An Urban Legend By Bob McNeil

“You’re a common drug dealer; you’re never going to be anything else in life,” Judge Fairman screamed with murderous rage in his eyes. Halfway through his tirade, the gavel-wielding sixty-year-old became crimson. Over the course of his speech, he scratched the top of his baldhead, and then ran his fingers through the collar-long grey hair on the back of his neck. “Someone could throw your life away; it wouldn’t matter at all.”
“P-p-please, your honor, I w-w-wanna say somethin’.” Distraught over a prison sentence offered in exchange for a guilty plea, David King shook and a storm of tears ran down his sepia face. “C-c-can I speak?”
“You may not fill our ears with your verbal trash. All you may do is listen. I’m not going to reiterate this statement. It is my judgment that you receive a three to six year sentence.”
“S-s-sir, I’m only nineteen.” Out of sheer nervousness, after speaking, David turned around and stared at everyone in the courtroom. Two burly white court officers stood behind David; they whispered racial slurs and snickered. One had a shaved head; the other had a blond crew cut. They looked like wrestlers to the boy with a short afro. “I’m just a k-k-kid. This sentence isn’t f-f-fair.”
“Your age means nothing to me. Your kind never improves. You’ll be a dirt-low loser for the rest of your worthless existence. You’ll never ascend from your station. Deliberation on this subject has ended. The trial will be set for November 25th. Take him away.”

It was over: David King, Bronx native, product of a ghetto and a home with an impoverished family, decided to reject a plea bargain on that October day. In comparison to King, there were other drug dealers with more extensive criminal records; nevertheless, they did not have State Supreme Justice Albert Fairman. Either way, any thought about the case was a futile point at that moment.

The young criminal was seated right next to his defense attorney, Samuel Greene. Before they both stood up, the boy looked at his legal aide lawyer. David’s expression was a combination of confusion and pain. Samuel, however, was granite-faced and mute. Except for sniffing incessantly and mumbling a few sentences earlier, the man did not say anything of quotable importance. Taking an unenthusiastic approach to his work, the lawyer touched the matching tie of his blue suit and ran his fingers thru his thinning red hair. David wanted to punch that man so hard that the legal advisor’s teeth would fall harder than hail. Something made David refrain from acting upon his violent desire.

By then, quite to David’s irritation, the judge was on the telephone and his staff engaged in other activities. Demeaning a criminal did not affect Fairman’s other judicial affairs. David’s presence in the court did not slow down the wheels of the staff’s existence either. Judge Fairman’s assistants, the clerks, one male, one female, both in their twenties and white, were discussing plans for lunch. The rotund stenographer, who possessed a resemblance to a plucked turkey, suggested they all go to a new Chinese restaurant on Canal Street. All through their discussion, they looked at David and tittered. The resident D.A., Jack Powell, a bald African-American man of forty years, worked on his computer. No one cared that another child from the slums was going to endure more time confined by bars.

Deemed insignificant earlier, David saw something on the right side of the room that would become very important to him—a window behind the District Attorney. Agile as an Olympiad, David jumped on the table. From there, within a short period, he leapt over to Jack Powell’s desk. Impassioned words were exchanged by the judge and the officers.

“Come back here,” cried the bald court officer.
“Stop him! Stop him now!” Fairman exclaimed.

Nothing said or done impeded the teenager from leaping thru the window. Even his phobia could not stop David from diving. A storm cloud of glass broke and rained hard, loud shards. David’s six-foot-frame stretched out to the great expanse and looked for some platform to hold him. Following the irreversible Newtonian principal that governs us all, the boy’s two hundred and ten pounds descended from the sixteenth floor of the Criminal Courts Building. Such a spectacle, no other, could make all of the major players in the courtroom theatre, including the audience, converge on one place so expeditiously. Each window in that room became a portal to something that would forever reside in their memories.
“Get those disruptive people out of my damn courtroom,” Fairman expressed his unabashed anger at high decibels. His ire was directed at the officers who lost the reins of the incident.

***

Up until a few minutes ago, death was a vague concept for David. Annihilation—a source of bewilderment for many—was now an understandable reality. Wind whipped his ears and the cold autumn air felt like it was cutting into his flesh. Sounds the city made seemed lower than the beating of David’s heart and his screams that alerted all to his fearsome fate. Furthermore, unaccountable tears rolled skyward while he went downward headfirst.

