Strongblood walked to the incinerator with purpose, the heavy bundle of refuse slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He tossed it into the roaring flames with a grunt. The fire answered instantly, flaring up with a violent whoosh that sent a wave of scorching heat washing over them both. The cloistered air turned blistering hot in seconds. Thick black smoke billowed upward, carrying the stench of burning flesh and something chemical that clung to the back of the throat and refused to leave. He stood a few feet back, the heat pressing against his scarred face like an open flame.
Strongblood returned and stood face-to-face with him, his hard, weathered features softening slightly in the dancing orange light.
“You need to loosen up, man. Right now, if I shoved a penny up your ass, you’d squeeze out copper wire.” He chuckled deeply, the sound rolling over the crackle of the flames. From his jacket pocket, he produced a joint, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with a quick flick of his Zippo. He took a long, slow drag, holding it deep before exhaling a thick, sweet-smelling cloud. “Here… this’ll mellow you out. Take a hit.”
The caretaker—Greene—hesitated. His scarred face twitched as old memories surfaced: nights that had ended in blackouts and regret. “I… I don’t know if that’s cool.” He glanced around the boiler room, looking nervously, shadows leaping wildly with the fire.
“For fuck’s sake, nobody’s watching. We’re completely alone down here. Partake.”
He took the joint with calloused fingers and inhaled. The smoke scorched his lungs. He coughed violently, doubling over as tears streamed down his ruined face. He hadn’t touched the stuff in years.
“Good, huh?” Strongblood grinned, teeth flashing white against the firelight. “Guatemalan red. Premium shit.” He took another deep pull, the tip glowing bright orange, then passed it back.
This time, he held it better, letting the smoke sit deep until his head felt light and floating. When he exhaled, a warm, pleasant heaviness spread through his body like liquid gold. The constant bone-deep aches from years of hard living began to fade. The ever-present tension in his shoulders eased. For the first time since meeting the man, he saw Strongblood in a different light—not just crude and loud, but strangely magnetic, alive in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. The joint passed back and forth several more times as conversation began to flow more easily than it ever had. The weed loosened tongues and lowered guards that had been up for years.
“Sorry to come off like such a hard-ass,” Strongblood said after a while, staring into the flames. “But I really value my solitude. People usually just complicate shit.”
“Me too,” he replied, his voice softer than usual.
“It’s not that I hate people. It’s just most of them don’t know shit. They talk and talk but say nothing real. You know what I mean?”
“I do. Completely.”
“Yeah, I could tell just by looking at you. That face has stories.” Strongblood finished the roach and flicked the remains into the fire. “So… what happened to it? The scars, I mean. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool.”
He stayed silent. The old trauma stirred despite the numbing haze.
“Don’t want to talk about it? Fair enough. Talking’s overrated anyway.”
Energized, Strongblood attacked another pile of mangled flesh and bone. Midway through, he paused and regarded him with something closer to compassion than disgust. “You know, burning these hellions gives you a real sense of bliss. Like you’re purifying the world, ridding it of evil one abomination at a time. Want to try?”
Despite the voice screaming warnings in the back of his mind, he nodded. He took the pitchfork, drove its tines deep into the nearest mound—feeling the sickening give of tissue—and hurled the mass into the blazing maw. The heat singed his eyebrows as the flames roared higher, consuming the thing with a wet, crackling sound. They worked side by side in a strange, stoned camaraderie until the final pile was reduced to ash and acrid smoke. He stepped back, watching from a distance, a twisted mix of horror and unexpected catharsis swirling inside him.
***
A week later, a loud, persistent knock shattered the silence of the old building. He froze in his small quarters, fork poised over a plate of lukewarm pasta. He hoped the visitor would leave. The knocking only grew louder, more demanding, echoing through the empty halls.
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With a sigh, he stabbed the fork into the pasta and went to answer it. It was Strongblood, grinning like he owned the world, a ridiculous red Santa hat tilted on his head.
“They’re gone,” the exterminator announced with his trademark smirk. “The snakes. Driven out of Eden and into the sea, courtesy of me.”
“Wow. That’s… great news.”
“Calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”
“I guess…”
“So what are you doing right now?”
“Having supper.”
“Supper?” Strongblood checked his watch dramatically. “It’s nearly midnight, brother.”
“I keep strange hours.”
“You know what night it is?”
“Monday?”
“No, dumb-ass—it’s Christmas Eve!”
“No shit?”
“I shit you not. So come on up for some eggnog and get in the spirit. This is my last night here. I’m gone at first light.”
He didn’t respond right away. Part of him craved the solitude he’d grown used to, but another part—the one still buzzing from their last encounter—felt the dangerous pull of company.
