Status: Rewrite Number 3!?
Reap
The young boy learns their rules.
The Devil’s Whorehouse is the sleaziest strip club off of Sunset Boulevard. Sometimes I wonder if it was possible to get an STI just by looking at the women that work here or the men that attend it. There are heroin needles littering the backrooms and I’m sure those rooms won’t be passing a blacklight test any time soon. But upcoming musicians and actors alike flock here for one reason and one reason only; it’s at a crossroads. This means everything they could wish for can become a reality; for a price of course. One kiss from one of the women working the poles, more than one fantasy can be fulfilled that night.
The demonic strippers and shitty beer, isn’t the only reason why he hangs out here. I think he does it to make his female Reapers uncomfortable but in all honesty, I think he likes to see first hand the people he’s going to be taking the soul of. He like to know who he’s going to be working with.
He never goes by the same name twice. Each person he talks to gets a different name but to us Reapers he’s simply known as Death. We don’t know much about him other than he has three brothers and has a weakness for black Cadillacs and tattoos. His hair is always slicked back and he’s constantly in a nice dark purple dress shirt and a black vest. He dresses nice and modern for someone that is possibly older than God himself. He’s nasty and vicious and isn’t someone you want to double cross. You come when he calls, no matter what. Which is the only reason why I’m sitting in the sleaziest place possible.
“Do you want to know what Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Sid Vicious and John Lennon have in common?” Death asks me over the sound of Welcome to the Jungle.
“Tragic deaths?” I ask. “Tragic deaths that happened so soon and just when their careers started to take off; solo or not?”
“They sought out a crossroads demon to make their dreams a reality.” He smirks. “How else can you explain their careers booming like that?”
“Are you seriously telling me that John fucking Lennon sold his soul to the devil for fame and fortune?” I scoff. “The others I could believe. Maybe not Kurt Cobain, but the others I can see it. But that doesn’t make any sense; why would they do that? The Beatles were fucking amazing. And Kurt Cobain was this god in the grunge scene.”
“But they weren't always like that.” He states. “The Devil can grant you talent and a way to get noticed but it’ll always come at a price. Some debts are collected sooner than others; it all depends on the individuals’ deal.”
“What about bands like Motley Crue and Metallica; did they make a deal as well?”
“Motley Crue, yes. I, in fact, am the one in charge of their deal. Metallica is one of those rare bands that actually have the talent to be as big as they are. I highly recommend seeing them in concert, it’s to die for.”
“Most of those deaths you’ve mentioned where drug related, you know that right?”
“Semantics.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “Reapers take lives when it’s time. Whether they die normally or by the hand of the Devil, it doesn’t matter. Their soul is ours to do what needs to be done with it.”
“There is a reasoning behind you telling me that rock stars are notorious for selling their souls,” I state. “This has to do with my next soul, doesn’t it? Who is assigned to me this time? Nikki Sixx or Tommy Lee making an appearance in Hell any time soon.”
“Sadly no.” He says as he pushes over a cd. “Damian Rite is the lead singer of The Tragic Truth. He came to Jezebel four years ago at the tender age of 17. His band just got done playing a gig at this horrible dive bar. He wanted fame and fortune and he got it. Now it’s time for us to collect his debt.”
I frown as I look at the CD cover. Damian Rite was on his way to be the next Jim Morrison. He was a lyrical genius. He penned dark, depressing songs that when spoken could be the deepest sound poetry you could imagine. He had a talent for painting a picture with each song he wrote.
“I remember that concert.” I tell Death. “My friends and I went there for a few drinks to blow off some steam after work. The bar was nearly empty aside from a few people on the floor. The Tragic Truth wasn’t bad, but in the world of pop music; they wouldn’t be able to compete. I brought home one of their demos that night. It was playing as I hung myself.”
