Zachary Moore
I guess I have to admit that I’ve been getting overconfident in my interactions with these demons because of how forthcoming Pride and Fear had been with me. Yes, they still intimidated the hell out of me, but they hadn’t hurt me physically or threatened me in any way. Yes, I didn’t lose sight of the reality that their one and only goal is to destroy us all – but does that necessarily make them bad guys? They had plenty of opportunities to hurt me, but at this point in my journey with the demons, I’ve suffered nary a scratch. They just haven’t given me a reason to fear them.
I had no idea how wrong I would turn out to be.
My first clue to my naivete’ was a couple of days after talking with Fear. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and I was at the Déjà Vu restaurant having a roast beef po-boy and an Abita Turbo Dog beer. I’m a big fan of both. The Déjà Vu has great po-boys and serves the beer ice cold, so it’s my go-to place when I don’t feel like cooking.
Inside scoop: I rarely feel like cooking.
I took a seat at a table in the middle of the restaurant with my back toward the kitchen. I like facing the doorway to watch humanity walk by. Sometimes, people-watching is the best part of the meal. One of the great things about the French Quarter is all the bars and restaurants keep their doors wide open. I guess it’s a tourist thing. You can walk by any bar or restaurant and see what’s going on inside. It’s kind of like window-shopping for a good time.
Roberto, my favorite waiter, came over and took my order, then brought me my ice cold Turbo Dog and a chilled glass. I’m in the middle of my first big gulp of beer when I look down the barrel of the glass to see this mountainous, biker-looking guy walking in the front door. He’s sporting a full array of sleeve tattoos, and all of them were screaming, “Don’t mess with me. I’m a badass!” to anyone paying attention. The flame tattoo going up his neck confirmed what his arms were threatening. Comically enough, this huge biker was escorted by the shortest member of the Brotherhood that I’d ever seen, which surprised me. My best guess from my seated position was that the little guy was around four feet tall. The biker with the tats was easily six–three, so they made a rather comical pair.
I just smiled and went back to enjoying my beer.
The biker grabbed a booth along the wall toward the door to my right with his back to me. The mini-Fallen took the seat across from him. Little Smoke, I thought to myself as I continued to be amused by the pair. The beer I was sipping, which was now in its final stages of life, added to my amusement.
It must have become apparent that I was staring at the restaurant’s comic relief between sips, because Little Smoke caught me looking at him. I got the usual surprised reaction as he turned to look behind him to see what I was looking at. I was already smiling, but seeing Little Smoke scramble to his feet in the booth so that he could see what was behind him made me chuckle.
Little Smoke’s face went red, and his eyes squinted in anger as he glared at me. Then the little crapper jumped out of the booth and stormed right up to me. I was shocked. None of my encounters with the Fallen were this confrontational, so I just froze. Usually, members of the Brotherhood ignore me and just go on messing with the person they’ve decided to make miserable that day. Not this little guy. He had a big ole ax to grind, and he’s looking at me like I’m the grinding wheel. The next thing I know, I’ve got two stubby little fingers poking me in the face.
“What the fuck are you looking at, Nasci?!”
“I’m sorry, I..I didn’t mean to bother you,” I stuttered.
I have to admit, I was taken aback. So far, the Fallen were at least polite. Scary and intimidating, but polite.
“It’s no bother, Bro. You need something?” Roberto asked. He had just walked up behind me with my po-boy and french fries.
I welcomed the break from locking eyes with the diminutive demon, so I looked up at Roberto.
“Oh, sorry. No. I’m good.”
Roberto looked a little confused, but then replied, “No problem.” Then he was good enough to move on and check on the folks at the table next to mine once he laid down my food.
“Hey, Numb-nuts, I’m talking to you!” Little Smoke pressed.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at him.
I remember thinking, “What the hell do I say to this thing without pissing him off more or making the waiter think I am talking to myself again?”
My brain went blank, so I just continued with my numb-nuts stare.
It seemed like an eternity when, much to my relief, Little Smoke finally turned around and walked back to his table. I let out a sigh and grabbed a french fry to chomp on to help calm my nerves. It’s one of those situations in life where you’ve never had to deal with anything like it, so you don’t know how to respond – you just sit there in shock.
I’m finally exhaling and in the middle of taking a big swig of my beer when I see Little Smoke has crawled up next to the biker and is whispering in his ear.
Oh shit.
Being that hindsight is always 20-20, I realize I should have looked away. Maybe look down at my po-boy or something – hell, anything. But no, I just sat there staring at Little Smoke.
The biker whipped his head around to scan the room, and we locked eyes. He glared at me like he just caught me in bed with his old lady. Finally, my reflexes came back from their vacation in the Bahamas, and I averted my eyes and looked down at my plate.
I seriously could have used that reaction a few seconds sooner.
I soon surmised from the massive, rapidly growing shadow on the floor that the biker was on his way over to my table.
Shit!
Still staring at my plate, I see his gorilla-sized hands grab my table as his hot, halitosis-from-hell breath carries the words, “You got a problem numb-nuts?!”
Numb-nuts? There it is again. Did Little Smoke actually put words in his mouth? Like some sick, reverse ventriloquist act?
Some idiotic, sophomoric part deep within me found the thought hysterical. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two was allowing myself to grin at the image of this Cro-Magnon sitting on the pint-sized demon’s lap while the demon made the biker talk by shoving a hand up his ass. Both of these mistakes paled in comparison to my final mistake. I looked up at the biker with a smirk on my face.
Yeah, bad move.
I remember seeing the back of his tattooed hand as it came flying out of Georgia somewhere. I don’t remember the pain of slamming into the floor at first, but I do remember a great view of the ceiling and hearing shouting. My ceiling view was immediately blocked by this monstrous thug as he grabbed at me and yelled, “You think it’s funny now, asshole!?”
Fortunately, the wait staff and cooks at the Déjà Vu are used to dealing with unruly drunks. I think all employees are required to go to bouncer school before taking any jobs around Bourbon Street – even if it’s just bussing tables.
The staff was on the biker before his coconut-sized fist came crashing into the surprise on my face. It took four of them, but they finally got him out the door.
I began to taste the blood in my mouth as I rolled to my hands and knees to get up from the floor. I started to spit blood out, but I became acutely aware of all of the diners staring at me. Not wanting to ruin their appetites or make the wait staff, who were my new best friends, clean up the blood – I just swallowed it.
Ugh!
I immediately longed for the taste of my po-boy.
Roberto hurried back to me after helping toss the biker and helped me up. I muttered something incoherent to indicate I was alright and sat down at the table. My head was still spinning as I gained my composure. The barmaid, bless her heart, brought me a fresh beer – just like any angel sent from God would be inclined to do. I ask for a to-go box for the rest of my po-boy and just sit there holding the cold beer glass against my busted lip.
Well that was a lot of fun.
I looked up and, still standing in the doorway, was Little Smoke. He looked at me and smiled like he just beat me at poker. Then he lifted his stubby little hand and flipped me the dirty bird, blew me a kiss, then vanished – probably to go play with his pet gorilla some more.
Little Smoke.
No…
Asshole Smoke.