Peppermint

Chapter 41 - You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

***JOSH***

The first person who punched my dad in the face, he's now ruling things in this other world in which I've found myself. Not for the first time, either. I'm surprised that the second time that happened, he didn't go off and banish the guy straight to Purgatorio with a snap of his fingers. Or was he counting on me going off in Alex's stead?

I've gotta tell you. Dying for other people's sins really wears on your own soul after a while. Why couldn't Elliot have another Messiah or ten to share the wealth, huh?

But if there's one person for whom I'd be happy to die, it's Alex Snow. I haven't known the guy too long - not in person, anyway - but I'll be damned (again) if I don't think he's one of the most real people ever created in any realm, whether it be Prime, Second, or the harsh one in which I'm currently stuck.

Stuck until I can find a way to get a message out.

Alex, I'm sorry, dude, but I can't hear you when you pray to me. So I'm pretty sure you won't hear me when I pray to you too. Pray that you hear me asking you to abandon all hope, abandon all your Heavenly obligations, and please get me the f-

Wait.

I'm supposed to be taking out the trash in a back alley behind one of Purgatorio's garbage-ass clubs, the kind favored by Prime software billionaires on vacation. No, seriously. There's a reason why Silicon Valley's so cutthroat and so heavy on straight white men holding all the cards. They've figured out a way to come to this place on a regular basis just to savor a taste of what Samael has to offer. Bypassing the Terminal too, no less. Preston Holly should have some steak and wine with these guys...erm, you know what? Strike that. I'm not sure, but I think Holly's stuck in the Third 'Verse now anyway.

But back to my point.

I'm taking out the trash, the black plastic bag dripping some kind of juice or booze onto my bare chest. I gotta be careful it doesn't stain my tats somehow. Booze in the first three 'verses can't do that, but around here? Samael can make anything he desires, and if he knew I was down here, smudging my ink would be high up on that list, just to be the goddamn troll he is.

Why does Michael have to look so similar to him? It disturbs the shit out of me, almost literally, every time I see his mug peering down on any room in any corner of this place. The main difference being those eyes of his, which, I swear, look ruby red no matter what angle you're looking at him from. I wouldn't be surprised if he had all those pics rigged with mini-cameras perched in every single printed eye of his. The temptation I've felt to jerk off in front of whoever's watching and disturb their shit out instead...but then, if I did that, I'd no doubt be playing right into his hands.

But underneath the dumpster, I hear a hiss.

Who's turned on the gas? Is Samael trying to asphyxiate me?

I kneel, placing my cheek on the ground as I look sideways under the dumpster. My tank top, which I've tied around my head like a bandanna, is no doubt getting all the smudges I was hoping my tattoos could avoid. At least I'm not working the front right now - those software executives would slip dollars into my waistband like I'm Magic Fucking Mike. Dollars that totally lack value around these parts.

No, what's really valuable is what I'm seeing under this dumpster.

They've said for millennia, at least - ever since the last time I've been here - that Samael captured them all and has kept on capturing them all every time anyone else has found another.

Well, no longer.

I reach gingerly under the dumpster, and twin sparks of orange flicker to life just beyond my fingertips.

With a softer hiss, the owner of those orange sparks, orange all over, slides over my hand and wraps themself around my arm. Yes, they're non-binary. I feel it in their mind as they slither over my skin, drinking in my own warmth. They give my arm a tight hug, but not too tight. Not as tight as they can potentially give.

I'll call them Jordan, after the river in which I was baptized. Because their presence is that level of milestone for me now.

I unwrap my head and slip the tank top back on, careful not to jostle Jordan around too much lest they reconsider being so gracious to me. Then, satisfied I've done my actual job and jammed the trash tightly into the dumpster, I run back inside to turn the tables on my supervisor.

"Christopher," he says when he sees me come back in. Dirt-poor by Purgatorian standards I may be - or, more accurately, may have been - but he still respects me enough to address me by the new surname I've adopted. The patron saint of safe travels in some traditions. Now there's someone I'll still pray to even if I can't say whether or not he can hear me. "The delegation from XTS is gonna want more...holy shit, what is that?"

I flex my arm so I can bring Jordan into the light. "Serve them holy shit? Must be on the secret menu you haven't taught me. And yes, Phil, this is exactly what you think it is."

Phil, a tall, lean white guy with one of the few genuine smiles in this world, gapes in wonder at my new passenger. Then he holds out his own bare arm - all arms are bare around here, at least they're supposed to be - so he can introduce Jordan to Henry, the Green Battery that's the one snake he keeps on his person at all times. Jordan, curious, licks Henry once, twice, then turns away and snuggles into my muscle.

"I'm supposed to report him," Phil says.

"Them," I correct him. "And you won't. In fact, you want a shot at having them yourself, don't you?" As Phil nods, his glasses almost falling off his nose, I turn around and take an envelope out of my bag - an envelope I stole from Phil's desk, along with the paper to write the letter inside it, but my boss doesn't need to know that.

"Dollars?" Phil asks as he takes the envelope off my hands. Then he checks the address I wrote on the front. "Oh."

"I know you got connections," I say. "The first favor I'm gonna need to call in from you: get that letter to Prime."

He blanches under his scratchy beard. "How many favors are you gonna need?"

I point at Alex Snow's name written on the envelope. "As many as it takes to get me home."

TO BE CONTINUED...