The Gods of Color by Gunnar Sinclaire

Author:Gunnar Sinclaire [Sinclaire, Gunnar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Saxon Press
Published: 2010-12-22T05:00:00+00:00

The Hawthorne Hotel rocked in the throes of its annual costume party. Brooding on the corner of downtown Salem, it had been a conductor of Halloween energies for over a century. Hommler and his friends had trekked there every All Hallows since they were goth boys high on marijuana. It was a tradition he remained faithful to even during the spikes of his political ascension.

Limo doors swung wide, and the bodyguards lumbered out, followed by Swan and Hommler. Within the hotel lobby were scantily clad French maids, green-faced aliens holstered with ray guns, and a lycanthrope whose noticeably synthetic fur was incongruous with an expensive and intimidating mask.

Hommler smiled at two formally dressed men in nineteenth-century apparel. Heavy black mantles draped their shoulders, and chandelier light showcased white fangs in their responsive grins. They were tall like Hommler, and equally frail. However, their wan complexions looked more the result of makeup than genuine pallor. And their canines, though impressive, seemed to lack the bite of Hommler’s.

As Herbert and the two men embraced, Swan withdrew a step. The president folded his arms over his torn t-shirt, obscuring the logo “Diversity Rocks.”

“So who’s the Asian?” asked one of Hommler’s friends, eyeing the president’s leather pants, spikes, and chains.

“I’m a drummer in a Mandarin rock band promoting world peace and the intermixture of races and cultures,” informed Swan. “So why do you have to distinguish me by my race, huh? You know, I’m also Arabic. More importantly, I’m American. So you should think twice before you go and use my race like a synecdoche to single me out.”

“Well, who’s the dude, then?” The ponytailed man smirked at Hommler, his red, silver-framed spectacles refracting light.

“Hey!” Swan raised his finger. “How do you know I’m a ‘dude?’ Dude implies that I’m male. Do you know my anatomy? Huh? Do you know my personal gender identity? Because if you don’t you presume too much. How about I turn the tables?” The president faced Hommler. “So, who’s the wanna-be, third-rate vampire?”

“Fuck you, man, why don’t you shut your fuckin’. . .”

Hommler put a gloved hand over his friend’s throat.

“Belial, calm yourself. You don’t know whom you’re talking to.”

“Shit, man. I don’t have to take that bull-shit from him. Who the hell is he, anyway?”

“A close friend of Herbert’s,” answered Swan.

“So you’re here for the show, then?” queried the other friend of Hommler’s, his hair dyed coffin-black.

“What show?” asked the president.

“Do you have the video camera?” Asked Hommler.

Belial parted his cloak and withdrew a silver, pencil-sized tube.

“Good. We get more brazen with our pranks every year.” Herbert laughed. “What began with stink-bombs and spray paint twenty years ago will now culminate in something glorious.”

“Like bathos,” cackled the jet-haired pseudo vampire, “but in reverse—upside down.”

“Yes, Zamiel” growled Hommler, “all the fuck the way upside down. Are we inverting literary terms too, now?” He laughed theatrically. “Well, I like it. Because twisted little goth boys grow up to be powerful undead kings. Strong fucking kings! And those who had been kings are now peasants!” He clenched his white fist until it trembled.

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