“I even got you a gift.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Too late now.” Strongblood’s grin widened. “Finish your dinner first. I’ve got some things to set up—to get us in the proper Christmas mood. Triple X, if you catch my drift…”
***
An hour later, he found himself stoned again and sinking deep into Strongblood’s plush leather sofa. The luxury suite had been transformed into something surreal. Tacky multicolored Christmas lights were strung haphazardly across the ceiling and walls, blinking in chaotic patterns that clashed violently with the elegant dark wood and minimalist furniture. A bubbling lava lamp on the side table threw slow-moving blobs of red and purple light across the room. The whole scene felt dreamlike, hypnotic, wrong. But the man would be leaving tomorrow. This chaos was temporary.
“Do me a favor—open my trunk. I’m busy in here,” Strongblood called from the kitchen, glasses clinking.
He lifted the heavy lid of the old steamer trunk. Instead of any foul odor, he was met with the comforting, musty smell of old vinyl. “Wow.”
“The soundtrack of my life, bro. Pick one.”
“You choose. You’re the expert.”
“Alright. Grab Sun 267. The 78s—the small ones. S-U-N, two-six-seven.”
“Got it.”
“Spin it on the RCA. There’s a record player in every damn suite.” Strongblood emerged and dropped the needle. Wild, pounding honky-tonk piano and raw, manic vocals filled the room—Jerry Lee Lewis in all his frenzied glory.
A girl wrapped only in a white towel entered from the bedroom, skin still damp, long dark hair falling over striking Native features, and an athletic, honed body. “What the hell is this?” she asked, grimacing.
“Jerry Lee Lewis, baby! The Killer himself!”
She wrinkled her nose. “Gives me the creeps!”
“Then you pick something!” Strongblood laughed and vanished back into the kitchen. When he returned with drinks, the girl took a sip and smiled playfully.
“Do I get some sugar for all my hard work?”
She pulled him in for a deep, lingering kiss. The towel slipped dangerously low before she caught it with a giggle.
Strongblood led him into the kitchen. Two glasses of red liquid waited. He took a cautious sip. “Kool-Aid?”
“We’ve got something better.” Strongblood produced a small bag, dropped a white pill into his palm, and swallowed his own. He stared at it for a long moment, then did the same. What the hell—one night.
“Baby, why don’t you have any Madonna?” the girl called.
“Madonna? That cunt? Hell no!” Strongblood stormed back out, voice rising. “There’s real music here—music with soul, with balls! Not that plastic pop shit!”
The argument escalated fast. The girl grew genuinely frightened as he loomed over her. “Jesse… you’re scaring me. You look like you want to kill me.”
“Shit, sorry baby.” His voice softened instantly, but something dark lingered in his eyes. “I just get passionate. I want to protect you from all the fake crap out there.”
***
“So? What do you think of her?” Strongblood asked. They were seated on the sofa, higher than kites. The girl passed out on the floor.
“She’s a little young.”
“She’s twenty-five. And like you, she’s got an old soul. Been through shit.”
“Is she okay? She’s just lying there now…”
“She’s fine. Constitution of a horse. It’s mostly an act—she’s a natural actress. Gonna be the next Hypatia Lee.”
“Who?”
“Biggest Native star in porn right now. Smart, talented, pioneering. This girl’s going even further with my guidance. The industry’s evolving fast. To make real money these days, you have to go extreme. Most girls won’t cross certain lines, but she will do anything. So stop being a pussy and enjoy it.”
He swallowed hard, arousal and deep unease churning together as the room tilted pleasantly. “Okay… what now?”
“Get the soft rope from the trunk.”
He rose unsteadily. He returned to the steamer trunk, hands trembling slightly as he rummaged past the records and closed his fingers around the coil of soft black rope. The weight of it felt heavier than it should. A chill ran down his spine that the high couldn’t quite kill.
***
October 31, 2007
He woke in the late afternoon, tangled in his own bedsheets, heavy curtains drawn tight against the daylight. His head throbbed with a dull, chemical hangover. On the dresser sat his wallet and keys, exactly where he always left them. His stomach rumbled violently—he hadn’t eaten in what felt like days. How long had he been out? Hours? A full day? More?
He sat up slowly, the room spinning. He checked his cash. Everything was there—nothing missing. But the gaps in his memory felt like black holes.
Still in yesterday’s clothes, he took the elevator up to the sixth floor and knocked on Jesse’s suite. No answer. After several more tries, growing unease tightening his chest, he used the master key.
The place had been completely vacated. No lava lamp. No steamer trunk. No trace of the wild party. It had been cleaned meticulously—spotless, sterile, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner. Not a single empty bottle, stray Christmas light, or ashtray remained. Not even a bill for the Exterminator’s services.
Reminder Note to take the poll (copy-paste ready for RR):
Hey readers! Quick reminder—don’t forget to vote in the poll below! It takes two seconds and seriously helps me know what’s landing with you guys so I can steer the next chapters the way you want. Appreciate you all! ??
What really happened during Greene’s blackout / lost time?
