CREAN

1

DEAFENING BASS RIFFS OVERLAPPED A DARK, ELECTRONIC SYNTHESIZER ON A nameless club track within the OverCast, a crowded nightclub. The nightclub’s owner, a greasy fella named Vincent Russo, always cranked the music obnoxiously loud at the beginning of his shifts. And due to this booming music, once closing time came around and all of Mr. Russo’s paying customers left the sanctuary of the OverCast, none of them would be able to hear anything. Not a thing. Not even the front door opening. 

Crean, an elderly gentleman who had entered the OverCast, seemed to be the only living soul visibly annoyed by the constant bombardment of stimuli presented by the nightclub’s unsavory atmosphere. He might have even gone as far as to complain to management about the music, that is, if Crean intended to remain inside the club for a decent amount of time. He didn’t.

No. Simply in and out, thought Crean as he continued to walk down one of the nightclub’s hallways. The hallway he traveled down had glass mirrors that made up both sides of the walls, ceiling too. (And, if one were to study the shifting sight in the reflective surfaces, one might notice that Crean moved with the elegance of a highly skilled contortionist, each limp slightly out of place causing a subtle rattling of bones with each step he made). No one else occupied this stretch of hallway. Just Crean and his macabre reflection. 

A few more feet forward, and Crean could see that there was a sign written in the large-scale print at the end of the hall. It said: EMPLOYEES ONLY. The sign might as well have said: COME ONE, COME ALL, because Crean, who was certainly no employee, would enter this room. Such an action would be non-negotiable. He had come too far to admit defeat to an inanimate object—especially not to a store-bought, mass-produced sign like the one attached to the door in front of him. 

And after a few bare-knuckle knocks against the cold metallic door, a fatigued voice called out from within the sealed room. "The door is unlocked."

A second later and the door had creaked open, revealing harsh, bright neon lights which traced the room from corner to corner, leaving the room partially glowing. Green neon so dense and alive that it gave the illusion of toxicity to the rest of the room. A male voice inside the greenish room spoke. "Please shut the door—I can hear the music—I can’t handle that type of noise right now." 

"Of course," replied Crean. Cordially. Then he headed towards an empty chair. 

Once Crean sat down, the man behind the desk had readjusted his position, sitting up straight. Observing. Perhaps this man noticed that Crean’s once dull emerald eyes shined bright like a blood moon that had been injected with venom while borrowing the room’s neon glow. Or that his hair was a mop of snow-white, scraggly strands brushing against his shoulders, as thin as the veins on his bone-thin arms. Or maybe it was the spotted skin that looked loosely secured to his thin frame, leaving more bone than meat. No, the man sitting on the other side of the desk had most definitely noticed that Crean’s posture seemed painful to maintain; joints never seemed to stop crying out in almost silent protest, a mere whisper of discomfort—producing an unnerving, unnatural sound with each step. 

Creak!

2

"Mr. Russo is fine, I presume?" asked Crean, staring forward at the muscle-bound man on the other side of a black, metallic desk. 

Vincent Russo nodded. He was a brutish man in his early thirties with tattoos that took up every square inch of his skin—even Vincent’s hairless head; a crucifix loosely dangled around his neck that bore a resemblance to a mirroring tattoo that showed through a semi-transparent white button-up. "But names matter very little to me," said Vincent, somewhat verbally answering Crean’s question as the tattooed gentlemen dismissed the notion with a wave of his gigantic hand."Business, however, I am more than open to discuss at great lengths. And I have heard you come to me with a business proposition. So please let us hear it!" 

Crean smiled. "Very well, straight to business!" Crean then removed something from his coat. It was a pocket watch. The antique pocket watch rested in a ghostly white hand belonging to Crean as he added, "and, here I was afraid that a holy man such as yourself might not do business on a Sunday!" 

Vincent took a second before he spoke, perhaps fact-checking the day of the week in his head, then said, "anyone worth his weight in this business knows that we don’t take days off… Sundays included." There was a hint of disdain in Vincent’s voice for the first time in this conversation, but not towards Crean—not yet, at least. 

"What about all of those rules?"

"Huh?" 

Further instigating, Crean replied, "Sunday is the lord’s day, after all!" 

