Orgy of Souls

“Yeah? Well, fuck you too.” He threw a twenty dollar bill in the fortune teller’s face as he rose from the table.

Techno strains from the band drew him back to the main floor; the music was little more than violent whining, like rending metal to a beat. Maroon light bathed the stage and the fog machine worked overtime. Between the multiple strobes and psychedelic haze of smoke, the dancing figures were little more than shadowy faces crying in the night. Sticking to the periphery, he walked to the bar, discrete from the dance area in its own pocket universe. Candles created flickering pools of amber light from the lounge. Incense burned in scattered piles. Samson ordered a drink, but everything tasted gray.

No, tonight was about the hunt.

He turned his attention to the gyrating flesh. Reading people, women especially, was what he did. One woman strayed from the pack of her friends as if afraid to catch a case of popularity. She chewed on the tip of her right thumb, her hair pulled back in a low maintenance ponytail. Leather straps encased her small breasts. Boots came up to the knees of her lanky legs, a matching mini skirt barely covering her behind. Her face was androgynous, not pretty, though fascinating all the same, conspicuous by her paucity of makeup.

She lacked the smell of prey: too little of the neediness, the lack of self-esteem, the eagerness to please that Samson knew he could twist and pervert until she was happily signing her soul away for the self-validation of casual sex with one of the world’s most desirable men.

That was when he spied his true intended. She struck a pose of too-cool-to-dance, catching herself if her head bobbed to the music. Her tall frame possessed an awkward grace, her swaying suggested sexiness in its own way. She wore a blood red gown that flowed and swirled with her movements. Long ivory gloves, the sleeves slit up the middle, revealed lengthwise scars down her wrists. Her long black hair—too black, obviously dyed—draped down her alluring neck. Her skin chalked to a drained, grayish hue, bordered on whiteface. She met his lingering gaze.

She had probably spent two hours getting herself ready for the club, afraid to be seen without every hair intact, every visible patch of skin creamed and powdered to a ghostly white pallor. Afraid that others would see the missing parts of her if they weren’t covered in make-up, afraid that she was little more than a pretty thing others wanted to fuck. An Egyptian hieroglyph encircled her large eyes, giving them a vaguely Asian appearance. Radiating a special brand of vivaciousness, she would do. She sauntered over to him.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” she said with a deep, gravelly voice. A sexy rasp. Completely affected. Another layer of her mask.

“Because you’re beautiful and I want to make love to you.”

Her eyebrows rose sharply and a smile broke quickly onto her face, shattering her cool aloof exterior. “Damn! You don’t waste time with small talk do you?”

“Not when I find what I’m looking for, when I find someone worthy of what I have to offer.”

“And what is it you’re offering?”

“Freedom. I’m offering absolute freedom through total subservience.”

“Oh, you’re a dom then? I would have never guessed you were into all of that. You don’t dress the part,” she said as she stepped back to get a better view, taking in Samson’s Bruno Mali shoes, Hugo Boss jeans and Versace silk shirt.

“Why else would anyone come to a club like this?”

“Most people come because they have no idea what they want or what they are.”

Samson leaned over and breathed his next words directly into her ear. “Oh, I know exactly what I want and exactly what I am.” His deep, resonant voice vibrated against her earlobe as his lips brushed against her jaw line.

“And what’s that?”

“I’m looking for Life,” he said.

“Well, there’s no life here. Usually, only the lost come here. I think you’re looking for what we all are—love.”

“Love?” Samson laughed out loud, the bemused expression on his face bordering on pity. “My father always told me that there was no such thing as love. It was just a four letter word you used to get pussy. People toss it around too casually for it to mean anything. I don’t believe in love. Fuck love. My way is much better.”

She nodded, though her face appeared pained. “Yeah. Fuck love. It’s overrated. I haven’t really loved anything since my mother died when I was two years old. I never even got to know her. Only a smell I always imagined my mother would smell like, a mix of tea rose oil and a soft scent, like baby powder. I don’t even know if that’s how she really smelled. It’s just all I can remember.” She chuckled without mirth. “Two loveless souls finding each other, that’s quite the coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason,” Samson said. “It must be someone’s plan.”

“So you still believe in God?”