Besotted Boy!

This is when Jefferson changed his name to Cephas Varte. He knew nobody could possible associate this person with the thief of yesteryear. He chose the name Cephas because it was the name given to Peter the Apostle, thus the Rock. Henceforth, he would strive to attain the strength of the Rock. As for Varte, it had Norwegian roots. Nobody could trace him. Fortunately, Ceph maintained contacts throughout the film industry, those who either were unaware that he had been barred from film, or those that did not care about his infraction. Talented, if sometimes brusque, an initial pleasing personality, always intelligent, he waded back into movies. Three years were to pass, before he filmed his first, if forgettable, feature film. Forgettable indeed, but the studio learned something from the filming process. The creativity of the man, his overall direction, were it applied to a better script than ‘Phantoms from Saturn’s Moons’, might justify their optimism that they had discovered in Cephas a gem in the rough, a possibly truly talented filmmaker. Despite the indifference of the studio, the film became a cult hit, a favorite over the years, played again and again on late night TV. Slapstick horror, terrified, young, beautiful women screaming through their laughter, scorpions of immense size befriending humans, their scaly arms slipping around the backs of their newly found friends. All this was hilarious, if ludicrous at the same time. After a few lackluster films, Malaysian Mists came out to acclaim and a significant audience. Ceph was about to meet the girl who would change his life altogether, and when he did, the seas parted. At the time, he dabbled in weed and cocaine. Curious about newer drugs. Wondered about Ecstasy and Fentanyl. One of his buddies told him where he could find good stuff, hard stuff. He was sent to an antiques store specializing in old leather items near the Perimeter. Out of the way. A low, gray, concrete edifice in the shape of a torpedo. He entered. A hi-tech room with computers, meters, dials of all sorts as if to simulate the internals of a submarine. Smelled of manicured fur and old books. He found a crusty old man napping behind his desk, an unlit cigarette in hand. “I’m not into leather,” Ceph began. The old man stirred, opened both eyes slowly. “Tell me your story, son.” “I hear that you may have some choice medication, maybe even painkillers.” “Are you in pain, my son?” Ceph looked up dismayed, for he had never before engaged in conversation with a supplier, and certainly not one who sounded like a confessor. “I am in pain.” “Weed cures,” the old man intoned. The old man sported a medium length white beard with but the hint of black interspersed through its strands. “White powder calms the intestines and sends one into the zone of tranquility. As for painkillers, I possess the spectrum.” “Who are you?” Ceph asked. The old man smiled. “They call me Lightning Jove. Lightning because nobody produces faster than me.” Now he reached into a container and held out a fistful of drugs. Ceph pocketed a bunch, exited from the store. Turned left, then left again. To that side, there is an alley between two dark hued, brick buildings. Cardboard shelters erected in the alley against wind and rain. For the moment, it appeared empty. At the end of the alleyway, an apparent depository for excrement along the back wall. Face screwed up, Ceph retreated to the front of the alley. Lifted himself onto a brick ledge, parceled out some coke, then inhaled. As he stood there relaxing, the coke buzzing, swelling, through the welling cloud inside his brain, he detected a noise. Looked across at a large, thumping trash can, the lid rumbling off and crashing onto the ground. For an instant, nothing else. Then the can itself moved slightly. Once again. Ceph sucked in another slurp of white heaven, wended his way slowly around the can. Some living thing in the dank, darkness of the alleyway nudged forward. He bent down over it, wondering whether it was some wounded animal. Thought better of nearing. Recoiling, he decided to have nothing to do with the beast for fear that it might bite him. Maybe a rabid animal. But as he straightened up, the thing stopped twitching and from underneath, up from the piss-laden stones of the alleyway, and through a pile of wet, encrusted newspapers, a simple, thin, rigid arm shot up, then a second arm. Hands attached with partial, jagged nails. Ceph backed up, his heart pounding. Clearly, he had not absorbed enough of the drug. A body. A movement of it or rather, a part twitching. “Are you hurt?” he asked solicitously. No response. “Do you need help?” No response. “Can you get up?” “A hit…I need a whack,” a tiny voice arose from the wet bricks. “Cocaine?” “Get me a fucking hit, not that shit.” “Heroin?” Weak voice straining. “Bingo.” A girl. Ceph scattered a pile of newspapers. Sitting up tremulously against the wall, a person. Above a face, a snake pit of dark, stringy hair. Wet hair. God knows from what. The scrawny thing before him continued to whine at him as if she were a cat in heat. Ceph understood. He had also been there. Her plight unnerved him. “Wait.” He returned to the old man and bought some heroin. “This is the best stuff. You could take it on your first communion it’s so tender and loving,” Lightning Jove murmured soothingly. “A needle, too.” He filled the hypodermic and plunged the needle into the twig which was the girl’s arm. In a moment, the girl sighed. “You took your fucking time,” she moaned. Taken aback, Ceph straightened up, dropped the needle, looked around. Time to go. “Wait,” the girl keened. “Help me up.” The stench of the girl threatened to explode his nostrils. Covered his mouth with one hand, took a deep breath, and picked up the girl by her underarms, propped her up against the filthy, moist red brick wall. “What now?” he asked her. “I just want to die,” she croaked. “If you are a gentleman, you’ll be pleasantly ruthless and strangle me. I won’t mind. No worries. I shan’t scream. I will be thanking you.” Ceph shook his head. “I’m not killing anybody today.” “You would be doing the Christian thing,” the girl rasped. “Cause after this hit, I’ll need another one, and another one after that, and eventually I’ll kill myself anyway.” “But that will be your choice,” he protested. She tilted up a dirty, acned face. “That’s my choice right now, you fool. What do I need to do for you to finish me off? Suck your cock? Stick it out. You want to fuck me? Go ahead. You’d be the first…tonight,” she added. “Could be.” The idea of touching this wraith of a being, this scarecrow filled him with disgust. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked her. She laughed a trilling sound. “I used to be a blushing debutante,” she answered. “But lucky me, I became the belle of the world of pussy,” she added. “Nice,” he retorted, without knowing why he said such a stupid thing. “Did you get enough shit from Lightning Jove?” “I got a bit more.” “Then we gonna be good buddies,” the girl said. “Help me outta this alley. “ “Where do you want to go?” “To the dentist,” she answered. “I’ve got two teeth knocked out and another one that hurts like a son of a bitch.” “Too late. No dentist tonight.” “For Christ’s sake. Are you gonna take an interest? Are you?” “In you?” Shrill cackle. “You fucking fool. Who else?” “What do you want from me?” he asked impatiently. “Do you believe in God?” “He’s never spoken to me.” “Do you believe in being kind to those who are perishing?” “I guess so. That sort of includes all of us.” “Take me with you then. Get me out of this gutter. I prefer to die elsewhere.” “Where?” “At your place. You got a place?” “I live in an apartment. But I’m not slaying you or anybody else, got it?””