Vincent let out a soft chuckle and then said: "Well, some rules are meant to be broken, my friend. And I am sure God will find a way to forgive me. Repent, and all is forgiven, so the good book says!" As the final word had left Vincent’s mouth, the monster of a man had brought the Christ-like figure dangling on a silver chain to his lips; Vincent kissed it.

A sinner dressed up as a priest, thought Crean as he rotated in his chair, absorbing the rest of the room. His surroundings were lackluster. There were no framed paintings from a single world-renowned painter; no bear-skin rugs fashioned from a nearly extinct member of the Urisdean family; no first edition books with yellowing, archaic pages. None of that. Just a plain leather sofa, a coffee table with cocaine residue, and an excessively large plasma TV. Wealth most certainly wasted.

Vincent Russo grabbed Crean’s attention and pushed the conversation forward by saying, "but I believe God has brought you here for a reason, so tell me: What have you come to offer?" 

Crean had rotated back around, facing the desk again as he spoke. "God has surely brought us together for a reason; perhaps the reason for the trip was to see the wonder that is the Overcast. I’m amazed your club isn’t considered to be one of the Seven Wonders of the World." 

"I am a busy man..."—they were both looking directly into each other’s eyes—"...I suggest you skip the pleasantries and get to the point." Only half of Vincent’s face dared to dip into the room’s neon glow as he spoke. And after speaking, a set of white teeth stared back at Crean; however, Vincent’s smile was bathed in the same emerald nightmare that the rest of the room was. Toxic. Vile. 

Crean smirked. "Let me ask you something…" 

"If you must, go on, ask your question." 

"...Do you believe in Destiny, Mr. Russo? Not the cheesy kind of Destiny that dictates that lovers fall in love when all the odds are stacked against them… what do they call them: The Star-Crossed Lovers. No, not that type of Destiny. A far more simplistic approach, moments in our life are meant to happen, no matter how minuscule or gigantic. For better or worse, there are moments in our lives that we can not change any more than we can change the date of our deaths. We all follow in footsteps laid out by someone else, trying our best not to trip over our own feet." 

Vincent shook his head (too tired to think abstractly) as he said, "my friend, we talk business or nothing at all. Is that clear?" 

"My apologies, Mr. Russo." Crean bowed his head in shame for a second or two, then came back up smiling. "I can tell without a doubt that you are a busy man, so I’ll cut to the chase… funny, all I have to do is look around, and I can already tell that you have built an empire that even Genghis Khan would undoubtedly envy, Mr. Russo. You are an undeniable man of business. As am I! Sadly, my line of work deals in items that are perhaps... less tangible? What is it they say people trade for fame, fortune, maybe even a drug empire? Would you be interested in such a product, Mr. Russo?"

"Admittedly, I am lost, my friend." Vincent rubbed at his bald head as if he was shining a bowling ball. "How can I sell a product I can’t touch? What is this drug you are talking about?"

"I am not talking about drugs!" Crean rolled up the sleeves of his ill-fit dress-shirt. Each veiny forearm had a snake's head tattooed into the wrinkly skin; the fangs appeared all but flaccid—for now. "No, I am talking about a soul, Mr. Russo." 

"A what?"

"The very life-force within all of our chests, the God-given gift that each and every human on God’s green Earth has." Crean pointed at Vincent’s chest, right near his heart.

Frustrated, Vincent replied: "You mean to ask me to buy a soul?" 

"No, I mean to ask you to sell one!"

"To who?" Judgemental eyes glared forward. "You?"

"Perhaps…"

"I am a holy man and have no further time for these childish games you wish to continue to play, I warned you twice now, and I am running out of patience." Vincent took a deep breath then added, "do you have something actually worth my time or not?"

"Rest assured, this is no game!" Crean bared his teeth at Vincent. "But, I would never demand such a verboten thing from you, Mr. Russo!" Because sell it or not, your soul is going to the same place, mused Crean while he licked his lips, lips displaying tell-tale signs of old age. Cracking. Peeling. Not for much longer… 

Anger was skyrocketing in Mr. Russo’s face. Red. Glaring eyes. "Stop this nonsense! Get to the point, or get the fuck out of my office!" 

