This is for my buddy .

The only guy I’ll write fan fic for.

I’m sitting in a bar on Rosecrans. The carpet sticks to the bottom of your feet. Nobody here is even remotely aware of the city’s “no smoking” ordinance. The music is slow and driving, sung by a woman who looks too good to be real.

That’s because she isn’t. She’s summoned by the desire of the crowd, a creature of sex, longing and envy. The guitarist is a magician I know. Pulled the spell from one of Crowley’s books — one of the books they don’t sell in the stores. If you took off his shirt, you’d see piercings on his back. Stainless steel hoops. They put hooks through there and hang him up before each concert. He hangs there like Odin, his pain singing the words that made the world. Hanging on the Tree of Life. And just inches away, the creature he summoned sings the same song. Everybody here knows it, they just don’t know it.

The kid who finds me leans against the wall. She’s got her arms crossed. In her left hand, the one closest to me, there are five one hundred dollar bills. The money slides between me and her, from her fingers to mine. She has no idea of the power that just moved between us. Neither do you, but I’ll give you a hint.

We’re on Rosecrans Boulevard. That should tell you something right there. If you don’t know what I’m talking about… well, let’s just say you aren’t tall enough for this ride.

I shout into her ear, “You like the music?”

She shouts back, “What?”

I stuff the bills in my pocket, each a little Masonic powerhouse of symbol and metaphor. “You wanna know the Word or not?”

She nods. Her hair is dyed red and black, the kind of red you see in Victorian novels. Burgundy, I think they call it. Her skin is alabaster and her eyes are brown and wide. She has a pretty face. Too pretty to be in here. She’s a dabbler. Ain’t nothing more dangeruos than that.

Fuck, I think. It’s her life.

I tell her the Word. I don’t need to shout. When it’s spoken, it cuts through the amps and the crowd. When it’s spoken, there’s no other sound in the world. Nobody else hears it, but they feel it. The guitarist on the stage, he knows what just happened and he flashes me a mean look. We’ll talk later. I’m fucking up his work here. But I needed the money.

When the Word is spoken, she coughs. She runs her finger under her nose and there’s blood. She looks up at me, those confident brown eyes not so wide anymore. She just got fucked. I fucked her. I might have even creamed my pants. I know what happened down below for her. The smile on my face tells her that.

She runs away, pushing through the crowd, her legs trembling. Five hundred bucks. For the Word.

Man, I’m getting desperate.