Orgy of Souls

Samson knew he was dreaming as soon as he walked through the sanctuary doors to find a bed among the pews. The parishioners scattered at his approach. A body writhed on the bed—a two-backed beast tucked beneath the tender mercies of a neglected Christ on a cross. Paint flaked from his brow and face as he peered over the unfolding scene. Rat-chewed feet hovered just over the bed. The moans from the sheet subsided.

A malefic odor assaulted Samson, the air redolent with the stench of infection and decay. His brother lay too still on the bed, the tattered covers pulled up to his neck. Samson couldn’t help but note how ugly and unflattering the bedspreads were; knit fabric that someone gave up on. Samuel’s emaciated body dangled from them. Splotches, like a serpentine tattoo, ran along his frail arm. Red pustules bubbled up as if his skin were subject to unseen flames. A slow gasp escaped his barely open mouth. Samuel’s sunken skull turned toward him, a black wax oozing from his ears. His eyes flushed red, vessels rupturing with his body’s betrayal, turned upward, staring beyond him.

“Save me.”

Samson awoke. Still in his dressing room, he heard the crew outside breaking down the set; the whining, lisping voice of Jacque Willet punctuated every movement, micro-managing the entire process. He must have only been asleep for a few minutes. The night was still young.

9

Samson showered quickly and slid back into his Armani shirt and pants. He ran a hand slicked with mousse through his hair and stepped out of his dressing room, trying to slip out of the building quickly. Jacque waited nearby, next to a table stacked with hors d'oeuvres and Perrier water, pretending to not stare at Samson’s dressing room. Samson ignored him and turned to his friend Amon, who’d just come from the elevator.

Amon was a stunning mixture of Middle Eastern, Spanish, and something Asian. He was the model they called on when they needed someone exotic to round out a shoot. Samson would never admit it to anyone but Amon himself, but he actually thought the man was much more beautiful than him. He didn’t understand why Amon wasn’t more sought after. Not that the man was starving, but with his extravagant tastes, he still moonlit to make ends meet. If they hadn’t been friends they probably would have been rivals. The man’s looks would have made any other man jealous.

“Hey, honey!”

Amon was gay, but not a mincing stereotype like Jacque whose theatrics Amon found every bit as annoying as Samson did. Amon simply preferred the affections of other men. Once or twice he’d enjoyed Samson’s affections when Samson had been younger and more curious. Now, they were just friends.

“Hello, Amon.”

“Honey, you don’t look well at all. You aren’t getting sick are you?” Amon stared at Samson with genuine concern, cupping a hand against his cheek as much to offer comfort as to check for a fever.

“I’ll be okay. I just can’t stand dealing with that asshole.”

Amon didn’t need to ask who he was referring to, turning to look right at Jacque, who stood mere yards away trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Don’t let that little faggot get to you,” Amon stage-whispered loud enough to be certain that Jacque could hear them. “He’s just mad because he hasn’t fucked you and I have.”

Amon and Samson both laughed.

“I’d better go. You take care of yourself.”

“You too, honey.”

They hugged and Amon planted a light kiss on Samson’s lips then winked at Jacque, who jealously studied them. He turned his head but remained rooted to his spot.

“You’re a bad man, Amon.” Samson laughed.

“I do try.”

Amon walked past Jacque and onto the set with his chin pointing skyward, glancing at the photographer who once again averted his gaze. Samson took the opportunity to make a dash for the stairs before Jacque could speak to him again. Unfortunately, Jacque still caught up with him.

“Leaving? We’ll go down together, okay?” Jacque smiled from ear to ear, batting his fake eyelashes. Everything about him had the veneer of artifice—from the eyeliner tattooed above his cobalt blue contact lenses, to his collagen injected lips, to his anorexic liposuctioned body, to his perfumes and makeups that were so expensive that one bottle of face cream could have paid a month’s rent in most San Francisco apartments.

“Fine.” Samson mumbled back, making no attempt to hide his disgust for the man.