Orgy of Souls

“Come now. What else? You have that ‘worrying about things I can’t control’ look on your face still.”

“It’s Samson.”

“Your brother?” Nkosi asked.

“Yeah. He’s back and I have this feeling he’s in trouble—in way over his head—and I don’t know if I can help him.”

“You can’t save everyone. Not even those you love. We make choices and we have to live with the consequences.”

“Free will’s a bitch, huh?” Samuel gave a sad smirk.

Nkosi sat up as best she could and put her hand on his. “Sometimes when a person is bound and determined to destroy themselves, you just have to get out of their way. You have to come to realize that there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

“But you don’t really buy that, do you?”

“No. That’s why God created big brothers.”

5

Samson tried to rid himself of his perpetually bored expression as he prepared for his photo shoot. He wanted to get this thing done in as few shots as possible and he knew that this photographer was a perfectionist with no qualms about wasting rolls and rolls of film while his models stood in some ridiculously agonizing pose waiting for him to get that one in a thousand shot. Samson was not in the mood.

His disposition was completely wrong for modeling. Even when the fashion industry first embraced Samson, he’d been rather dark and brooding. He hated the fake smiles and artificial laughs that went hand and hand with high fashion. It pained him to manufacture emotion the way the camera demanded. His disgust at the world and disdain for the entire entertainment industry bristled in every syllable he spoke, which explained his failed acting career.

Now—being sprayed down with a mixture of water and baby oil in preparation to shoot an underwear ad while the effeminate photographer called for him to purse his lips and then to smile and look sexy as if he were some poseable action figure—he had to stifle the urge to slap the hell out of the patronizing little queer.

“Don’t lift your chin that way. It makes you look like Popeye. Flex your abs a little bit more. You should have done a few more sit ups, honey, you’re looking a little soft. Is there anything we can do with that bulge? We aren’t shooting pornography here. Maybe we should tape it down or tuck it back or something. Don’t worry, darling, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. I’ve spent entire weekends with mine tucked back so far you couldn’t see it even in a bikini.”

The photographer’s name was Jacque Willet, and he was the hottest fashion photographer around. Samson was the hottest male model in America, if not the world. However, the two did not mix. The man had a way of making Samson feel degraded, but even he had to admit that the photos were amazing. Samson didn’t care how much he was getting paid for this shoot, and it was quite a bit—he’d signed a multi-million dollar contract with the underwear company to be their poster boy—he still felt exploited and it pissed him off. The smile fell from Samson’s face as he stared at the photographer. All his hate and disgust for the man boiled to the surface.

“Oh, now that look could work. It’s not what I was looking for but it’s actually kind of sexy. Hold that.”

Jacque Willet snapped off photo after photo as Samson imagined sacrificing him to the god of debasement and destruction. Not until then had he truly believed that he could do it. When the photo shoot ended, Samson stormed off the set into his dressing room.

“I don’t know who the fuck pissed in your Wheaties this morning, but you almost fucked up the whole shoot! I don’t work with prima donnas!” Jacque shouted at his back.

“Neither do I,” Samson growled as he slammed his dressing room door.

6

There was something about the hospice that made Samuel immediately rush to the shower when he returned home. A film of death, an inevitability, that he had to scrub off. He looked at his mild paunch in the mirror, cupping his belly and jiggling it up and down as if he could shake it away. He knew it was only a matter of time until his “AIDS diet” stripped him of it. He had already lost a lot of weight. The outlines of his bones began to reveal themselves along his arms and legs. His belly, as had been his curse all his life, was the last place he lost weight.