Seeing birds fly to other landscapes triggered a feeling of nausea and David spewed the contents of his stomach. A point of fact, unquestionably an obvious one, came to mind.
Pigeons were able to achieve what the doomed boy was incapable of attaining—flight. More than anything else in his existence, he envied their wings. Fantasies about transforming into an angel occupied David for a few seconds.

Fanciful wishes were soon replaced by poignant memories. Mental pictures of welfare checks and his single mother struggling to subsist were uppermost in his musings. Even his decision to become a drug dealer to help his mother, as well as his preschool-aged half brother and sister, get out of the projects, was debated before his demise. Above all, the memory that hurt the most was the last conversation David had with his mother and his siblings. Due to his shame, he requested they not come to court.

A considerable amount of seconds before David hit the pavement, his brain went blank. Some kind of dark, impenetrable curtain fell down in his mind and prevented the full impact of the fatal act to affect his thoughts. Unbelievable levels of pain were blocked out at a rate that was faster than the flutter of a fly’s wings. That brittle tree twig of a boy broke and fell apart. Upon the conclusion, the whole experience receded into an abyss. This void was bereft of sensory perception.

More than a dozen people dispersed in various directions because they heard David’s screams. Based on all accounts, no one was hurt by the suicidal individual. Correction, that is to say, no one was physically hurt by David. In terms of the emotional effect, spectators expressed lamentation. People cried. People prayed. Everyone was distressed.

Where there used to be a person, unrecognizable matter remained. Left in its place was a bloody, mangled mass of bones and flesh. Most people, if not all, never wanted to see a human condensed in a hideous shape. It was as if he were an aluminum can that was crushed by an immense hand. His head had the appearance of a mashed watermelon. The area that should have been his chest was indistinguishable from other regions, such as his waist and pelvis. Two lifeless legs pointed eastward, right by a pool of his own fluids. At the risk of exaggerating, it looked like a gallon and a half of David’s blood covered the streets.

David King was no more; so ended nineteen years of confusion, anxiety and vice. His brief final action ended a life not yet realized. Hatred for a father he did not know and hatred for an indigent existence went into that dark place called nothingness.

***

“Stand,” a powerful voice demanded.
“W-w-where am. . . ?” David tried to ask.
“Stand, my befuddled boy.”

Discernibly, once David stopped blinking, the whole scene started to come into focus. Thus, David realized the voice was speaking to him. The owner of the voice was a mass of yellow light in a tall humanoid shape. Certain aspects of the luminous entity’s physique were distinctive; certain areas were obscured by a glow. Although it was too bizarre to believe, there on the street David fell on, this radiant mutant with jaundiced eyes was speaking to him. Moreover, to confuse the teenager further, it appeared that others on One Hundred Centre Street did not see this apparition, this electromagnetic man. Surpassing his intellect to understand what was taking place, David saw a plethora of people gather round his lifeless hull. Never, he prayed, will a sight scare him that much again. Off in the urban chaos, perhaps more than a couple of blocks away, he heard police sirens.

Portions of what took place, especially his misshapen form, made unquestionable sense. Save for a couple of things, such as his alertness after his devastating fall and the presence of the incandescent figure, David could comprehend parts of the bizarre occurrence.

“Must I exclaim again?” The oddity asked in an impatient tone. “Arise and face the next chapter of your life.”
“W-w-who are. . .?”
“Eons could be spent telling you all of my names. Comply with my command. Solutions to puzzles await.”

Emerging from David’s disfigured corpse, a brown-hued shadow with human features appeared. Somehow eluding known logic, this dark figure was not cast on a wall or any other surface. Similar to a smoke cloud, the image hovered two feet above the ground. David was mystified by his new appearance and repulsed by the sight of his former flesh. The grotesque pile of skin and bones beneath him represented the last manifestation of his old incarnation. He was a soul without flesh.

“Is th-th-this Hell or. . . ?”

The creature let out a laugh that made the earth’s bedrock shake. This manic mirth continued until David was frightened. Later the outpouring of amusement dissipated
and the apparition must have realized that it did not impart an answer.

