The Devil's Kennel

Chapter 2 - The Butterfly Effect

   'Need a light?' The winged creature eats a limestone above Patches and flickers his flint nails forth flame from the edges of his first two fingers. The punk below irritated of the silhouette lapsing his vision to blur 'No and stop hovering. You're making me nauseous.' he says in a belligerent manner in likeness to how smashed he was the night before. Batting at his feet covered in ash and sod. The entity berated shouts 'Fuck, I'm down. I'm down!' The spiked hair punk named Patches feeling sloshed beyond slush ignores the inexplicable bipedal, as he would anyone else. To him he's just another blurred face that matches the rest.
    It barks 'Just an offer. Thought you were a smoker.' Swooping down beside him he walks alongside in a casual manner, putting his hands in his pockets, 'What are you doing here, why here? Looks like a landfill.' Seemingly calm, Patches replies in curt to the blur 'There's a pub near here. Far enough away from the haven of people's comfortable nooks, so the bands don't have to worry about the sound of their amplifiers.' He says as the devil notices the lack of any brand on his clothing. Patches tweaks his neck because of a scratch he doesn't know he has yet. 'Also not a lot of foot traffic, especially cops.'
    'Oh, were going to a venue!' The green blur exclaims anticipating a revelry. His pupils thicken to the size of hockey pucks, blinks twice and starts analyzing the now excitable surroundings. Forming a smile on his face. 'What kind of music is at the venue?'
    Crawling from the back of his mind to his almost foregone knowledge to the front and foremost, surface reality. Only ever described as such by Patches, as it is best defined as awareness. In a mere cache of seconds he catches a glimpse of the being's eyes, the pupils moving in hypnotic fashion, rocking Patches into an oscillating back and forth nightmare of the streetlights above, pop. A streetlight goes out. Veering off the path, the punk stumbles to the gutter and throws up.
  Maybe he can help? A quiet voice in his head offers a suggestion. 'What the blur?' mumbling under his breath, 'A touch to dark to help me with this vortex.' He spits out what's left of the bad taste in his mouth. In disdain, he knows the blur is just a shape he can't staple into a coherent image. A twinge of guilt for his sordid attitude towards most and many.
    Losing sense of being but not unnerved by it. He's been use to the feeling. Stepping back onto the cold concrete with his partially duct taped shoes, not fully covered. Pop, another streetlamp goes out. So does the gauge in the Punk's head, harrowingly spinning out and missing a shard of glass close to nicking the throat. The little creature amused by the punk's best attribute, the luck he is unaware of.
  Another light exceeds amperage, raining down sparks and thick green pasted glass, shoving Patches back into the state. The silhouette punches his solar plexus, he gasps for air. Winded. Just about to regain the ability to breathe the conscientious entity slams his neck at the right moment. Fighting for air as if he's about to become hypoxic the insidious help of the bat like Devil tells him without consideration for his free will 'Here, feel twinge.' The ominous voice then blows the green dust from his palm and ignites the chemical from the smashed light-bulb. The young punk has no choice than take a breath of the smoke blown out and towards his face.
  Mugging up his eyes like cigarette smoke, he shakes and forcefully exhales in a futile attempt to rid the chemical from his lungs. Unknowing of the benefits of the shadow's intention.
  The smoke impressed a numbing agent upon his weary eyes, improving his skin and showing a more healthy version of the life he'd been living. His mind alleviated and calm, he hadn't felt this way for a long time.
  Awareness of the strange species standing in front him, kicked in. Disconcerting him till he turns, sheltering his shiv from sight, duct taped shoe picking up gravel as his foot shifted against the ground. Then stopping abruptly under the light of a constant headache. Leaning back against the post, light headed. As if filled with helium. Barely crazed, tenacious and no audacity running rampant. Unmarred by impetuous nature. Energy usurped, he almost falls to his side as he slides down the post but before he could the alien surprised by his own empathy, he lifts the waster by the shoulders. The mind of Patches signals his hostility, slamming the bat's left hand against the brick wall and extends his right arm to the alien's neck using the tips of his fingers to break the breath of the bat. Pushing away the unknown genesis out of reach from doing anything of a similar nature. Adrenalized and poised to do something frantic an extreme amount of pressure is placed on his shoulder before his eyes could register, the righteously impetuous bipedal had placed his hand on the floor and broke his hand with a bat. Pushing his hand away, he clamps. Crippling the ability to move his right arm. Forced onto the sidewalk, his bones bruised. In a heap underneath the only light left on the street.
  That hasn't gone out? He thinks as his mind regains composure. Looking up at the magnificent creature standing above him, wings outstretched. The light bulb pops raining the green algae, bursting it into powder by ignition of electricity.
  Patches stutters, and Rev realizes that as the Devil he should be more foreboding exclaiming, 'We've met many a time before.' Offering out his hand, Patches doesn't think or even blink, 'I'll take it.' grabbing his three fingered hand with his left arm. 'When was the first time?' The subdued young punk stretching his right arm, wincing. 'I met you after you'd met me.' Patches looks at him in stone cold silence. 'It means.' Patches cuts him off 'I know what it fucking means.' Shaking off whatever incredulous answer he was going to give him. Use to answers that break all manners of sense. 'It sounds fucking stupid though.' The Devil abashed 'You're not a normal human being, you will one day be as close to infinite as a living being can be.'
    'No answers from you then, huh.'
   'That's more than anyone gets, punk.'
    Irritated by this green bipedal he launches into the current predicament, he may not care what he looks like but, 'Do something about the outfit, you'll freak people out.'
  The Devil's snout lifts and he snaps his fingers, enveloped by a cloak. 'This good?'
  'Fuck yeah, leather jacket.' He goes to touch and Rev slaps his hand. 'You'll break the image and the whole disguise will erupt in static.' Patches stunned for a moment, grits his teeth in discernment considering the mosh pit, spilt beer, onto and over his electrical overcoat.
Throwing away the thought, he remarks the concert is right around the corner. Heading off, the Devil can't help but chuckle, his right shoe squeaking with every step.
  'He's always going to be at the centre of the chaos.' He says under his breath.
  Astonished at the individual who seems so one dimensional. His real feats and the effect he will have on the masses are and will be unparalleled by anyone, save one or two.
    Arriving at the entrance, which seems to be a back alley. 'Why is there no front door?'
  'It's to beset the line into a few people gaining admittance. Rather than getting stormed by a bunch of punks, skinheads and rudeboys. "Funneling."
'Is your disguise going to match your ID?'
'This place is called the K Hole. I think it'll be fine.'
  'That camera there picks up your face and uses your ID card to verify you, man.'
  The Devil hesitates for a moment, then says 'Hey, I'm from the Filth & Merit. We're looking at all possible venues to deem the best experience amongst the nightlife of Nimi.'
    'Is that so?'
  'Top of the list. So if you could please direct me to the boss's office I'll fill him in on the details.'
    The bouncer still seems unsure. 'Alright, well. There is always Steel Grate or Anarchtica. Probably thrive off the wide circulation of that print media.'
  'Alright, alright.'
Waves him on through as Patches shows a collar flipped inside out as if he's already been admitted. 'That was easy. '
  'Your lie was way too much though. You know tonight's just a sound check. It'll be sparse here. 'Bouncer might,' Patches groans, 'Don't cause a commotion.' He says pointing to the far back tables. 'That's John Stone, the owner of Filth and Merit.'
   'What's with the smile?'