“If I listened to their music, I’d hang myself too.” He mutters as he downs the rest of his Jack Daniels. “I’ll be in contact when I know more information about when and where Damian Rite is going to take his own life. Don’t go too far, Alyx.”
I just nod my head as I watch him get up off his stool and walk away, disappearing in plain sight. My attention is then turned to the cd in front of me. Damian Rite, what did you get yourself into…
The demonic strippers and shitty beer, isn’t the only reason why he hangs out here. I think he does it to make his female Reapers uncomfortable but in all honesty, I think he likes to see first hand the people he’s going to be taking the soul of. He like to know who he’s going to be working with.
He never goes by the same name twice. Each person he talks to gets a different name but to us Reapers he’s simply known as Death. We don’t know much about him other than he has three brothers and has a weakness for black Cadillacs and tattoos. His hair is always slicked back and he’s constantly in a nice dark purple dress shirt and a black vest. He dresses nice and modern for someone that is possibly older than God himself. He’s nasty and vicious and isn’t someone you want to double cross. You come when he calls, no matter what. Which is the only reason why I’m sitting in the sleaziest place possible.
“Do you want to know what Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Sid Vicious and John Lennon have in common?” Death asks me over the sound of Welcome to the Jungle.
“Tragic deaths?” I ask. “Tragic deaths that happened so soon and just when their careers started to take off; solo or not?”
“They sought out a crossroads demon to make their dreams a reality.” He smirks. “How else can you explain their careers booming like that?”
“Are you seriously telling me that John fucking Lennon sold his soul to the devil for fame and fortune?” I scoff. “The others I could believe. Maybe not Kurt Cobain, but the others I can see it. But that doesn’t make any sense; why would they do that? The Beatles were fucking amazing. And Kurt Cobain was this god in the grunge scene.”
“But they weren't always like that.” He states. “The Devil can grant you talent and a way to get noticed but it’ll always come at a price. Some debts are collected sooner than others; it all depends on the individuals’ deal.”
“What about bands like Motley Crue and Metallica; did they make a deal as well?”
“Motley Crue, yes. I, in fact, am the one in charge of their deal. Metallica is one of those rare bands that actually have the talent to be as big as they are. I highly recommend seeing them in concert, it’s to die for.”
“Most of those deaths you’ve mentioned where drug related, you know that right?”
“Semantics.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “Reapers take lives when it’s time. Whether they die normally or by the hand of the Devil, it doesn’t matter. Their soul is ours to do what needs to be done with it.”
“There is a reasoning behind you telling me that rock stars are notorious for selling their souls,” I state. “This has to do with my next soul, doesn’t it? Who is assigned to me this time? Nikki Sixx or Tommy Lee making an appearance in Hell any time soon.”
“Sadly no.” He says as he pushes over a cd. “Damian Rite is the lead singer of The Tragic Truth. He came to Jezebel four years ago at the tender age of 17. His band just got done playing a gig at this horrible dive bar. He wanted fame and fortune and he got it. Now it’s time for us to collect his debt.”
I frown as I look at the CD cover. Damian Rite was on his way to be the next Jim Morrison. He was a lyrical genius. He penned dark, depressing songs that when spoken could be the deepest sound poetry you could imagine. He had a talent for painting a picture with each song he wrote.
“I remember that concert.” I tell Death. “My friends and I went there for a few drinks to blow off some steam after work. The bar was nearly empty aside from a few people on the floor. The Tragic Truth wasn’t bad, but in the world of pop music; they wouldn’t be able to compete. I brought home one of their demos that night. It was playing as I hung myself.”
“If I listened to their music, I’d hang myself too.” He mutters as he downs the rest of his Jack Daniels. “I’ll be in contact when I know more information about when and where Damian Rite is going to take his own life. Don’t go too far, Alyx.”
I just nod my head as I watch him get up off his stool and walk away, disappearing in plain sight. My attention is then turned to the cd in front of me. Damian Rite, what did you get yourself into…
♠ ♠ ♠
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