“Were you in Hell earlier? Ha, forget your knowledge of mythology. Those terms, Paradise or Hades, do not apply. There are two zones of existence; you just entered the second realm. It will be up to you whether it is utopian or not.”
“W-w-who are. . . ?”
“I am a member of The Draconic Defenders. My name, for the purpose of our discourse, is Sidereus. Speaking of conversation, I must eliminate your stammer.”
“Why did you choose me?” David was overwhelmed by the clarity of his speech.
“Quite a questioner is in my midst. Yes, you were chosen to destroy the pious people who sent you here before your scheduled end. Figuratively, you did not jump through that window. You were thrown by a racist judge who in his youth participated in the lynching of a black man. The DA is a sick pedophile. His depravity exceeds that of Caligula and Nero. Your lawyer is incompetent because of drug usage. That legal aide trash got away with overdosing and raping a young woman. I will tell you more about the people who had the temerity to judge you. Months earlier, the clerks and the stenographer witnessed a murderous bias crime as perpetrated by your court officers, but did not report it. The aforesaid court officers engaged in the unjustified beating and death of an unarmed black prisoner. It is time for retribution.”
“Yo, man, some of your words and concepts are beyond me. Break it down.”
“Ah, of course, you require colloquialism. You will snuff out those who forced you to snuff out yourself.”
“Please help me do that.”
“Oh, I shall. You will delight in their demise. I will feast on the pain that will be wrought. What a meritorious meal for my beams.”

Transitioning from fantasizing about murders to actually planning them was not wrought with obstacles. Eggs of murder were inseminated in David’s mental womb years before meeting Siderus. Because of hearing stories about his great-grandfather, who was lynched by a white mob back in the 1930s, homicidal, vengeful visions were born in David’s mind. Because the young man’s grandmother was denied access to a hospital, due to her race, after having a stroke, twins of titanic rage came to the age of maturation. Because a gang of Italians chased, caught and beat up David on a day he was visiting his Puerto Rican girlfriend in Bensonhurst, a brood of sadistic desires awaited their season to leave the nest. Siderus came to give guidance to David’s offspring.


***

Much like a film, the locale quickly changed. Sidereus and David were no longer on Centre Street. Unable to explain how they transported themselves, the two ectoplasms reappeared in a restaurant. They just materialized in another place somehow. The establishment in question was a short distance from the original location. Seated at a table in a Chinese eatery were the stenographer, the two clerks and a couple of eidolon figures.

“Forget all that you know about spatio-temporal parameters. Your limited notions do not apply here. Rely, therefore, on my explanation. I could glut myself on the courtroom
staff during any interval of my choice. To you, a negligible period has elapsed since your death. Nothing, trust me, is further from the rule. No, in fact, three weeks have passed since your demise. Those compassionless individuals sitting before you lulled themselves into a copious state of contentment. Ever since the day you escaped Fairman’s courtroom, they patronized this place on fifteen occasions. Between eating their meals, they discussed you and made you into their favorite anecdote,” Sidereus said these things in a theatrical manner.

David was still amazed by the improbable scenario. He waved his spectral hand in front of the court employees and none of which acknowledged his presence. Full comprehension of his ghostly state and the power it provided him was becoming apparent to David.

“These apathetic creatures were audacious enough to discuss their need to satiate themselves with food on the day you were facing a prison sentence. Utilize the machine within your cranium, David. How should they pay for their flagrant disregard for you?”
“Oh! The middle-class asses wanted to eat. Let them eat each other. Let them act no better than junkyard dogs. Chow down, bitches.”
“Exemplary choice, son, you want them to cannibalize each other. It is time for the blood bash to begin.”

Apparently, those words were powerful enough to make the request come to fruition. Coinciding with the sound of the last syllable, the blond twenty-something-year-old male
and his redheaded female counterpart lunged across the table with great ferocity. Both, at the same speed, bit into the corpulent stenographer. Her response, one appropriate to her surprise and severe pain, must have been heard blocks away.

“Why are you biting me? Stop! Help! Help!”

Section by section the typist was being devoured. Almost every area of the victimized woman received the carnivorous couple’s attention. Where full mounds of flesh resided, large gashes replaced them. They chewed chunks of her face, neck, breasts, arms, arteries and stomach in mere minutes. Tributaries of blood sprayed everywhere and on all who were unfortunate enough to watch the repugnant feast.

