The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.
I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.
“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”
He opened his trenchcoat and revealed dozens of little pockets inside, each holding a piece of Heaven, or Hell, considering where you wanted to go.
“I only have ten dollars,” I said. He stared at me – looking into those orange eyes was like staring into the sun.
“Not a problem, kiddo.”
As the wind howled, he pulled out a little baggie of white powder and handed it to me. I gave him a ten-dollar bill, but he declined it.
“No need,” he said. “Consider this a public service.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You will soon.”
With that, he was gone – to where, I don’t know. As quickly as he appeared to me, he descended back into the shadows of that labyrinth of city streets and alleyways.
When I arrived back home, I tasted my goods, sending me into a spasm of ecstasy as good as any orgasm I ever had. I slept like a baby cradled to his mother’s breast.
I awoke at noon.
I peered into the mirror in the bathroom and, astounded, I saw two fiery orange eyes glaring back at me, and varicose veins surrounding my eye sockets.
A public service: one soul-snatcher infecting a whole city.