He told himself he’d only have one drink. A light drizzle coated the sidewalks where cigarette butts soaked up a new batch of vomit. Twenty-something’s sat huddled together in dirty corners, some sad and dejected and others too high to care about their homeless dispositions. He could be one of them if it wasn’t for his high-profile face and bloated bank account. They didn’t seem to recognize him as he stopped to pet their dog and slipped them a fifty. He wanted to be nameless; he wanted people to pass him by without noticing, without chasing him down and making him a spectacle. He wanted anonymity. So far so good, but on a night like this the entire city became a spectacle. Stopping to light a cigarette, he stood against the wall and admired the masses of people laughing, drinking and stumbling across the street oblivious to honking traffic. He loved this city– the art, the music, the vibe–he got lost in it. He stood against the stone wall and marveled at the assortment of creative costumes, some identifiable, some completely original. Celebrity look-alikes, movie characters, fantasy creatures—some inspired fear and others made a statement, but everyone’s effort was appreciated. He smiled, bummed a cigarette to a bearded man in a pink tutu and kept walking.

His father hated New Orleans, but his father was in New York attending a grand opening for some new art gallery. He envisioned his dad surrounded by eccentric hoity-toity aristocrats sipping champagne and spouting off nonsense about the significance of black paint splashed onto a white canvas. He grinned and made a mental note to call him later. His father’s hate for New Orleans centered more on a family who lived there than the city itself. He’d just visited that despised family, even had a drink with the well-dressed beast. Vincent, the great deceiver, and one of the biggest drunks he’d ever known. By the end of his visit, the soused beast spoke gibberish, rattling out incoherent words in a foreign tongue, guess it could have been French, he shrugged. He stopped walking and observed a mermaid seated in the middle of the street, statuesque and beautiful, he slipped a fifty into her tip basket; she broke character and stuffed it into her clams. His father was in New York playing the game, blending as best he could into a society he secretly loathed. Like father like son, he played the same game in Hollywood, but down south in New Orleans, he played a different game—he played the game of survival.

The baby he stole from Vincent’s house was safely on its way to Houston where his good friends, Matthew and Robin, would take care of it. Him, he thought, it’s a him, it’s me, it’s not me. Whatever it was, he saved it from being a tortured soul. He wouldn’t let it become a tool, or some useful idiot who bends to the powers that be, especially if it looked like him. He wouldn’t let Vincent have his robotic army of human clones. When he wasn’t playing the celebrity, his goal remained clear—de-thrown the all-seeing-eye. Hate that stupid eye, he thought, kicking trash off the sidewalk, and who cares about ancient Egypt anyway? They hoarded gold and married their sisters, speaking of sister… He picked up the pace and turned the corner onto Bourbon Street.

A large group of people gathered outside The Cottonmouth as he pushed through the crowd with his head down. Smoke fogged the air and a screeching saxophone compromised speech as he entered the dark club and found a spot at the bar, ignoring the heads that began turning his way. The bartender brought him a drink despite his underage status, but the employees knew the drill, serve him up, no questions asked and big tips were on the way. The crowd roared as the band ended their first set and he knew he’d been spotted by the last person he wanted to see, make that second to last, Vincent always took first place. He slurped down his pink hurricane and prepared for a barrage of deceitful niceties. It began with a slap on the back.

“Gabriel! Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, being that it’s Devil’s Night and all. Shouldn’t you be at home praying the evil away?”

“Already did,” he answered, “guess I need to pray a little harder. How’ve you been, Alain?”

“Can’t complain. What brings you here tonight? I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Why would you?” Gabriel asked. “I’m waiting for someone.” Don’t let him in, he thought.

Alain smiled and rubbed Gabriel’s shoulders as he leaned in and whispered in his ear, “I’m already in.” Gabriel winced and jerked his shoulder away. Alain pulled up a seat.

“Next round’s on me,” he said, slipping the bartender a one hundred dollar bill. The bartender turned pale as he scanned the club and stuffed the money into his pocket. Gabriel sipped his drink.

“We need to talk,” Alain said, lighting a cigarette.

A large crowd of people entered the bar, and Gabriel, craning his neck, jumped up from his stool and yelled, “Hey look, it’s John Lennon! John, over here!” Dressed in a white suit, a man with long brown hair and granny glasses smiled and shot him the peace sign. Gabriel laughed and returned the gesture before sitting back down. Stirring his half empty drink, he used the long black straw to fish out a submerged cherry. Alain shook his head and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Gabriel, we need to talk.”

“About?”

“Your loyalty.”

Gabriel scoffed and slurped his drink. “My loyalty is none of your concern.”

“That documentary you plan on releasing is everyone’s concern,” Alain said. “You can’t save the world, Gabe. You can warn people till you’re blue in the face, but they’ll just laugh and call you a freak, another Hollywood idol gone off the deep end.”

“And they’d be right,” Gabriel answered. “You sounded horrible up there, by the way, like your sax was giving birth to a donkey or something.”