A literal maze of humans descended upon the table. Chinese kitchen workers were demanding that the cannibalistic couple be removed. Still, other patrons, with more than some reluctance and a lot of revulsion, tried to pry the savage duo from the woman. All attempts at apprehending the attackers were not successful.

Sidereus moaned throughout the gory spectacle. The creature seemed to enjoy the sight of the carnivorous mayhem. His rays seemed to grow higher, hotter and brighter with each bite. It was clear that the being experienced delight in their pain. Existing vicariously through the murder made Sidereus stronger although David did not comprehend why.

“Mourn not the defeated.” Those were the only words Sidereus uttered.

No one could stop the mad diners. The prodigious female’s jugular vein was severed and blood flowed at a geyser’s rate. The well of life was escaping her. As for the flesh eaters, they looked at each other. Preoccupied with another concern, they stopped to adhere to a different command. Assuming the look of a predatory animal, the raven-haired woman bit the male’s throat. While holding back the full flood of blood with his hand, he reciprocated by biting the ravenous female.

Cops and paramedics barged into the scene. Whether they wanted to say it or not, their presence was superfluous. Those mutilated instruments of jurisprudence did not need an ambulance or maximum-security prisons. They needed a mortician.

***

Unhampered by the confines of time and space, the pair of phantoms materialized in another location. Caused by magical means they were in a gymnasium that was filled with vain men of Herculean proportions. Titans of mountainous muscles were lifting weights. Numerous men strained to show other athletic types their muscularity. Among these men were a couple of recognizable individuals—the court officers.

Gazing upon the giants who survived on steroids, exercise, protein drinks and the adulation of others provided the answer for David. His idea for revenge blossomed and became larger than his opponents.

“Make them so big that they burst from the strain. I wanna see their Abs explode.”
“Your choice is ironically interesting. The officers will watch their bodies grow amidst the moment their understanding shrinks.”

Yet again, the force of an utterance made the mental automatons comply. Above the normal expectations of body builders, the court officers started to grow. Necks started to swell to proportions that could compete with beach balls. Porno stars, such as Maxi Mounds or Minka, would have marveled at the breasts on those men. Biceps that would have been appropriate for Atlas weighed the men down and became burdensome. Simple bipedal abilities were impossible because their thighs grew and became bigger than horses.

“What’s happenin’ to us?” The bald one bellowed.
“Save me!” His partner with the crew cut replied.

Sinew and veins had to succumb to the strain. Balloons can only accommodate so much air before they burst. Human flesh can just stretch to a certain point. Feasibly, land mines or grenades could have created a similar combustible reaction. What an explosion it was for all those who saw it. Chunks of cadavers were tattered and splattered all across the room. Everyone who was in proximity had the nauseating displeasure of smelling intestines. Also, to make the ordeal worse, they had to wear portions of the dead men on them. Amazement, on the part of the spectators, made everyone’s eyes look like two crystal balls. Gasps and wails from the petrified inhabitants of the gym permeated the streets. Supposing there was something more disgusting than watching the skin and blood of a corpse drip down someone’s face and body, David never wanted to see it.

***

Dematerializing surroundings were becoming expected now. Reappearing in a new setting without walking in any direction was now becoming natural to David. A year’s accumulation of explanations would never make him understand how this transferral process was done. Forceful desires to slay his opponents superseded David’s need to question his companion.

There in Brooklyn, the Crown Heights area specifically, alongside others, Samuel
Greene, David’s former lawyer, was on a cellular phone, waiting on a line in a diner.

