In Vein

A master manipulator wrestles with the weakest of prey

In Vein

By Connor Currie

The pair would meet religiously, often at sporadic times " but they would meet. They were notorious throughout the musky bar; signs littered throughout the staff room walls reading Don't over-serve them, and don't give them too much attention. They would sit and drink, and sit and drink some more... Often in good behaviour, and never too loud. Staff members would shake their heads when they arrived " eschewing them further from a society that does not want them. 

Peter would arrive first, and waddle to the patio doors. He would address us as either Dear or Gentlemen, and make a noticeable effort to remember us all by name. His pink stout fingers glittered with gold rings; and he would tap them on the plastic table in harmony waiting for his companion. His grey hair, visibly dyed blonde - complemented with a floral dress shirt " made him look like a character from a cartoon. But Peter was a charismatic little b*****d. He spoke with conviction, and his thoughts were cohesive and articulate. His speech was fluent. His hands flowed in harmony when he spoke, like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. His voice radiated throughout the restaurant, and when he lectured his friend Johnny, I was his only listener. 

Peter spoke of world politics, the power of the Jewish presence in Hollywood, Hitler, Napoleon, social dynamics, everything " and Johnny would sit and drink; his glands hyperactive, salivating like a rabid dog. His brain rotted with alcohol. His movements, sharp and impulsive; his nervous system shot. A star was shaved into the back of his head. He existed but wasn't truly conscious. When he spoke, he spoke from pain, eyes wincing from an inner turmoil. His speech was jagged and forced. A scar shaped around his lips, and he looked to be favoring one side of his mouth when he pronounced his 'W's. Johnny would tell me an array of lies as I served them; that he is a crossing guard, or that he gets to read the morning announcements at a nearby school. His attempts are genuine, but his alcoholic amnesia inhibits him from being believable. I'd smile and nod, playing along " knowing that he lives in foster care, and is a street-goer by every stretch of the word. Peter pays for every afternoon with Johnny and has ridden him of filthy street-clothes; dressing him in designer sunglasses, and stiff collared polo shirts. Johnny seemed elated to have a man like Peter in his life, buying him food and drink " clothing him, giving him companionship, despite knowing very little about him. He appreciated it, but couldn't understand why. 

“How can you afford all this really though,” Johnny asked. 

“Like, what do you work at, where you can afford all this stuff?”

Peter grinned and stroked his course moustache. 

“I'm a doctor,” He said. “A doctor, a philosopher and philanthropist. A humanitarian and a scientist. But above all, I'm a man; a man that's insatiably inquisitive. 

Johnny nodded, almost uncontrollably; and was without a response. He leaned in toward his long island ice tea and took a hearty gulp without using his hands. The two sat on the patio, two stories above the main city street. The moon's light illuminated Peter. Johnny rested his chin on the cold railing. They had been in this setting a thousand times, but tonight was picturesque. And it was the last time I saw them together. 

Despite the active city street below, and the hypnotic sounds of the urban core beneath them, Peter's attention was narrowly focused on Johnny. 

“What is that makes you tick my boy, tell me. What are you truly passionate about?” Peter said. 

Johnny grinned and paused... taking time to think about a formidable answer. He nodded and flipped his faint wrist to the sky. 

“I dunno,” he said facetiously. “I just like to get fucked up and feel happy ya'know it's hard these days to be happy.” 

“Well my boy what if I told you I could give you the gift of eternal happiness. Purpose, belonging, family. A sense of honour,” Peter said. 

Johnny looked at him with confusion, and paused. He impulsively flipped both of his limp wrists skyward. 

“Well like sure that would be cool... ya'know I mean do I have to do anything?” 

“All you have to do is give me your hands and answer a couple questions, does that sound swell,” said Peter. Johnny subdued and nodded. Rolling up his sleeves, revealing punctured needle wounds on his upper arm, he gave both of his lean vascular forearms to his only friend.

Peter rested his hands atop of Johnny's, and wrapped his fingers around each wrist to monitor his pulse. Come Fly With Me floated up from the jazz bar below. The stark trumpets and grainy musk of Sinatra's voice faintly accompanied the two as Peter began to interrogate Johnny. 

“Who are you?”

“Johnny.” 

“Who are you really?”

“Johnathon Keizer.” 

“Who are you really?” 

“Johnathon Keizer.” 

“Do you act rationally or on impulse?”

“...” 

“Do you seek quick revenge on those who harmed you?” 

“...” 

“Do people compare you to celebrities?”

“...” 

“Johnny listen,” Peter said calmly. “In order to help you I need your cooperation. Do you or do you not want eternal happiness?” 

“I do.”

“Then listen. And listen deeply. Answer as fast as you can without hesitation. I am free of judgement, and am here to help. Okay? To elevate our processing I will need you to refrain from taking a full breath of air into your lungs. Only take small, short breaths. If I see you take a full breath we will have to restart the processing. Do you understand?” 

Johnny slightly confused, nodded in agreement. 

“Do you act rationally or on impulse?”

“I act on my feelings.”

“Do you seek quick revenge on those who harmed you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think God has a place for you?”

“No... no.”

“Have you been compared to celebrities?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you avoid conflict with those you may find useful in the future?” Peter could feel Johnny's pulse rising. He gripped tighter. 

“Yes.” 

“Is it wise to tell your secrets?”

“No.” 

“Does authority frustrate you?”

“Yes.”

A large vein formed down the middle of Johnny's forehead as he focused on his short breaths. 

“Where is your father?”

“Dead.”

“How did he pass?”

“Drank himself to death.” 

“Did he love you?”

“No”

“Did he love your mother?”

“No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“...”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Yes!” Johnny spat out. 

Peter calmly watched Johnny's emotions crumble in front of him. 

Come fly with me...

“Did he hurt your mother?”

“Yes,” He whispered, burrowing his face into his hands.

Let's fly, 

“Do you wish to hurt him for how he has hurt you?”

“Yes,” he whispered again, broken and drained of his emotions.

Let's fly away...

Peter released his hands from his and sat back in his chair, grinning. 

 

“That's it my boy! Wonderful! You are ready for eternal glory. In fact, I'm so proud of you that I wish to offer you an early admittance to my church. The church of Scientology wants you Johnny and once you sign here, all of your dreams will come true. Doesn't that sound beautiful? Here my boy, take this booklet, and read it throughly before bed tonight. I will call you a cab and make sure you are home safe and sound. We're almost there, let's keep working.” 

Johnny, disoriented, ran his fingers through his jet-black hair and rubbed his eyes. He stood up slowly and took the booklet with him. 

“Okay,” he nodded in reassurance, and walked down to the street. 

Peter watched him from above as he entered the cab. Heavy rain fell onto the grey's of the city street. Johnny lifelessly slid into the backseat and disposed of the booklet on the cold concrete. 

Peter digested the sight; and continued to tap his fingers on the table, his foot tapped along with it. His rings hitting the plastic harder with every tap; his eyes burning in vain. He exhaled deeply and massaged his plump cheeks with the palms of his hand; he peered again over the railings and down onto the street. He looked for more of what he could salvage, lost souls, degenerates, and the damned. He watched hookers lure lust-stricken men, and panhandlers impulsively bob back and fourth feverishly awaiting another coin.

To his relief, the street was draped with misfits, and the city was crawling with them. He tapped his ring hard on the table twice, excused himself, and headed for the streets.