Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (24 page)

Adam looked up quizzically and searched within
himself to see if the Seeker was right. Indeed, the Darkness did squirm, but
not for the reason stated. It squirmed in an attempt to keep the Seeker from
harming Adam. Adam’s pain was its own and it wanted to end the anguish.

“You’re wrong about that. Adam is not like you and
he’ll never be like you,” Kosta stated.

“I’ll never want anybody’s pain,” Adam agreed.

“It is part of you. One day, you will give into it
and you will know what no human can tell you. You will know what it is to feast
on a soul, on someone’s life, and to feel their pain, fear and anguish. You
will know.”

“Enough of this!” Kosta contained himself for long
enough. As his anger exploded, he shot the Seeker in his fat kneecap who
dropped to the ground shrieking like a little girl. Kosta quickly closed the
distance between them and fired into the other knee. Two more shots followed,
one in either wrist. The Seeker squealed and squirmed, but didn’t die.

“This will not kill me, meat. I will find you again
and delight in your pain, even more than I would have before.”

“Do those shots look like they were meant to kill
you, idiot? I only want your attention. Now, where do I find those who sent you
and the others like you?”

“You will die like a rutting pig! We will trample
your bones and grind you into dust!” the seeker spat at him and Kosta pivoted
out of the way.

“Adam, I still need you,” Kosta said apologetically.
“I’m sorry, but we need to stop them from hurting others. I need you to ask him
where his masters are. Where is this Balzeer McGrath?”

In almost a whisper, Adam asked where Balzeer was. It
was all that was needed and the Seeker instantly responded, cursing himself.

“What is the address, the city? Where are they?”

“They are in your city of San Francisco. They live in
a mansion in an old section of the city. That is all I know. I do not know the
address; I only know how to get there. I do not know of these things.”

Kosta took the hatchet from his belt and swung, but
stopped short. Adam stood in front of him, facing the Seeker. “Adam, step away
from him. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Kosta touched Adam’s shoulder and was about to pull
him away when Adam said, “No. This one hurt us. He hurt many. He must feel the
pain and agony he so loves.” Adam refused to move or to say anything more. He
stared at the Seeker and the Seeker screamed. It continued to scream, and this
time, Kosta could hear it. Adam was always able to hear but now he didn’t care.
Adam wanted to rid the world of this filth.

The Darkness took control of Adam and reached out and
obliterated the Seeker, bit by bit. Though Kosta couldn’t see what Adam was
doing, he caught glimmers of it. Since Adam was so small, he could not destroy
him all at once. Rather, it happened in small increments. The torture was far
worse than that which had been used to summon the Seeker.

It fed on him. If the Seeker had a soul, it would have
been consumed. The seeker would cease to exist.
 
Normally, when a Seeker was killed, it was sent back to
Hell. The pain it felt was physical, a mere annoyance. Adam’s Darkness
obliterated this Seeker, completely removing him from existence — past,
present and future. He would not even be a memory.

It took over three hours. Kosta tried to get through
to him, but Adam stood his ground. He did not even look when Kosta knelt in
front of him and took his face in his hands and shouted, “Adam, please don’t do
this! Stop now! Don’t finish this! I beg you!” Kosta couldn’t feel Adam’s
breath and his face was cold. Kosta continued, “Adam, stop this! Stop! This
will scar you forever. Please!”

Adam’s Darkness did not listen, but continued the
grisly task. There were simply some things that could not be changed, no matter
how hard a person tried. No fate and no soul could change it. Some things
simply happened and absolutely nothing could correct them.

- Vantage -

TIME: FEBRUARY 8TH, 1963. HALL OF RECORDS, SAN FRANCISCO,
U.S.A

Serita Peres looked at the four people waiting in
line then addressed the person in front of her. The
vieja pouta
, old whore
with a coiffed beehive of tired, blue hair, eyes hidden behind black,
horn-rimmed glasses, wanted to know why her neighborhood was being taken over.
They were moving in all over the place, she said. She turned slightly then
leaned closer to Serita and whispered, “The one in this line stinks of fried
chicken and watermelon.” Her wrinkles jiggled as she chuckled at her joke.

