Resurrection

Chapter 17 : Murder by Numbers

I still felt the urge to recruit numbers. This was a rising addiction as I looked at troubled men from all points of life, not just the tribes of Israel. I was not preaching from on high like the peaks of Mount Sinai, yet still I felt a lofty position among the Homo sapiens- even if I was cloaked in anonymity at this point in time. The common lowest common denominator man hadn't evolved so much that I had garnered more respect for them- they were merely a bunch of festering apes that had learned a few more signs of communication- in fact, with all of the Beliebers, Selfies and memes that now smothered the educated world, I believed they had devolved.

I was back in the place Adam coined 'Le Casa de Excrementos', though I knew in my heart the correct pronunciation was: 'La casa de los excrementos'. I still admired his satire. Taking in the sights of this real estate blunder, I could understand the depression living here.

David was still working, so I took the privacy and opportunity to examine myself in the bathroom mirror. I could hear the rumblings of Czaba's snoring thundering from up the lofty staircase. It was at that point of the day when the Hungarian behemoth was perspiring in a deep slumber from having too many pain meds. Despite the snore soundtrack, I was enjoying the time to acquaint myself with the host body. I took in details like the love handles and the lack of bone structure in Adam's face. He thought it made him look unattractive but for me it was a beautiful sign because he could, or rather I, could blend into any burgeoning populace quite easily. A quick change in identity on paper wasn't too arduous, plus a few minor alterations to my personal disguise wouldn't be difficult either. A change of hair colour here, maybe a perfectly fashioned beard there. Thanks to the hipster look a man could blend into an army of clones or be better respected among the Islamic community. The list of options was liberating. Maybe I could be a Goth and apply some eyeliner, though that would make me stand out too much. Nevertheless, the urge to number among the Tim Burton fans was a little too amusing for someone like me. I wasn't really acquainted with his films or the modern Goth but I know my host had very strong opinions about them. My mind kept wandering back to the musings of Edgar Allan Poe and felt the need to start rapping at a certain chamber door.

There used to be a growing inflammation on Adam's left knee cap, the meagre beginnings of Osteo-arthritis which would occasionally shoot through a bolt of pain but with my resurrection and re-boot I gave his body the much needed repair job it deserved. Just like Wolverine, any scars, injuries or twisted nerve endings were suddenly removed. I didn't have Hugh Jackman's body but I liked the challenge of exercising and trimming the fat off this blank human canvass. The psyche of men would greet this little ritual with mixed reviews; some finding it vain or effeminate, while others would find this totally necessary. For me it was merely research and orientation. Speaking of which: I needed to get cracking on my-to do list.

Before I could imagine applying a facial moisturiser, I accessed more data. This involved skirting up the staircase into the loft. Yes, the one part of this shithole which was actually nice. It had space, proper lighting with a beautifully fashioned skylight and a teak desk which was covered over with sheets, magazines and the odd stick of gum. Csaba held onto it because he had been living here the longest. I noticed the pots and pans strewn about the floor which Adam had left out to prove a point that Csaba needed to wash up after himself.

His slovenly ways had not ended there. He had all sorts of wardrobe fillers left on his floor, an assortment of 'happy' tissues and various racing slips. I glided past without tripping on them before taking my place over the bed. In a sharp reflexive snap, I placed my hand over Czaba's mouth. His eyes peaked to attention and I remarked.

"You've been a bad boy Czaba. I need some information."

He went to yell out and brought his other hand round, which I promptly grabbed with my other spare hand and pinned it down. Such was my demonic strength; the reanimation of muscular cells which gave me power over this weak individual. My dominant hand choked down over Czaba's mouth "Try to fucking move or squirm and I'll snap this flabby neck like a piece of fish."

He got the message and startled to mumble out random vowel sounds.

"What?" I asked.

"Whattaya need?" He stammered.

"Lazlo's address and number." I demanded.

"The number is on card in my vollet." He pleaded.

"Don't vorry, I'll look in your 'vollet' zoon." I mocked before adding. " Now tell me where he lives?"

"Bishopgate st." He replied.

"Good... and the number... so I'm not wandering aimlessly here.."

"Twenty six. It has red door."

"Good. His passports: are they the quality I expect?"

"Vhat?" he asked. I choked down on his throat more before asking: "Are they good?"

"Yes."

"Well thank-you very much Czaba. You have been of valuable assistance."

"Can you let go?"

I brought my weight over his upper body, knees planted on his chest and hands shoved over his face. I crammed a few OxyContins down his throat and covered his mouth with a pillow. His throat bulged and his eyes started to pop as he began convulsing. Legs kicking out and arms flailing, trying to grab me, but again the downward force I was using was too much for him. Eyes were rolling and inhuman gasps were trying to force their way out of his blocked oesophagus.

"I want you to let go Czaba. You've led a life of slovenly bastardy. Trying to steal wallets, the drugs, the prostitutes, the gambling... I like my vices but I'm not even human like you... I'm really not on trial here... But you are."

His eyes widened as I clamped down harder. His last vital moments he would spend gagging and giving me the wtf face.

"One name to check off the list." I remarked.

His eyes stopped and the gurgling sounds ceased. His sphincter gave out and he filled his cino's.

I felt elated, taking a moment to gaze down at his lifelessness. A huge gaping debt had been paid and I was incredibly pleased with myself. The other most obvious point was that I had properly exercised my rights and started to partake in my more primitive pleasures. During my quick mercy kill, I still took the desired vital moments to watch the lights go out in his eyes- the rush, the power trip, all sizzled in my blood and filled me with a warm glow of self-satisfaction.

I had the information I desired and thought it was another moment to shrink into the background. With any luck, authorities may just write off Czaba's death as a routine suicide. David would remind them of Czaba's pre-conception with painkillers and various issues with gambling debts. They most certainly wouldn't expect gentle Adam and even if they did, his subsequent disappearance would have them equally baffled. In fact, what was I so worried about? Do you think the monarchy would give two shits about two very foreign backpackers?

My cynicism and inner critic could only smirk at the idea. Such is the life of the weary dark traveller.