Crean ignored him; instead, adding: "You know when I was growing up, my mother always used to say ‘be a good boy and tell no lies, or you’ll be a dead boy with two fewer eyes.’ Quite silly, I know. An old nursery tale that was made with the sole purpose of scaring children into behaving. Yet, I must admit, it always worked wonders on me. Even if she always said it in a defunct language that I barely knew." Crean paused. "Latin. Dead… just like my sweet mother." 

Time was almost up; only one minute left to go.

Crean continued: "I always found it funny how we curb children’s bad behavior with the threat of violence. But, you are no child, I fairly presume, Mr. Russo?" A crackling sound rang out as Crean readjusted in his chair, leaning back; each subtle shift in bodily position caused a reverberating effect, leaving the noise to linger in the back office. 

Vincent didn’t reply and wore a look of interchanging rage and confusion on his face as he said, "We are not here to discuss me; I suggest you take your mother’s advice and do not lie to me. You seek my time but squander it on nursery rhymes and try to offer me something I can not sell. Why have you come if not to waste my fucking time?" 

Crean’s lips twisted into a smile. "Admittedly, I came to see you, of course, Mr. Russo."

"To do nothing more than waste my time!" 

Crean’s smile grew wider and wider, and dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, you name it, all these were released in truckloads—straight into the bloodstream—unnatural amounts, intoxicating amounts. "Perhaps that is the truth… perhaps not." 

Dismissively, Mr. Russo said,"I am afraid God has brought you here to test my patience." He then sighed before adding, "I will have you know, the last man who wasted my time found his life cut short. Luckily for you, you played this fool’s game on a day I feel too tired to deal with you properly. Leave now and consider yourself lucky, you senile old man!" The sleepy man had been noticeably rejuvenated, out of his chair even while he screamed at Crean—gesturing him out the door with such violent tenacity. 

Time was nearly up by now—another few seconds remained in the allotted five minutes. 

But leaving wasn’t an option for Crean; instead, he hungrily stared at Vincent Russo. 

3

An intrusive sound interrupted the visual stand-off between Crean and Mr. Russo; a loose rattlesnake thrashed around on the desk, shaking it; the commotion came from the pocket watch. 

And, as if alerted (somehow) by the pocket watch, the snake-like figures that were tattooed into Crean’s arms seemed to come alive, slithering on his skin. Fangs were visible and were bathed in the room’s poisonous glow. Venomous. If one were to stare long enough at the serpents swimming across Crean’s forearms, one might be able to tell that these two snakes appeared to be hungry—and, worse than that? They seemed capable of falling off Crean’s skin, separating from the body, becoming truly alive. But such was just a fever dream of an idea… never actually possible. 

And, if possible, Vincent would never believe it. No. Never. 

There was something else Vincent wouldn’t believe: The man in front of him never seemed to blink. No, that was impossible—the bar owner was just sleep-deprived—everyone blinked—common sense told him so. 

But the room’s green tint must have been playing tricks on Vincent’s delirious mind, too; he thought he saw a greenish liquid cascading out of Crean’s mouth like a small amount of drool. If only it were spittle… no, Vincent wouldn’t (or couldn’t) believe that was real, either.

"This isn’t real!" cried out Vincent Russo. 

Crean frowned then said, "Mr. Russo, if God planned this next part of your life for you, I am afraid he must not like you too much because—"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE!" 

Crean stood up, rolled his shoulders, and then took a single, long stride forward—towards Vincent—Crean’s mouth still ajar. He was still dripping that strange, toxic substance. 

You aren’t going to like this next part, Mr. Russo, thought Crean as his wrinkly fingers fumbled for the watch out in the background—never breaking eye contact—knuckles cracked as Crean grasped the watch and, oddly enough, reset it. 

The watch was once more put down on the desk. 

Then Crean began to slowly unbutton his dress shirt, revealing a green-colored, serpent-like deep-sea creature with its mouth—stretched open as wide as possible—had been tattooed into Crean’s skin, leading up the entire length of Crean’s chest. The tattoo stopped at Crean’s throat. The creature’s jaws rested below his Adam’s apple; razor-sharp teeth were upright and lining the collar-bones. Ready on a moment's notice to shred up anything shoved down the throat like a heavy-duty paper shredder. 