“Listen, Justine, I have just enough time for a bagel and some coffee. My first case is after recess.”
“Let someone else take the work. Don’t you feel badly about returning to Fairman’s courtroom since those horrific things that happened?”
“Nah, my life must continue despite whatever happened to a client and coworkers. David was a junior hood. His rap sheet would’ve graduated with time. The kid was on probation and he was caught selling a large portion of marijuana in Manhattan, no jury would’ve given him clearance for the front door leading to freedom. His case was a catastrophe comparable to an earthquake; I didn’t dedicate any effort to it. Concerning those clerks, stenographer and court officers, I saw the news reports about them. I didn’t categorize them as friends; therefore, I’ll store my tears for a proper occasion.”
“I suppose your stance is correct. Can you come over to my nest tonight, eagle? I want to do something illegal.”
“Yes, sweetheart, I’m going to put my talons into you. Babe, bag one regular coffee and a bagel with lox please.”
“I know you have a lot of big thoughts in that head of yours. Don’t forget to bring ‘The Nasal Helper’ and some Manichevitz Wine.”
“I have ‘The Nasal Medicine.’ I’ll get the wine later.”
“Sam, that ‘Nasal Medicine’ is going to make me hotter than a harlot in Havana.”
“Ssssh, remember we’re on cell phones. Justine, I’m leaving the coffee shop. Now I’m bound for the train.”
“Ok, Sam, bye.”

Unbeknownst to Samuel or the other commuters, Sidereus and David were right behind the lawyer. Sight-decimating, furnace-hot emissions grew stronger on the otherworldly thing’s hull. David was the one commuter feeling discomfort around his blazing companion. Once again it became apparent that with each murder, Sidereus acquired more strength.

“Were you able to hear both sides of the conversation?”
“Yeah, that coke rap was clear.”
“So, according to all that you heard, you should be erupting with rage. Explain how you want to destroy this impassive, drug-using shyster.”
“There’s something on his shoulders that doesn’t help him function in a court of law—his head. Remove it.”

Inside the subterranean world, trains were racing in various directions; all of them were going where Samuel wanted to go. To bide the moment, he opened his attaché to look over some notes. Preoccupied with the process of fumbling for what the lawyer considered was the most important paper in a folder, the pertinent page fell between the train tracks. Such a mishap was equal to a tragedy considering that the page was irreplaceable or so Samuel believed.

Motivated by an overwhelming desire to retrieve the paper, Samuel looked into the tunnel and prepared to jump down onto the tracks to get his document. Numerous travelers warned Samuel not to risk his existence for a piece of paper. Under normal situations, he would have heeded their recommendation. Experiencing the affects of a hypnotizing influence, Samuel was incapable of making the proper choice. Climbing down the platform was not one of his better solutions.

Down there, any subway worker could tell you, each step must be a careful one. Caution was the operative word when an individual came close to Granville T. Woods’ invention. Considering that the third rail was being avoided, Samuel had another concern: he had to get his page before a train arrived.

Through the tunnel, at an accelerated pace, a locomotive was heading for the station. People screamed and extended their hands to help Samuel. Panicked to the point of heart palpitations, the driver tried to use the breaks. Try to conceptualize the squeal of a million nails scratching a blackboard and it will not come near to the sound that the Manhattan-bound train made in an attempt to stop.

Two men, best described as good Samaritans, ran over to Samuel. They leaned over the platform and extended their hands to help the lawyer. A middle-aged Asian man and a slightly younger white male could not pull Samuel out of the way of the oncoming train. Given their attire, which happened to be business suits, one could tell they were white-collar workers. More to the subject, they rarely picked up anything heavier than a briefcase, if that, on most work days or so Sidereus convinced them.

Samuel was doomed to watch and feel his arms ripped from his body. Severing his arms and colliding with the train made him fall prey to the moving metallic wheels. One rotation following another chopped his frame. The final result, not dissimilar to a blender, minced that man. Somewhere in the scattered matter was Samuel’s head.

***

Around 9p.m., District Attorney Jack Powell entered his home in Great Neck, Long Island. On entering, instead of a greeting, his fifteen-year-old daughter, Michele, was arguing with her mother, Jack’s thirty-four-year-old wife.
“Why can’t my boyfriend spend the night?”
“Your father and I do not want a Mohawk-wearing boy in our home. Right, Jack?”
“I have some work to do on the computer,” Jack replied.
“It’s because he’s white.”
“Not now, Michele, it’s been a monster of a day. Accept your mother’s decision.”
“No one is feelin’ my needs.” The child ran upstairs to her room. Her shoulder length brunette braids swayed.
“I heard about your co-workers on TV,” Mary said.

