Into the Light

Chapter 29

Chapter: 29

The spears of winter rain: from every wind

He has made himself secure-from all but

One;

O clear intelligence, force beyond all measure!

O fate of man, working both good and evil!

When the laws are kept, how proudly his city

Stands!

When the laws are broken, what of his city

Then?

Chorus proclamation, Antigone by Sophocles.

The car idles on the desert road outside Las Vegas and Blake smokes one of his last unfiltered camels waiting for Stiggy to get back with the food from the gas/convenience/station/store. The smoldering nub is flicked into the sand pile by the curb as Stiggy walks back with an arm full of snacks and a tabloid newspaper. He slams the door as he tumbles inside in a heap.

"Got to quite smoking. Hey Stiggy, the plan has changed. A vision came to me so we need your friends again. And another thing, Darius concerns me. I still don't feel right about him going the entire way back to DC with us. But right now, I need for you to get venom, freeze dried," Blake says.

"Of what a scorpion? A spider?" asks Stiggy.

"Tyger burns bright in the forest of my memory so no arachnids. The venom isn't plentiful enough anyway. I think snakes, sea snakes should work. In powder form if possible."

"But why venom?"

"Daydreamed Constantine as a marble bust that cried bloody tears. A voice told me her body is rock and only poison will crack it and her will. Neuro-toxins will forge of the last confession," Blake says.

"That's like the third vision you've had since we left L.A. You sure you can trust them?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. You know getting close to a producer is one thing but a Senator is another," Stiggy says.

"It's all in the delivery. I won't need to be close to initiate the change. All will be revealed."

"I think we should stay in Henderson, instead of near the casinos downtown," Stiggy says.

"I already have a place off just south of the airport. Who would have thought that the airport is right in the middle of this place. No one tells you that the Strip, East Tropicana and East Sunset practically surround it. Let's go," Blake says. Stiggy searches around his seat and looks up.

"Wow it's fucking hot. Fucking summer hot, like hot that kills the elderly. And bright, like snow blind bright, it hurts just to close my eyes. Hey, have you seen my pen?" Stiggy asks. Blake shakes his head and they pull onto the flat stretch of highway.

At the wheel of a convertible Mini-Cooper, Darius grips tight and the smile on his face transforms into the expression of an impending sneeze as Exile's head bobs up and down in his lap. He doesn't sneeze. Down East Russell south of Tropicana near the heart of Lost Vegas, as Darius has grown to call it, they cruise through the dessert air that envelops the city of mirrors and neon lights. Signs on the tops of cabs have photos of the newest burlesque stars and Greyhound buses filled with gray haired people wanting to get one last thrill clog the intersections. Darius doesn't care if they see or not. All you can eat buffets flank the traffic. Pit bosses and dealers smoke cigarettes on the way to their next shift. They stand out on the sidewalks cluttered with tourists in cheap t-shirts and cheaper sandals. The Minion, the Bellagio, the MGM Grand, The Wynn, all vie for the wads of cash bulging in the pockets of those who think they are special. They can beat the odd. But the house, hidden away in offices only Whales get to see, knows better as they watch the monitors in the cash rooms where industrial money counters hiss out cash in neat stacks.