“No, you can’t,” the Saviour said.
The Judge nodded.
“Peaches needs to pee!” cried Peaches.
The Saviour rolled his blood-shot eyes and sighed heavily. “The end is nigh. But okay, if you need to pee, then pee.”
Not a bad idea.
Aleister stood.
Beside him Jack gasped. “No, please don’t kill me. I’ve got no money. I’m only a whore. A filthy, penniless unfortunate.”
“But I thought…” Aleister shrugged. “Never mind. Don’t worry, old Jack, I won’t kill you.”
“Oh thank you sir.” He bowed his head and muttered what might’ve been a prayer.
“And where do you think you’re going?” the Saviour asked.
“To the bathroom — that is allowed, isn’t it?”
“Well…”
“Peaches is going.”
Aleister watched as Peaches stood, unzipped his pants and unburdened himself on the floor.
Aleister shook his head then started towards the men’s room. “I won’t be long.”
“The end is nigh,” the Saviour repeated. “We have to get going as soon as possible.”
“Noted, boss. Don’t worry, it won’t take long. If I need to take a dump, do I have to get your permission again?”
“Permission?” The Saviour looked baffled.
“Permission to do peaches,” Peaches uttered, finishing up his business.
“Just hurry back.”
“Sure,” Aleister said, and glanced at the puddle on the floor, caught a whiff of its rank smell, then turned away, to the only person in the room that had yet to speak. As he walked past, he saw that the woman was dark — not only dark skinned, but dark in nature — for she wore a black shawl around her head and had blank eyes. She was breathing, so at least that quelled any concerns that the woman had passed on, but she didn’t move or twitch or anything. Just sat there staring at the Saviour.
Fucking creepy, Aleister thought.
He entered the men’s room and stepped up to one of the urinals. He emptied his bladder in a torrent of left over alcohol, and feeling better for it, decided to try and vomit up any last remaining poisons from his body. It wasn’t hard to do — the smell in the bathroom alone would’ve made him gag anyway.
He was just finishing up, when he heard a small squeaking sound from behind. He washed his mouth out, straightened, and turned to the row of stalls.
The noise came again.
Aleister walked up to the only stall with its door closed and pushed it open. He jumped back, sickened.
He hated rats. Especially live ones. There must have been at least ten of them — big New York suckers, most the size of a small poodle.
Aleister wanted to close the stall door but didn’t want to get that close to them.
They looked like a sea of gray and brown — some were scurrying on the floor, others poked their heads out of the toilet bowl. He wasn’t quite sure what they were eating, but it both looked and smelled like ten-year-old shit and Aleister, sheathed in cold sweat, suddenly got the urge to pull off one of his four-hundred dollar Italian loafers and hurl it at the congregation of over-sized rodents.
The shoe smacked a few of them hard, and they let out a high-pitched screeching. The rest scattered and Aleister cursed and bolted for the door.
He was stupid; now there were not only a bunch of pissed-off rats but he had lost an expensive shoe.
He flung open the bathroom door and almost crashed into Broadway Queen. Fortunately he was able to stop himself before he got a mouthful of street-scum and disease.
“What did you do to my babies?” Broadway Queen cried. Standing, she was a large woman. “Did you hurt them?”
“They’re fucking rats, lady,” Aleister said.
Broadway Queen, eyes teary (or was that pus?), stomped into the men’s bathroom, her strong and unpleasant odor leaving a trail that seemed to linger around Aleister.
“Fucking nutcase,” he mumbled and walked with uneven steps over to the bar.
“Hey, you got any drink?” Aleister asked the Saviour, who was looking at him with questioning eyes.
“You’ve upset Broadway Queen,” the Saviour said.
“Yeah, well, her babies upset me first. Got a bottle of Jack handy?”
“I’m Jack,” said a voice from behind.
Aleister spun around. “If your last name’s Daniel’s, then come here and let me drink you.”
Jack stood. “How did you know my last name was Daniel’s?”
“I thought it was The Ripper?”
Jack’s eyes grew large and he shied. “Are you Jack the Ripper?”
“Yes, and if you don’t sit down I’ll slit your throat.”
Jack sat down, placed his hands in his lap and sat very still.
With a sigh Aleister turned and faced the Saviour. “So, how about that whiskey?”
“There is plenty of whiskey downstairs.”
Aleister clapped his hands together. “No shit? Great, well then let’s go and get some.”
“It’s for later.”
“Later?” Aleister looked around the room, glancing over his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He couldn’t see any stairs.
Have to wait it out a little longer.
He smiled at the Saviour, who didn’t smile back, then walked back to his crate and sat down.
Beside him Jack started shaking.
“Hey, I was only kidding. I’m not really Jack the Ripper.”
Jack slowly turned his head and gazed at Aleister out the corners of his eyes. “Really?”
“Nah, name’s Bundy. Ted Bundy.”
Jack smiled and he shot out his hand. “Hi Ted. Name’s Jack. Last name The Ripper.”
This time Aleister took Jack’s hand and shook it.
What the hell, he thought.
His body itched for some whiskey. Needed some. It was too long a way home on the subway (could he even face the subway without some booze?) and the bars charged for it. If he stayed, he could have some free alcohol — and lord knows how many bottles were left in this place after closing down. The friendlier he got with these people, the better chance he had of scoring some liquid gold.
Jack’s hand was slippery. Aleister took his own hand back and noticed there was now a red smear on his palm.
What the hell is that?
He was about to bring his hand close and smell the sticky substance, but decided some things were best left unknown. He wiped the grime off on his pants just as Broadway Queen came out of the men’s room. She was blubbering.
“He killed Ratsy and Ratso.”
Ratsy and Ratso?
Aleister clamped his lower lip between his teeth to stop himself from laughing.
“They’ve gone to a better place,” the Saviour said.
“Bullshit! He murdered them. In cold blood.”
“Hickock and Smith,” Peaches said. “Don’t know if they liked peaches or not.”
“We should hang him,” Judge Stevens grumbled. “Yes, a good old fashion hanging.”
“Just like Hickock and Smith,” Peaches said.
“They were just rats!” Aleister exclaimed.
“They were peaches!”
“Hmmm… yummy, stewed peaches,” Jack said.
“Stewed rats,” Peaches said, giggling.
“Stewed kidneys,” Jack said — he wasn’t giggling.
“You’re talking about Rat’s brothers,” Broadway Queen said. “They were murdered, just like my brothers were. I was about to star in Cats when they were killed.”
“Cats and rats!” proclaimed Peaches.
“Stewed cats and rats,” Jack said with a nod.
“I was going to be in Cats!” Broadway Queen cried. “I was going to be a star.”