    'I'm going to help him get some more publicity for his little startup. It's not a lie if I follow through with it.'

    *

    'They don't really look like musicians. Raeyra points out. 'Why? Because they dress like common rabble?' refutes John. Raeyra grins 'We're not musicians.' She glances at the two near the back wall. 'Is that Fane?'

    Calu grimaces at the name drop. 'Oh, sure. They remember you.' he says ignoring the fact that it sounds crass. Fane smoothens his irritation over telling him that every drummer gets recognized. Stone likes your beats more than my electronica.'

    'Not when you're scratching, that's when all eyes turn to you.'

    <<

    John whispers to his compatriot in print media 'Let's corner them.'

    'No, we'll ask for a quick chat.'

    'That was candor.'

    'Sure it was.'

    Raeyra has high hopes for John's fanzine and for what all hope can be attained, well written articles. 'It's all G. It's gravy. I'm mashed potatoes about it.' John states aiming to bolster his feigned confidence on the matter, almost believing his own enthusiasm.

    Raeyra wares at the two, Fane beckons them over “Stay in that delightful stable manner for this conversation that your mom and I adore.”

    “Fuck, no.” John beleaguered by the notion, sloshing a pitcher down on the table and ranting on. “We would rather hear you raw than a made up mess covered by makeup.” Pouring a cup for the blogger. “How much money did you put into that drum kit?”

    Fane presses his leg, Calu’s eyes brighten in fake decorum. Quickly turning to a capricious smile and letting out a course laughter. Enough to of finished university.”

    Over at the bar, Snith asks the owner “How many artists on the docket for tomorrow night's open mic? They're isn't many here.” murmurs a hopeful kid far from home.

    “The kind of artists we get here don't care about sound checks. As long as its loud, they'll play,” explains Red duct taping a microphone as Gram reaches over the counter, and grabs a beer. Red says in stern “You know you're paying for that.”

    “Of course.” noticing the nonsensical owner use adhesive, “You've made two mistakes. The first being you detached the clip that holds the xlr cable in and the second is with the audacious musicians you have here. The feedback, will drive the this dive into the ditch.”

    “What am I supposed to do? The sound engineer is on acid.” points out the guy clearly tripping on the swirls of wild style graffiti on the back wall.

    In a moment of hesitance considering the difference between sobriety and not sober, he looks at the duct tape. “Clever.”

    “Quick.” Red says in prudence. “On the house.” slides a beer across the counter top.

    “Gram, fill him in.” the kid still shy, until. “Fucking Hell, man. Snith!” Gram's voice hoarse from the heavy cigarettes he'd been buying, slaps Snith on the shoulder, wreaking of smoke. “How did you even get here?” The timid teenager responds “I borrowed my dad's car. Gram compounded by the amount of shit Snith will be in when he gets home announces in acclaim, “You stole your Dad's car!” Snith shrugs at the outcome. “Well most of the band's here suck.”

    “Hey, fuck you.” yells the idiot known as Postal Punk. Throwing a bottle at his feet, the glass smashes up back into Gram's hand. “Fuck, fill him in.” stomps to the bathroom with blood trickling off his wrist. “Postal, your cut. Get out.”

    “We're still guaranteed a spot right?” The rest of the band's members nudge forward nervously. Red looks up, fuck. Looking at all the band members and says, ”Everyone, except him. I don't like the look of him.” The band chuckles. Overhearing this amidst his conversation with the two welter weights for this club's preeminent talent. Calu shifts his head and notices why this isn't inflammatory to the whole band, they're identical.”

    “Promise me will never have any kids.” Calu says in a manner more befitting his real name. Raeyra interjects, “What would you name your daughter?” Not thinking of the variable of a boy. “Ada” Calu says and Fane rolls up two fingers out of palm and cheerily tells Calu to suck it, “I knew you wanted kids!” John asks aloud out of indifference for the conversation, “They play without him, they still play the same shit?”