“Excuse me?” Serita stepped back from the blue-haired
lady. “I would appreciate you being more civil with your choice of language,
Mrs…” she looked down at the name in the request form, “Oh, Mrs. White.” Mrs.
White. It was just too funny, too much. “Now, that attitude might be fine where
you live, but here in the hall of records, we are required to overlook
everyone’s ethnic background. Is that clear?”

“Oh yes, that’s fine.” Mrs. White knew that she must
agree. She just wanted this fucking spic to do her job and not get all high and
mighty.

“It’s just that they’re not like you and me. They
don’t take pride in their surroundings. Even their little nigglets run around
like animals.”

“What did you say?” Serita’s eyes nearly bulged out
of their sockets. “Nigglets? What’s that?”

“Their kids. Their little ones. They scare me. They
run around unattended, their fathers out stealing or getting high, their
mothers whoring and drinking.” Mrs. White continued to speak under her breath,
not wanting to take too long, or for the blackie, standing behind her in line,
to hear.

“That’s enough, Mrs. White. Now, I will not warn you
again. You need to stop referencing people of color in that manner.” Serita
completely agreed with Mrs. White, and secretly, she stifled a laugh when the
old crow referred to little black kids as nigglets. She’d have to remember to
tell her husband about that. “Do I make myself clear?” She had to put this one
in her place though. If it wasn’t the blacks, it was the Hispanics. If it
wasn’t either of them, it was the Irish, the Chinese, the Protestants, anybody
who was different.

“Here are the documents you requested, ma’am.” She
had to push the woman away. Gringos were all like old Mrs. White, hating
anybody who didn’t look like them.

She motioned for the next person in line to advance
and was surprised when a tan, athletic man stepped up to the counter, holding
onto a little boy. She thought that the next person in line was black. The
vieja pouta
must’ve thought that too, otherwise, she wouldn’t have spoken so quietly.

“What is it that you require Mr…”

“Russell, ma’am, just Russell.” The little boy could
not see past the top of the counter, so he turned around and watched the line
of people, queuing to be served.

“I am looking for various buildings, or residences,
that would fit the following requirements.” He handed her a list and Serita
scanned it briefly.

“This is quite a request, sir. It will take some time
and it will not be free.” Serita thought that this might dissuade Mr. Russell
from pursuing his request further.

“How long and how much money would it take?” He
didn’t seem to mind the wait. Serita looked at the list, then jotted a few
points of her own on her notepad.

“It will take about a week and will cost eighty-seven
dollars, sir.”

“That certainly seems reasonable.” His reaction was
devoid of surprise or irritation. He conveyed none of the negative emotions
that Serita was used to dealing with. “Do you need the money now, or upon
completion of the task?”

“No, the money is required upon completion of the
task. Is there a telephone number at which you can be reached?”

“No, ma’am, not yet. I just arrived and I’m looking
for a place to stay. That’s what the list is for.” At that, Russell smiled
slightly, putting Serita at ease. “I’ll be back next week. By that point,
hopefully, you’ll have the addresses. Thanks for your time.”

TIME: FEBRUARY 6TH, 1963. OUTSIDE TONY’S TVS, SAN FRANCISCO,
CALIFORNIA, U.S.A

Mildred Palfreeman was confused. She stood, watching
a television through a store window. She was trying to figure out which program
was on those new color TVs on display. On the screen, people walked toward to a
man behind a table, looked surprised, then at times, laughed and walked away,
obviously embarrassed.

She watched only the best shows on her black and
white television. The variety shows were her favorites. Red Skelton was still a
riot, and in her books, Ed Sullivan would be king till kingdom come.

That color television sure looked good. She had no
idea what she was watching, but envied anyone who had one of those beauties. It
was like watching reality. The skin tones made the rest of the colors come to
life.