Jack gave his wife a critical gaze before walking to his office in the basement of their two-story home. Jack’s wife was once on the same physical type as Pam Grier during the making of Foxy Brown. Now, his spouse was thinner, around one hundred pounds thinner. Because of her emaciated appearance, for the last couple of years of their twenty-year-old marriage, they were not the most amiable people in the area. Though it was not discussed often, in terms of their sex lives, they were rarely intimate. Jack used to make demeaning statements about his wife’s appearance. These days, inspired by occasional affairs with underage girls and his ever-growing need for internet porn, Jack tried to stop arguing. Outside diversions took care of most of his needs. Occasions were spent asking himself why he remained married. This was the reason why Jack stayed with Mary: his persona.

To further paint a portrait of dysfunction, Mary was aware of Jack’s inappropriate sexual behavior with their daughter back in her preadolescence. Lost behind a haze of depression and psychotropic drugs, Mary did not try to stop her husband from harming their only child. Perhaps as a result of being a product of sexual abuse herself, Mary did not know how to eliminate the same problem in her home.

Circumstances that were mentioned earlier made the Powell’s despise each other. Being around each other made their emotions combustible. Past explosions of furious feelings could not surpass their child’s next action. Fifteen minutes after Jack went downstairs, Mary was staring out of the kitchen window oblivious to her daughter pointing a 38. caliber revolver.

Sidereus and David watched the Powell’s submit to the subliminal suggestion. Every subservient soldier was complying with the psychic command.

“Did that drug-headed woman break something in that kitchen again?” Jack muttered to himself between surfing the net for porno sites. An address of particular interest was www.kidlibido.com. Enchanted by the images of young females, Jack could not care about the world outside of his office. Alongside everything else, compared to the strenuous aspects of actual sex, dreaming about youths satisfied a lot of his needs.

The sound of incessant knocking on his door inspired two reactions: 1) a groan filled with revulsion and 2) a quick attempt at switching to a family-orientated webpage. True to his obsession, despite the disappearance of the pornographic children from the screen, the vision of them remained in his thoughts.

Jack rolled his chair away from his desk and waited for his erection to leave. Resuming his flaccid state, he got up to open the door at the top of the stairs. Movement upon each movement, with each step, he knew that it had to be an important domestic problem. Of or pertaining to the edicts that were given on this subject, Jack was clear. Just major issues warranted a disturbance once he was in his office. The way that person was rapping, it had to be a disaster.

“Damn, Michele, what?” Jack asked after opening the door. He wondered why the girl had her right arm behind her back.
“Hate is what!” No sooner did the girl scream those words, she pulled out her father’s gun. Although the weapon was normally in Jack’s safe, the child learned the combination years ago.
The bullet ripped through Jack’s left eye. Brain matter splashed on the wall. There on the surface, under some inspection, it looked like tomato sauce. Fluid dripped onto the floor and a stench of burnt flesh filled the air. Onward, from the beginning of the ordeal until his descent, Jack’s body jerked in a manner similar to an epileptic fit. Regardless of how his demise looked, comparisons aside, years of being a respected instrument of the judicial system were wasted within a short sequence. This perverter of the legal process rolled like a ball down the stairs.

A sense of elation filled David.

***

“Your Honor, the sentence being offered is based upon a certain amount of bias. Supposing my client were an affluent white person, moreover, one who was attempting to save exotic animals, your decision would be different. Sir, it is my contention that an aardvark is an unusual pet for an apartment; however, it posed no threat to the people of that Harlem community. Also. . . . .”

At 10a.m., Judge Fairman stared at a wall listening to the defense attorney, Carlos Rivera, speak about his client—Andre Gates. Why the adjudicator, who was known for volatile reactions, did not interrupt was perplexing to the Assistant D.A., the newly replaced stenographer, clerks and court officers. Even the audience was confused by the actions in the court. Fairman was a confrontational and opinionated judgeship, recently on the cover of tabloids and was interviewed on television. Yet, for a reason that eluded Mr. Rivera, the man in the dark robe looked fearful and pale thru the proceedings.

The Hispanic lawyer’s tone was melodious. His argument was thought provoking. Those well-composed words were skillful enough to make a black man, who had an obsession with wild animals, look sane. Utilizing all of that information in mind, it still did not clarify why Fairman was allowing the monologue to continue. Anyone who knew that court understood one thing, the only voice that mattered belonged to the guy with the gavel. Judge Albert Fairman felt intelligence was a stock and he was the largest shareholder.

