Phantoms Among Justice

IV - The Difference Between Mirages and Fantasy

He was smoking a cigarette, painting a picture. It was that of a tremendous battle, between a lion and a pack of wolves. Other wolves lie dead on the cold ground, while the lion stood proud. He was almost finished with the picturesque, the lions massive claw was striking a pouncing wolf, while one was sneaking up on him. The lion was sure to die, but he was determined in his plight. There was only one problem, no blood. The artist threw his paintbrush. "Damnit!" He heard a knock at the door. "Hold on! Chrissakes..." he answered the door to see two men, clad in what once was a black suit, now bloody and torn. "David, Qeuntin... good to see you. As one would say at this occasion, it's been far too long." Santiago huffed.

He broke the chain on the door and walked in. "Hm, how crude. May I offer any of you two gentleman a refreshment?" Vic nodded, he stood while Santiago sat down. "What will it be then?" He said. "Coffee. Got any coffee?" He went to his modest kitchen, and poured Vic a cup of coffee. "On a general principle, I make a fresh pot every week or so, regardless of surplus." Vic nodded. "Please, have a seat. Tell me, how's my dear brother doing?" Santiago shook his head, and looked at Vic as though he should tell him. "Well... Pety's dead." He nodded, and sat down. "I know that I should be more sentimental, heartbroken if you will. But alas, I've been preparing myself for this day for a very long time. I assume you, of all people, understand my cause for doing so." Vic looked at Santiago, and he shrugged his shoulders.

Santiago was looking around, the apartment was very modest. The Artist lived in a small town in California. Joci, was the name. The Artist had a name, but refused to disclose it. When Vic and Santiago wanted to ridicule him, they called him Jesus. He shared a resemblance with the biblical figure, he had long dark blonde hair, and he usually wore a white robe. "I've come to collect on a debt..." Vic shuddered as Santiago spoke. The Artist raised an eyebrow. "Speak, my child. What is it that you want of me?" The Artist said. Santiago laughed as he lit a cigarette. "You remember about me makin' bet with you? Givin' you my car? Well... Vic's blew up, ya see. I want it back." The Artist slowly nodded. "I will give you it, for it never became of any use for me. But, Quid Pro Qou, my child. I want something... something that you can very easily obtain. The very word, it sickens me to the core. I need blood. Fresh blood. A quart of it will do." Santiago looked confused. "It is for my newest painting. I could never find a color to represent the blood in the painting, but blood itself? It has a certain color that cannot be replicated." Vic nodded.

"When do you need it?" Santiago asked. "Very soon, child. For I need to finish it. I feel that it will become my masterpiece. Obtain it, while my muse is still with me." The Artist replied. Santiago and Vic nodded. The Artist was very much like his brother, Pety. Other than physicalities, where Pety was scrawny and short, The Artist was a rather lanky man. He would be respected, if he had given anybody his name. The Artist had an identical intelligence quotient as Pety. The Artist was very wise, and he found himself being called upon anytime Vic or Santiago had mental troubles. He helped them, monetary regardless.

They exited the soothing apartment, and went for The Artist's quart of blood. Vic was rather troubled with this task. He didn't kill anybody unless they didn't fit his definition of a man. Santiago was far from his definition of a man, but Santiago was different. He had no courtship or children, and De'Addison was his only means of long-term commitment. He, without hesitation, killed anybody who wasn't within his means of Manhood. You be kind, gentle with others, and give all you have. Do not take anything that isn't compensated upon you. You do not harm your loved ones. You, however, do harm anybody who does so. It is my code. He didn't think he would find anybody like that in a town like Joci. "Where do you think we should start?" Vic asked. Santiago walked for a moment, as he was thinking. "Well... in my experience Christians have been the most crude. They think jus' cause they go to church and blabber their problems to a complete stranger that their forgiven. And they go there every Sunday. What's that tell ya?" Vic thought this stereotype was unbelievably ignorant, but however, a small part of it was truth.