Alain smiled and reached over to brush Gabriel’s long dark hair out of his eyes, but the teen dream flinched back and almost fell off his stool. Grabbing his arm, Alain pulled him back up.

“You’re drawing attention to yourself,” he said. “People are starting to realize who you are. I’m surprised you didn’t wear a costume.”

Gabriel sucked down the rest of his drink and let his hair shield him from the crowds of outsiders. Clueless and blissfully ignorant, the other half trusted that life was exactly how they saw it, that space aliens and Bigfoot were the only real conspiracies, but he knew otherwise. He was the conspiracy. He and Paige and the rest of his family, they were the mythical creatures hiding in plain view. Alain was right, he should have worn a costume, a green rubber mask with big black eyes and tiny nostrils would have been fitting. Gabriel pushed his empty glass aside and studied the John Lennon impersonator as he joked with his friends, throwing his head back and laughing freely, his granny glasses crooked on his red stubby nose. He’s the lucky one, Gabriel thought, he’s the celebrity.

“Hey, do you think John would mind if I asked for an autograph?”

Alain gently rested his hand on his shoulder and gestured for the bartender to bring them another round. “We’re not alone, Gabe. I need you to be serious for a moment. The others are watching us.”

Gabriel turned his head and pulled the hair away from his face. He looked around the bar in a vain attempt to pick them out of the crowd, but they could be anyone, they could be the bartender, they could be John Lennon, they could be Alain, they could be Paige, where is she anyway, he thought. A hand reached out and grabbed the bottom of his chin.

“Gabriel, look at me, they insist you not release that film. Understand?”

He nodded.

Alain grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close, “You need to sober up real fast and pay attention to your surroundings. Time is running out.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes and answered, “I am sober. I’ve only had one drink.”

“You’re lying,” Alain said, holding him steady on the stool, “you scored some heroin from Regan. I just saw her, her eyes looked as red and glassy as yours. Bad night to relapse, kid.”

“I’ve only had one drink.”

 Hunched over and burning from the inside out, Gabriel placed his elbows on the bar. He felt the sickness build in his stomach and remembered why he quit drinking. Alcohol had never been kind to him. While his sobriety was an accordion of sorts with the good, the bad and the ugly extending, blending and folding into one, heroin was the show stopper. Relapse was a dirty word, and although alcohol qualified as a drug, Gabriel had yet to fall completely off the wagon. He’d resisted Regan’s offer earlier that night despite Alain’s accusations, but the hurricane went straight to his head. Gabriel pushed the freshly-made pink hurricane to the side and asked for a glass of water. The bartender gladly dumped the drink down the drain and jammed the one hundred dollar bill into Alain’s coat pocket.

“Water’s on the house,” he said, nodding at Gabriel before abandoning his post and disappearing into a room behind the bar. Securing the money in his pocket, Alain watched him leave and then waved to one of his bandmates across the room.

“I’m back on in five,” he said. “I was told you’d have two drinks, looks like things have already changed. Who knows what to believe these days, am I right?”

“The hell are you talking about?” Gabriel asked. “Who told you I’d have two drinks?”

Flagging down another bartender, Alain ordered a shot of absinthe and one glass of water. A slender young woman with long blonde hair returned with the order and grinned as she set the drinks down–a small plastic cup and a glass of water bearing a submerged cherry. Winking at Gabriel, she slid him the glass and commented before turning to leave, “I know how much you like cherries.” Alain laughed and slammed his shot; Gabriel eyed the waitress. He recognized her, a seemingly generic blonde bombshell but somehow different than the rest. Her hypnotic blue eyes, high cheekbones, radiant skin, the way she moved her mouth, the confidence in her posture, the curve of her back, the glide in her step–everything lined up as perfectly as her teeth, everything about her suggested that she was one of them. He jumped when Alain slapped him on the back, breaking his trance.

“Looks like you’ve been given a reprieve, but I did my part,” he shrugged. “I did what was asked. The spirits control the past and the future, Gabe. You’re praying to the wrong god.” Alain tossed the small plastic cup into the trash, rubbed his shoulders and whispered into his ear, “Go home.”

Gabriel scowled and flinched his shoulder away. He watched Alain return to the stage and then looked across the bar for the blonde-haired waitress, but saw instead the first male bartender. He stirred his water and picked at the cherry with his straw. He wanted to call his dad, he needed to talk to Paige, but Gabriel held his position and waited for discernment to filter through the fog of alcohol. He prayed for discernment to save him.

If Alain accused him of praying to the wrong god, then Gabriel knew he was on the right path. Alain and Vincent worshipped spirits. They were their own gods, but Gabriel received endless ridicule for his religious beliefs, something that never bothered him too much. If anything, the constant mockery only strengthened his faith, for if Vincent and Alain snubbed their noses at something, he knew to embrace it, but his spirituality sparked unexpected grief. He worried that God didn’t want him; he feared he was a lost soul.