Or garbage disposal. 

"No!" Vincent blinked profusely. "This isn’t real! It can’t be!"

"I assure you, Mr. Russo," Crean lifted the sagging skin on his bone-thin arms, pinching it. "I am quite real." 

The mood officially shifted. Vincent grew frightened (and for a man his size, this was a rare occurrence). "This is not my destiny!" Vincent Russo shook his oversized head. "NO, NO, NO!"

The tattoo-less skin on Crean’s throat had developed a slight glow (the light emitted internally, as if there was a lightbulb inside of this throat or a poisonous sack) as Crean said, "perhaps it doesn't play out like this, Vincent…."

"I’m sorry! I’ll give this all up." Vincent Russo shuffled around in the desk drawer directly underneath him, the entire shape of his hand disappearing out of sight. When his hand came back up, Vincent held one of the baggies of cocaine. "Scared straight! I’ll never sell again! God’s word!" 

"Oh?"

"Yes, I know God has brought you here for me to change my ways; I see this now!"  

"Hmm, perhaps I should just walk out the very door I entered through?" Crean turned around, pointing at the door he was invited in through mere moments ago. 

"Yes, you have veered me off the wicked path I was walking." There was an undeniable amount of sincerity in Vincent’s voice. "Your job here is done."

"And what exactly do you think my job is?" Don’t play with your food too much. 

Vincent said something generic; Crean wasn’t in the mood to listen anymore. 

Crean had already turned back around—facing the desk—he took another inhumanely long step forward. Creak!

"Lucius!" Vincent’s words trembled and were in a much higher pitch than before, his voice cracking with what must have been Grade-A fear. "LUCIUS!" The club’s music continued to drown out any sound coming from within the back office. "UNCLE! GET IN HERE!"

Lucius would never hear Vincent; there would be no interlopers. 

Vincent Russo appeared to frantically search for the gun he probably kept in the desk drawer. The shuffling of paper, endless bags of cocaine, and other random items within the drawer had muted Crean’s sudden approach. Fiery panic ignited in Vincent’s eyes as he looked up and saw that fangs jutted from what used to be a normal man’s jaw. Fangs that preceded effortlessly to pierce the nape of Vincent’s neck. Two small incisions were no more prominent than the holes leftover from a bee sting or hypodermic needle. "Sadly, there is no such thing as God’s plan… only something far, far much worse—" 

Vincent grabbed at his throat—trying to release some closed-off internal valve from the outside. Vincent’s hands then proceeded to flail and attempt to establish a grip onto any surface they could reach. Both actions were futile attempts at controlling an uncontrollable situation—mankind’smost significant flaw.  

Crean walked over to where Vincent lay, bending his malleable body in an unnatural shape of an upside-down L (to match eye-level), and then spoke, "I will not lie to you as my mother taught me all those years ago…" Crean watched the fossilized terror on Vincent’s face, immensely enjoying the sight. "...You are going to die, Mr. Russo. Take solace in knowing it always ended this way, and please, don’t take any personal offense. A man’s gotta eat!" 

Then Crean realigned the bones in his body, but only for a second or two.

Before long, Crean’s jaw had dislocated entirely, creating an opening— 

Before long, the life-like teeth tattooed on Crean’s elongated torso seemed to whirl alive like drill bits, waiting—

Before long, Crean began to swallow Vincent Russo whole… FINALLY.

4

Once done with all of that, a tingling sensation of warmth could be felt within Crean’s torso. The heat could best be described as an internal, fierce supernova that had restarted a dead galaxy. Restoring life. To quote a madman: “IT'S ALIVE!” But only for now. Soon the dying sun within Crean’s chest would burn-out, ushering back in the cold that belonged more to the outer edge’s of deep space. Crean knew how to restore the broken furnace inside himself, sure-fire way to regain his fleeting moments of warmth. 

He would need to keep eating.  

Thankfully, he could taste someone already—just on the tip of his tongue.  

Someone who was far, far away. A thousand miles or more perhaps. 

So, with a full belly, Crean left the OverCast and started walking—towards his next meal. 

"Left foot."

"Right foot…"