Consumed with terror, Albert sat in a speechless state. Beyond any logical situation, visions of his mother and father, Irene and Abe, haunted him. Other objects and people were obscured by the presence of his pallid and dead parents. Outside of, say, a dream there was no reason why the family members were not in their Brooklyn graveyard. That was the dilemma: the deceased couple crossed over to communicate something. Led to understand that the images of his skinny father and his rotund mother were real, Albert was spiraling into madness. Besides David and Sidereus, no one else knew why the judge was mute.

Albert Fairman’s childhood was spent in Bensonhurst where his family owned a tailor shop. Everyday, without deviation, Albert listened to his parents discuss their feelings about the world and its inhabitants. They had an aversion to anyone who was different. It came into being that the child absorbed their opinions. Approximating the force of rain, they flooded the boy with their hateful philosophy. Rather effectual was the rhetoric, it inspired Albert to join a gang of teenage bigots and together they killed a boy of color in their area. The police never caught the murderers.

“David, being that I have Fairman in a trance, I shall explain certain pertinent things to you: in the former existence, you survived off of food. From my dimension, former humanoids dine on the Psyches of those in the parallel world. It is a predatory relationship. Some emotions are stronger than others. Each emotion gives off an aura. You will find the one that best accommodates your nutritional requirements. I prefer hate and the heat it emanates. Perhaps hate will make your body brighter. Over a span of time, you will be able to control people and inspire the emotions of your choice. This ability to enslave your prey will require one thing: practice. I will instruct you. Back in your former existence, you maintained the appearance that your DNA created. Centuries before your birth, I, too, was restricted by genetics. Whereas our physical types are created by whatever we imagine is attainable in the afterlife dimension. Flesh does not imprison us. Conceptualize it—you can physically become whatever you imagine.”
“I think I understand. . . somewhat.” Conflicted by the statements Sidereus provided and the prospect of killing Fairman, David tried to concentrate on the mystifying explanation. “I’m not sure if I get it all, though.”
“My statements are perplexing. Forgive my enigmatic words. Explaining why salmon spawn upstream would not be as daunting. Nonetheless, try to comprehend this much: The Draconic Defenders are tireless vigilantes. Trust me, for more parsecs than I can quantify in this conversation, my associates and I assassinated numerous denizens in this dimension. Not that much earlier, David, my thoughts favored you. Your life’s play seized my attention. The drama was comprised of an array of actors who were in a production that was worthy of cancellation.”

The talking beacon raged on. Comparable to the sun, the glare was greater than mortal eyes could bear. Such an intense amount of heat was emanating from the entity, it could have melted iron. David, besieged with visual discomfort, could not always look at Sidereus. Much as the young man was fascinated by the sight of the creature, frequently, the attentive pupil had to divert his eyes from his fearsome companion. A considerable distance had to be maintained between David and Sidereus or the consequences could have been detrimental.

“Order me, David. I am your willing provider. This servant wants to know what you want done to the designer of your ill-fitting suit. How should we execute Judge Fairman?”

Words, albeit brief ones, were exchanged about the form of execution. David was pleased with his final selection.

All of the melodramatic court proceedings that David had accumulated from personal experiences, TV shows or movies could not compete with the image of Judge Fairman running towards a window to jump. Among all of the eyewitnesses that aforementioned observation was the unquestionable consensus. A perplexed group of people in the court, still disturbed by the experience, watched Fairman get up from his seat, run from behind the bench and scream, “David, grant forgiveness upon me!”

Amazing, yet factual, that slender man was unusually spry. Controlled by an unseen phantom, Fairman struck two officers; both of the men crashed like comets. Encouraged by an unearthly amount of strength, the judge pried the bars off a window. Note of concern, because of David’s daring suicide, protective gates were put on all of the windows in the courtroom. Other attempts on the part of the officers were ineffectual. Fairman kicked three men who were three times his size and they flew across the room with the ease of footballs. Still others, four to be exact, who could have wrestled an elephant by the tusks, were inferior opponents to the short geriatric man.

Soon it became understood, if not for his knowledge of Fairman’s pending destruction, David would have laughed. Combining the sight of everyone’s surprised expressions and the sight of an old man with the strength of a linebacker, the young man appreciated the sadistic humor.