The crowd cheered as Alain’s new band plunged into their second set. Gabriel rubbed his eyes and turned away from the stage. He knew the others were after him, and his paranoia was well founded, but he feared less for himself and more for his loved ones. Evil invoked misery, and what better way to force someone’s hand than to threaten their family. He feared for Paige’s life more than his own and searched the bar again, becoming increasingly worried by her tardiness, then again, she’s always late.

The others watched him from dark corners. They pretended to be his dad, or Michael, or Billy, or Paige; they could shape-shift, induce heart-attacks or summon disease and illness. The others were far more advanced than Vincent’s camp, but seemingly void of compassion, humility and empathy. They were Dr. Faraday’s superior race, and they despised competition. Gabriel knew they wanted him. To become like them, to learn from them and evolve, to switch sides and turn his back on his family, crude prototypes, they had called Vincent and Justin’s lineage, but he refused. The others dominated Hollywood circles, manipulated Wall Street and blackmailed politicians, but Gabriel wouldn’t let them steal his soul.

John Lennon left the building but the grim reaper, joined by a demented clown, now stood in his place. Gabriel pulled his glass of water closer and punctured the cherry with his straw, squishing and mashing it up into a shriveled red clump. When he left Vincent’s house a few short hours ago, where sugarcane perfumed the air and owls conversed from treetops, he knew something big was about to go down. Vincent, inebriated and crazed, had ranted about time travel and second chances, menacing spirits and redemption, but Gabriel shrugged off his wild tirade. He knew the endgame. He knew what the future held. Vincent’s army, Dr. Faraday’s army, the green agenda, population reduction, spiritual warfare, the battle between good and evil–he knew which side to serve, but discernment, for the crucial moment at hand, escaped him.

Gabriel turned away from the stage and swallowed his first drink of water, gulping it down until the mangled cherry rested on top of the ice. The effects were immediate. His vision dimmed and he pushed the empty glass aside, recognizing the familiar sickness as his stomach burned from the inside out. His clammy hands gripped the bar and his body trembled as he rubbed his forehead and attempted to stand before falling to his knees on the floor. Blurred faces pointed and laughed, their voices distant and muffled as he sank to the ground and leaned against the bar murmuring incoherently. He felt himself drowning in a salty sea, swallowed by the frothy fog and overcome by sickness as brown vile spilled out onto his clothes. Wiping his mouth, he slowly pulled himself off the floor burdened again by the sensation of rapid dehydration. As if being drained of all fluids and left with only salt, Gabriel struggled to stand as his body burned from head to toe. Smoking a cigarette behind the bar, the blonde-haired waitress smiled as her hypnotic blues eyes followed him into the bathroom.

The door slammed shut as Gabriel pushed past the grim reaper and stumbled into the last stall. Greeted by the smell of sewage, he fell to his knees and gripped the warm rim of the toilet seat. Frightened and confused, he jerked and twitched on the bathroom floor as a saxophone screeched out of tune and masked the sound of his sickness. His body constricted; he choked to catch his breath. The band played on with Alain clamoring into his mid-song solo while the crowd roared with uninhibited pleasure. Gabriel released his grip, closed his eyes and collapsed against the wall. He tried to contact his dad, or Michael or anyone who could hear his SOS, but his diluted mind failed to transmit the message. He wrestled against darkness. His damp hair veiled his face as he slumped to the side and rested his head on the toilet. He was losing the fight but postponed the last breath—he refused the last breath. Enormous red shoes poked through the gap underneath the door. A knock vibrated the stall. His eyes jolted open.

“You okay?”

Trembling and soaked in sweat, Gabriel flushed the toilet and emerged from the stall to find the grim reaper and his sidekick clown snorting a line of white powder. He stumbled to the sink and splashed water onto his face. Cold yet hot, tormented yet numb, his pale hands shielded his fading reflection but the overdone clown managed to state the obvious.

“Dude, you look like crap. You want some of this, bro?”

Gabriel staggered out of the bathroom and rejoined the patrons of the dark club. He stood to the side of the stage and leaned against the wall, desperate to catch his breath as violent chills defeated his body. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his green army coat, he slid across the wall. He needed out, he needed fresh air, he needed to breathe. Alain’s saxophone squawked and fell out of rhythm as Gabriel crawled past the stage and stumbled through the backdoor exit into the courtyard. Greeted by the cool October air, he blinked his eyes into focus as the rain cleansed his face and the clouds caressed his tortured limbs. Everything’s fine, he thought, I’ll be okay, but the sound of a howling train drew closer. He wanted his dad, the man who always protected and nurtured him, the man who rescued him over and over again–a superhero with a sixth sense for danger, he prayed for his father’s hands to save him. A female voice called out his name and as he glanced around the courtyard, his vision rolled back into the whites of his eyes. Gabriel trembled and cowered to the sound of the approaching train, hissing and rattling closer, he lost his balance and collapsed into darkness. The pavement caught his fall. His head hit the ground and thrashed from side to side, but his mind detached itself. He avoided the final scene as his loved ones appeared like angels, sheltering him until his Father’s gentle hands carried him over the threshold.