Factor Four Magazine: Issue 5 by Richard Flores IV

Author:Richard Flores IV
Language: eng
Format: epub

LIVE NUDE DEATH

By Patrick Barb

I lean against my puke-green sedan, as it sits parked behind Death’s white Bronco, blocking them into their parking spot. “White Bronco. Pale horse. Nice touch,” I say.

Death’s head tilt is the closest they get to a smile. “The rituals must be observed, even if objects change.”

At our feet, two rats fight. The rats don’t wait for dark anymore.

The rats always know.

Over my shoulder, the blinking red neon sign above the strip club’s entrance blasts an intermittent, undeliverable promise of LIVE NUDE GIRLS.

“I’ve killed the other three. You’re the final one.”

“Don’t you know Heaven awaits after End Times?” Death asks.

“It ain’t about me, or what I know. I got a job.”

One of the rats—bleeding from a neck bite—curls up near Death, leaving its rival to enjoy victory. “Just following orders? Usually a sentiment expressed by those working with me rather than against.”

“You wanna know why I’m doing this?” I ask.

“I’ve got all the time in the end of the world.”

I laugh. It’s not a funny line, but it’s close. I hitch a thumb back to the sign. “Mind if we take a seat?”

They nod.

I turn on my heels, just like at boot camp.

Death follows.

I shove open the tinted double doors. The music’s set to auto-play. Walking in, trap music’s throbbing bass slaps me in the face, travels down my legs and back up. I pull out a chair for Death at a table near a side stage.

“Can you turn that music off?”

“No.”

Once seated, I pull out my cellphone and slide it across to Death. “Look at photos 1, 2, and 3.”

As they look, I talk. “Growing up, I was never good at anything. Maybe, I never found anything to be good at, ya know?”

Death pauses to nod. From below, the photo of Pestilence, face stabbed full of needles— plungers compressed, medicinal contents dripping down, stares up at them.

“Middle-of-going-nowhere kid says, ‘Fine, Dad,’ and signs up at his local recruiter’s. Things move fast and he finds that one thing he’s good at isn’t what they put in brochures or on billboards. It’s the killing, stupid.

“So, he takes his talents to the private sector. And Malcolm Gladwells the shit out of killing. The more he does it, the better he is at it. Eventually, gets so good people with real money notice.”

My eyes find the phone. Death’s pale, wrinkled fingers hover over War—naked and bleeding out from a headshot. You can just see the other fleeing orgy participants.

“The people I work for heard about what’s to happen.”

“Signs and portents.”

Death mutters the words, studying the last photo—the one with Famine and the chocolate cake.

(No one ever said art had to be pretty…)

“But my benefactors aren’t Revelation-Truther types. Why would they be? Eyes, camels, and needles, right?”

I wait to see if Death will move. They stay still.

“They’re paying me to kill you and stop the apocalypse.”

Death claps their hands, the sound blending with hair metal keytar—probably used to introduce some sad girl named “Brandy.”

“Curing Pestilence, loving War, feeding Famine. You must be proud.

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