Around a few minutes into the end of the fight, Fairman jumped through the window and yelled David’s name repeatedly. Absolution was sought with each passing floor. Redemption awaited the judge on the street. The concrete encased the key to his guilt.


***

Just a foot away from the bloody carcass, David looked at Fairman with complete rapture. It was over for the man whom David felt was a tyrant. His reign of oppressive decisions went away at the speed that his blood flowed. Calculating the level of David’s contentment, like counting every creature in the world, would have been impossible.

“Your dream, not that long ago, seemed further than an unnamed constellation. David, look at the realization of your aspiration.
“It appeared impossible, Sidereus, I never thought that someone from my circumstances could rise above his low state and get up to the winning level. Ah, there is a question that I need to ask. What became of Fairman’s soul?”
“Like all of the others, I absorbed it. Disregard any thought about him. Infinite paths to adventurous possibilities are ahead of you. Today you stand at the starting line. Take this interlude to query yourself, David. What kind of creature do you want to become? What is your true aspiration?”
“I want something that is better than everything—freedom.”
“Time to hatch, my egg, become a bird.”

Not dissimilar to a clothing designer, Sidereus knew exactly what David required before the creature asked. Hence, David’s once disembodied spirit started to reformulate. The complete form of the young male came into view. His body was like an instamatic picture that was developing. Without clothing, David stood before Sidereus. At the starting sequence, based upon a glance, it appeared that David resumed his normal human shape.

On scrutinizing himself further, David realized that not all of his characteristics were the same. His human parts were better. The boy was now muscular and bigger than his secret hopes. Stranger still, something else was happening. A large and warm field of light formed around David’s entire being. This reddish current was a few feet higher than the boy was and it was wider than his outstretched arms. There was no disputing it, David’s appearance should have been captured on film.

“Not that there is any objection to public nakedness where I am going to take you, but the Council would prefer that you don the outfit of a warrior in training.” Milliseconds following the statement, a white toga that came to the mystified male’s knees found its way onto his frame. “Leap once more, David. Ascend to your new plain of unexplored experiences.”
“I promise I’ll do anything to repay you for this, Sidereus.”
“Exist in the manner that you want and nothing more. Fly for now, my fantastic friend.”
“Please show me how to use my powers.”
“David, I will teach you an abundance of glorious things. I will take you to the domain of the New Athenians. Outside of this childish plain of life, you will see a bejeweled Grecian city amongst the clouds. It is there you will meet the wise members of our republic. Spanning a year, once you have completed numerous trials, they will determine if you are on par with our standards for our order. Provided you qualify, you will join our legion. Our need for new soldiers who can siphon souls and fight Varah and his misguided congregation grows.”
“Who is Varah?”
“Varah is a philosopher. He and his followers live on a higher tier of the sky called Araboth. Believing in ideals I cannot fathom, they think The Draconic Defenders should not kill the Fleshlings in the other dimension. That is like saying that wolves should not prey upon sheep. David, judging by your question mark expression, you cannot ascertain my meaning. Fleshlings are humans in the other dimension. Anyway, Varah and his naïve idealists think that we should use our powers to aid the Fleshlings. Furthermore, they say that our people should live on positive emotions all the time—madness! Good auras are for the weak.”

Determined by all that David saw, the thing that he did not want to do was argue with Sidereus. Out of both fear and comradeship, David did not question the creature’s moral position. Nor did David ask about other things pertaining to souls.

“Enough with words on this particular subject, David, there is another subject that requires our consideration. Early on, for instance, you wanted to fly. Son, this is your day to soar. The wind awaits your wanderlust.”
“OK, let me try to process this info. You’re saying that once I jump, I’ll fly?”
“Affirmative!”

Feeling fear’s cold grasp, David levitated to the stratosphere with Sidereus. Beneath, at a great distance, the island of Manhattan looked like an ant colony. Miles up in the clouds, the young man knew not about the other chapters in his life’s novel. What he did understand was this—the plot had taken a turn that no sane person could have anticipated. Far from needing all of the bizarre and exciting recent events, David would have traded them for the tedium of being with his family. Innumerable levels of desire to inquire about his mother and siblings consumed David, but his flight made him too nervous to utter the smallest word. Heaped with apprehension about his future and longing for his past, David soared to the unknown.

Copyright 2010