As the bar’s large old grandfather clock struck eleven I decided to go home. The evening was cold; I could see the steam from my breath freeze in the air to form little clouds. I pulled the collar of my raincoat up around

The street was empty to my left, and as I turned to my right the street was suddenly covered in a thick layer of snow. I ran my hands over my face and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them there was still a lot of snow on the street; something that made no sense whatsoever. It might have been getting cold, but not so cold that there could have been snow already.

I knelt down, took lifted a handful of snow and examined it. The snow crystals were all shaped like perfect little number sevens. I dropped the snow and tripped over; suddenly the snow around me colored dark red, as if the snow itself was bleeding.

“So sad, oh so sad.”
The sound had come from behind me and I spun around to see … nothing.
“So sad, oh so sad,” came from behind me again. I turned back around to find nothing once more.
I closed my eyes and screamed.

My screams echoed through the empty street and made it sound like a million voices were screaming alongside me. I opened my eyes to see the streets covered in a red oily substance. I closed my eyes again, chanting, “It’s not real, it’s not real.”

As I opened my eyes I saw the streets still covered in the red stuff. “Baphomet?” I shouted, the name echoing around the street. “Is this your doing, Baphomet?”
Petra looked at me, concerned. “Is that stuff stronger than it smells?” she asked as I sat back up, my head having fallen onto the bar.

I waited for an answer; none came. Once more I closed my eyes, and when I opened them up again I was back inside the bar.
I slowly shook my head. “No, that was just one of the gods messing with my head,” I replied.
“On the contrary, Miss Duluc. That was a genuine possession dream.”
The voice had come from somewhere in the bar. As I turned around, still dizzy from the dream, I saw the smile that I had not seen in ages.
Baphomet sat there, smoking a cigarette as he smiled his shark-like smile.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked as put my hand on my gun. “Bored again? Starting one of your murderous entertainment sprees again?”

He got up and came toward me, pulling his knees up high as he walked. “This is not my doing, Miss Duluc. I am here on business,” he said.
I snorted. “Business? What kind of business would the gods have down here in New Billingham, except murdering my friends?”

He stopped next to me and blew smoke up in the air. “I realize you do not think highly of me, Miss Duluc, but it does not matter. My business here has nothing to do with you, for you dwell on the surface and my business is with the ones who dwell in the belly of this city.”

“And why do I have trouble believing that?”

Again, he smiled his shark-like smile. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not, Miss Duluc,” he said as he made circles with the smoke of his cigarette.

“If I find out you or any of your god buddies have anything to do with this, then I will find a way to kill you,” I hissed.
Baphomet stood up, walked to the door and turned around. “I expect nothing less from you, Miss Duluc.” He walked out of the door.
Petra looked at me with surprise in her eyes. “And who the fuck was that?” she asked.

I stood up and noticed I had drunk a little too much. “That was Lord Baphomet, one of the elder gods. He is the one who more or less started the murder spree that led to Dragon’s death,”

She stared at me, open-mouthed. “Well why don’t we go and arrest him?” she asked; that made me giggle.

“If we could arrest one of the elder gods, that would already have happened. They do not abide by any rules or laws on this plain. They are like the wind; how would you catch the wind?” As I was speaking, I stumbled and was caught by the frail-looking angel.

“I don’t think you will be able to go anywhere, Tara, not on your own at least. Let me drive you home; it’s the least I can do for being so suspicious of you.”

As I leaned on her, I realized she was right; my legs felt like wet noodles that had been soaking too long in one of those ramen bowls that Japanese humans served. She helped me into my car after taking the keys from my coat jacket, and then got in herself. She sighed as she turned the engine on and looked at me. “You know, in a way I always envy you a little; you go out there and meet people that don’t shoot at you.”
As Petra drove off I looked at the streets, the cars passing us and the neon lights that screamed the names of the places they had been placed on. Petra fiddled with my radio until she found a radio station that had her apparent choice of music on it. A fast-talking disc jockey was telling the listeners about the song he just had played: “… This band was founded during a rainstorm that lasted four days and had made the local government call for opening the flood gates; that became the band’s name, first single and first album: Open the Floodgates. And you just heard their new song, ‘Typhoon.’ Up next…” I had no interest in whatever he was going to put up next; Petra, on the other hand, sang along with the next track.

I shook my head, disagreeing. “They at least tell you they will shoot you; with me they like to destroy my door without even a friendly note,” I replied as I laid my head against the passenger side window. It was cold to the touch and cooled my throbbing head somewhat; at least the voices were numbed enough that I could stop hearing them. On days like this I wondered if the voices would get drunk too if I got drunk.

The drive home took longer than I would have driven it; I knew the way well, but now I had to tell Petra where to go, and in my state that wasn’t easy. I wasn’t even sure she could make out half of the things I said; she may have been just guessing. As she stopped the car in front of my place the disc jockey had finished another string of songs and was telling more useless stuff about them, when suddenly he said: “And for our next song we have a request, and listeners it is a golden oldie, requested for the pretty and seductive Tara Duluc, at least I am told that’s what she is like. Well, for you Tara Duluc, the next song is ‘So Sad,’ by George Harrison.”

I stared at the radio, and before the alcohol finally took me I could hear part of the song, Harrison singing of winter and eclipses and cold, cold winds. But it was the verse’s final refrain that chilled me most: “So sad, so bad, so sad, so bad.”

Next Chapter: The next day