Kissing Carrion

See.

INSERT SHOT, with FLASH effect: The bloody word, on the Riker kitchen wall.

WOMAN

Me.

ON RAY, with FLASH EFFECT: His eyes WIDEN. He’s suddenly realized just WHERE he’s heard/seen this before.

WOMAN

Out of which EYE can you see me?

RAY

(Dry mouth)

. . . both.

WOMAN

THAT’s a pity.

A blurred MOVEMENT, just on the edge of the frame, as she— E.C.U.—brings up a big needle, like a TROCAR.

BLACK SCREEN.

SOUND F/X: We HEAR a puncturing thunk, followed by a SCREAM.

FIRST CREDIT ROLLS.

SOUND F/X: The same noise, again.

ROLL CREDITS.

Torch Song

You are labeled the dark or black Goddess,

the Goddess of graves, killer of man, the unholy.

At Delphi, you are known as Aphrodite on the Tomb.

—Christine Downing

Don’t threaten me with love, baby.

— Billie Holiday

SWEAT, FEVER—I WOKE coughing glass. Down to Lee Earle’s for twelve on the dot, just him, me and the other regulars: Two any-age habitual D-and-D offenders—one male, one not—and a clutch of pyramid-scheme drones from the strip-mall office space, still loud and wired after an all-night selling jag.

Listening to Georgia Gibbs’ “Kiss of Fire” on endless repeat, slowly teasing my lingering bourbon-fume haze back into a righteous full-on drunk; studying the scar tissue on my knuckles, wondering just how long I would have to keep this up before I either died from liver damage or got myself killed in a brawl. I hoped not that much longer, but suspected I hoped in vain.

The count: four years this Valentine’s, and still going.

The record, thus far unbroken: never any more than two or so days spent sober, in between trips to the dry-out ward or the tank.

“Hit me,” I told Lee Earle, tapping my glass. Got a sideways glare back: Hung-over voodoo eyes. Like he wanted to take me literal, but didn’t have the guts. I slammed the bourbon, tapped it again.