Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXXV. When The Prince of Heaven Passed Away

4
Scott
New Orleans, Louisiana
Ol' Man Chopinʼs Cabin
Manchac Swap
October 21st, 2014
Time: 3:30 AM
_____________________________

    It was the ugliest storm Scott had ever seen. Loud, belligerent, red as rubies. At the edge of the water, he heard the whir of a broken down pontoon boat simmer passed a canopy of moss and the vehement howl of wind. With an assortment of knives, Scott got to work warding the perimeter – eighteen kuri kuri knives scattered in every room of the Cabin – and before the front porch, a vanity mirror was tethered to the door by any super glue he could find and the glue oʼ his blood. Mʼsu Diable, the Woman, theyʼd be kept at bay.

    The moon was glorious; full, fat, and reddish as it sat along the waterfront and fed the tropical night. And with that, she promised horrors to assault the Cabin – late at night when it crawled sleepily into its bed. Ace cards, as well as kings and queens, twirled along the vines, watching, and dancing, in-front of the Cabin as it burrowed itself deeper and deeper into the knoll. Something was cominʼ, and Scott didnʼt have much time.

    Exhaling raggedly, Gabriel yawned – coughing no blood, no water, just mucus. Scott exhaled in relief.

    He could deal with mucus.

    "Hey, buddy," Scott whispered, untying a Marie Laveau charm: with rabbitʼs foot, gold ore, and a magnet wrapped in a piece of French Louisianan chamois cloth. He dangled it around Gabeʼs neck, carefully and gently, before lifting him up off the couch. Grabbing a canister of salt, he poured it along the door, chanting some spell about the Father, the Cross, the Holy Spirit...

    ...until someone opened the door.

    "Ssh," Scott whispered, cupping Gabrielʼs mouth. As the candles flickered and the wind shrieked, Scott found a run-down kitchen closet. Unbolted, battered, with measly pieces of plywood keeping it together. Inside it was damp, dark, moldier than all he could see – with a few torn quilt blankets and a homemade wooden cross twirling atop the frame. Placing Gabe in the closet, Scott sucked in his breath and kissed the crown of his head softly this time, raking away the sodden brown curls on his head.

    It was the definition of shit, but Scott would make due. Heʼd give Gabe something better, eventually.

    He had to.

    "Exorcizamus te," he muttered, wincing as he dressed the door in a cross made out oʼ his own blood, stuffing the switch-blade into the tattered confines of his pants as he approached the shadow oʼ the man in the Cabin living room somberly. When he gripped the Bowie knife, he moved with the precision heʼd been taught – holding it nice and low. Waiting for a deliberate strike. He was the youngest OʼMalley, the most ruthless, and if that woman threatened his sonʼs life one more time – heʼd cut her down. He always did.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omni satanica potestas, omnis..."

    He lunged. Relentless. Merciless. Boundless. Grabbing the dark manʼs throat, he slammed him against a cupboard nearby. Blood cresting over his crown. When his reflexes became a little sluggish, the man whipped plates at him. Hissing, recoiling. Scott lurched to the right, wary, vigilant, his face burning as his knife nicked the manʼs neck – and the manʼs second punch made him double over. Smack-dab in the face, so powerful, so forceful, that blood seeped from the crevices of his teeth. Oozing, pouring, gushing.

Lunging for him, the man slammed Scott into the edge of the wall, scraping his spine against the sharp corner, and Scott jeered his foot for the manʼs jaw – balancing himself against the godforsaken corner and the dung-ridden carpet. When he missed, his knife glanced the manʼs chin. Clean-cut. Deadly-determined.

    "Easy, Scotty, itʼs–"

    Scott punched him when he began to wind down. Throwing a left hook. The man careened into one of the ripped couches, and when he staggered up again, Scott drove his fist into his nose repeatedly. Again, and again, and again, until crimson crusted his knuckles. Gripping Scottʼs face, the man let out a string of curses, and slammed his forehead against Scottʼs – using the opportunity to make another body shot, one diving for his ribs, using Scottʼs sluggishness to twist the knife out of his hand. Gritting his teeth, Scottʼs fist lunged again – and the man slid the bowie knife underneath his chin.

    "Scott," the man growled.

    Scott inhale, finally staring the man in the eye. As the pale, ghostly light flitted across the linoleum, the manʼs sharp green eyes peered back at his. His skin was painted in angelic runes and a naked woman straddling a motorcycle – damp hair making his dirty blonde hair darker. Rugged, tired, coated in blood. Scott moved the strands of sweaty hair from his face, panting as he soaked in the manʼs appearance – the features they shared, the ones they didnʼt, that stupid-and-smug grin he wore even after he almost beat him to pulp.

    "Blake," Scott breathed. "You f*ckinʼ b*tch. Why couldnʼt you just say you were here?"

    "Whereʼs the fun in that, little bro? Suspense – suspenseʼs the fun part."

    "Yeah," Scott muttered back. "It appears to be that way."