added.
By this time, he really went crazy. Like the way my Mama does when I won't immediately obey her militaristic commands when I was a little kid. "Jorge, go sleep on your room..." "Jorge, clean up the table..." "Jorge, take out the trash..." "Jorge, clean up after your dog..." Most of the time I just sat there like I've heard nothing, continued reading my book or playing my video-game.
"WAAARRRGGGHHH!!!" This time, he let it all rip. Huge bat-like black wings with a span of twelve to thirteen feet easy grew out of his back, flapping hideously in the night air, and goat like hooves tore his gay Cole-Haan's not too different when Marvel's The Hulk does his thing. The damn unholy transformation made me drop my BBQs to the ground. That sight was some scary shit. There are only two times in my life where I've been scared as all hell and this moment was one of them. The other was when I was around twelve, or thirteen, my Mama took out my father's old Springfield Armory M-1 Garand Rifle, cocked it, and pointed it at my skull and was going to really pull the trigger if my father hadn't come in the nick of time to save my naughty ass.
I ran. I ran as fast as I could into the house. The damn monster was chasing me, I reckon hovering fifteen to twenty feet in the air behind my back. As I got inside the gate, I looked back and the damn sumbitch was breathing fire as it talked some German.
"Ich bin der Teufel!"
"Ich bin der Teufel!!"
"Ich bin der Teufel!!!"
He said that shit three times. It was totally like a scene from a B-grade horror movie. He was thrashing at our gates like a madman. I went inside, got into the room and got my black clutch bag. I never thought I would actually use this thing for real but I guessed, it's now or never. I came out at the garage, where only the cheap iron gate (which my father-in-law had made for a small fortune) separated me from this deranged mutated gay clown-bat-manta ray-deer guy. I pulled out my Sig P229, released the safety latch and pointed the finest piece of hand held ordnance man has ever created into the motherfucker's face.
"Now, back off! Stupid motherfucker! This gun has cyanide tipped hollow point bullets...even a scratch would surely kill your dumb ass..." I said out of fear. The gun only has regular bullets. I'm not too sure if the ones in the magazine I put in were reloads. My father has a friend who has a friend who has his own bullet reloading machine. As you know, my father has a lot of friends who have friends.
"Ich bin der Teufel!!!" He shouted again. I cocked the slide.
"In English, motherfucker!"
"I just want you to recognize me! Don't you recognize me?" The R-18 bat-winged mutated version of Sesame Street's Cookie Monster said.
"English, God damn you!!!" I said in fury.
"I am..."
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
One, two, three...thirty four shots. Someone had shot the monster from outside the gate. The gay-bat-freak-show dropped to the ground like a manequin riddled with lead-filled holes.
I looked out the gate and saw my little brother's sporty little Civic hatch parked a few meters out, with both doors open. He had his Glock 19 out smoking and on his right side, it was God Almighty, with a Sig not unlike my own. Apparently, they emptied all of their bullets into the stranger. Seventeen bullets apiece.
"Who the fuck was that?" I asked God, and my little brother.
"He's the Devil." God said to me, without even moving His mouth. That's the way God talks. Directly into your brain. He doesn't need to move His holy mouth.
"Good God, is he dead?" I asked as the Devil's remains disintegrate into ash.
"No, he's not. He can't die. He's the Devil. He's an angel. A fallen angel." said David, my little brother who has a constantly itchy trigger finger and heavy gas pedal right foot.
"Oh..." I knew that. I asked the question out of stupidity. Then, I felt sorry for myself for not being able to fire even one lousy shot.
"I'm starving. Kuya, do you have something to eat in there?" asked David.
"I was about to have dinner...you're ate (my lovely wife) is still at work, and I bought BBQs, but I dropped them when this shit-head came along and scared the bejeezus out of me...umh... I'm Sorry, God." I explained, then pointed to the direction where I dropped the BBQs.
A little later on, the three of us decided to have supper at the Korean restaurant on the next block. Their BBQ is great, but I prayed to God not to make me eat that disgusting Kimchi. Yuch.
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