“It’s Candid Camera.” The voice made Mildred jump out
of her skin. She looked to the left and to the right, but saw no one. Then she
looked down and saw a brown-haired boy no older than eleven or twelve.

“What was that? What did you call it?” Mildred asked.

“Candid Camera. That’s the show that’s on right now.
They set up different situations in front of a hidden camera, film the results
and basically trick and make fun of people.” The boy continued to watch the
show with her.

“But that doesn’t sound too nice.” Mildred pursed her
thin lips and scrunched her nose below her round glasses. “It sounds plain mean
and hurtful to make fun of and mislead people like that.”

“Most people are good sports about it. Those who
aren’t have the choice of not being included in the show, so it’s pretty fair.
What do you watch?” he asked.

“Oh well, I like the variety shows, like Ed Sullivan
and Red Skelton,” Mildred stated smugly.

“Did you ever watch Perry Como or Joey Bishop?
They’re great. Como, not so much, but Bishop is really funny. He’s Frank
Sinatra’s good friend, did you know that?” Mildred had to admit, the boy was
engaging; he talked like all he ever did was watch television. “They’re not as
big as Sullivan or Skelton, and their guests aren’t as famous, but they’re
overlooked. Except for Bishop. He seems to be able to get Frank Sinatra, Dean
Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and Peter Lawson on any time.”

“Sammy Davis Jr.? You like him? He’s just not my cup
of tea.” Mildred raised her slim nose at the thought of watching a colored.

“Why? Is it because he’s colored? Well, whatever.
He’s a really good entertainer; you should give him a chance.” The boy’s enthusiasm
was undiminished. Despite herself, Mildred warmed to the idea of allowing Sammy
Davis Jr. and Joey Bishop’s friends to entertain her.

Over the last few weeks, she’d taken to standing on
the sidewalk, watching the color televisions for a few minutes. She would put
on her semi-formal dress — the one she sometimes wore to the office
— and wish upon the storefront.

She was a thin woman in her late-twenties. She wasn’t
married, but thankfully, she’d done well in a secretarial course and now served
as a personal secretary to the executive of an insurance company. She neither
loved nor hated her job; she simply went to work and did whatever was asked of
her. There was no drama or excitement in her life, and this was why she loved
her television and apartment. Everything was just as she liked it.

Despite not having any friends, she did not feel
alone. There were a few people at work with whom she was friendly, but none who
would miss her, or she them.

Even so, she shot a few glances at the boy next to
her and delighted in his company as they both continued to watch the show. When
Mildred heard a man’s voice beside her, she nearly jumped. She looked at him as
he spoke and thought she saw a resemblance to the boy, not in countenance, but
in stance and attitude.

“What’s on, Adam? Anything I would like?” the man
asked. She suddenly realized that she hadn’t asked for the boy’s name, or he
for hers.

“It’s Candid Camera. It’s been on for about two years
now and they’ve been playing tricks on people the whole time. It’s really
funny,” Adam said with a smile and nodded at Mildred.

“Who’s the rest of the audience?” the man asked, and
despite herself, Mildred offered her name as requested.

“Mildred Palfreeman. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Kosta, ma’am. That young man, with whom you’ve
been enjoying Candid Camera, is Adam.” He remained formal, not wanting to make
Mildred uneasy with an overly familiar tone.

“Ma’am? My goodness, don’t call me that. I’m not old
enough to be called that. My mother is ‘Ma’am.’” Mildred never flirted, but
there was something about this man she found appealing. He was tan and walked
and moved with an unconscious grace.

“My apologies, ma… miss. I didn’t mean to cause
offence. Please forgive me. I’ll take Adam now and we’ll be on our way. Come,
Adam, you can listen to the radio in the car. I think they’re playing a new
Elvis song from his latest movie.” The man looked at the boy, who brightened up
like a light bulb and walked away from Mildred, who turned, red-faced, in the
opposite direction as the televisions in the store window flickered to the next
embarrassing encounter.