Tuesday, July 31, 2007

satan in danger

The other morning I woke up from a dream about the Satanist.

The dream left me with a feeling so vivid that I called him up later that morning. He sounded happy to hear from me. I told him I'd dreamed about him. He wanted to know what the dream was about.

Me: I can't really remember. I woke up feeling really guilty, though, like I'd done something bad to you, and I wanted to call you and apologize. Then when I woke up and realized I hadn't done anything I was so happy I called anyway.

Satanist: What had you done?

Me: Nothing too fucked up. I didn't stab you, or shoot you, or anything like that. I think I just made a scene, like, yelling at you. Maybe I was drunk.

Satanist. Oh.


Me: So how are you?


Satanist: Well, I've been stabbed and shot.

Turns out, he had been. One evening a week or so ago, he woke up in the wee hours in his nifty historical home in one of Austin's Better Neighbhorhoods to the sound of his air conditioner wiggling in the window frame as somebody outside tried to dislodge it. Since he's a shady underworld figure who doesn't want the Law at his house, he went outside to deal with it himself. Long story short, he got stabbed in the arm, and a ricocheting bullet took a small divot out of the bridge of his nose. Then the stab wound got infected and he had to buy a pump to suck the puss out. He was on Delotid as we spoke. By legitimate prescription, I believe.

Poor Satanist. One of those people to whom awful things seem to happen with more regularity than ought to result from chance alone. I offered to stop by and smooth his pillow, but he said the house was messy and he was messy, and give him a day or two to make himself presentable.

I like him so much. He's the only strip-club customer I could ever incorporate into my outside life with any degree of comfort. He was always so respectful and appreciative. Even when he offered me $300 for a blowjob, he made the offer in the politest and most professional way, and without the least pressure. "Just putting it out there," he said, "So, you know, call me if you're interested."


I don't want to blow him for $300. But I would miss him, kinda, if for some reason I could never see him again. Like, if he were fatally stabbed or shot by intruders outside his house in Old Money Town. In my dream, I was beside myself with remorse for whatever ill-defined, gauche thing I'd done. I wanted so much to give him a hug. He is really huge -- both tall and broad -- so that hugging him is like throwing yourself into a feather bed. I would miss that.

I didn't tell him that part, though.

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