Corner
(s)AINT
The Nortcha Drif is a good club, full of good kids, good grinding music, good flashing strobes, and good exotic liquor. They know me as Daimon and I've been known to sing in a band. As far as the crowd goes, I'm 'in' with everyone, which let me tell you is a godly feat in itself. Good clothes, good voice, generous with drinks, always time for everyone. All-round nice guy, all-round good place, though I don't go there so much anymore; not really Sigmund's scene and all. Too much leather and not enough geek, but what can you do.
But, despite Sigmund, there's one thing I'll always go back for.
There's a little room out the back of the Drif, sectioned off by a black velvet curtain. Inside is an industrial incinerator, several rows of ornate iron shelves, and scores of... things. People's things, trinkets; someone's childhood teddy, feathers, bits of bone, bent spoons, left socks... all kinds of stuff. It's the wish room, you see, and it was here before I ever found it. These kids are lost, you see; they have no gods but need someone to pray to. So they made something up, their own altar to whomever happened to be listening. And there's power in that, and despite everything, I'm still a god. We like to be worshipped, even if our faithful don't necessarily know to whom their prayers travel.
It works like this. You think of a wish, a prayer, a need... whatever. You think of it real hard and keep the thought in your mind while you find yourself an offering; it doesn't matter what it is, so long as it has some meaning to you, to your prayer. You leave the offering in the wish room for as long as it takes for the wish to be fulfilled, then throw the offering into the incinerator.
When you're a god, this sort of thing is the motherload. It's worth the work.
Every month or so I take myself down to the wish room and inspect the offerings. It doesn't take anything special; gods are built around interpreting this stuff, so I just pick it up and feel the prayer. And then, if I think it's a good one, I do something about it.
Mostly it's not even particularly supernatural. I find a bag of marshmallows left by a girl who wishes she was skinny. I know who she is; have seen her wallflowering around a few times, almost looking like she was having fun. I also know a photographer who comes to the Drif every now and again to scout models for his fiancee's clothing business. Next time he's down I point him in the girl's direction, mentioning she has the kind of figure that would go well with the new winter period line. Next month the girl's practically a celebrity, with a new wardrobe to boot; one that shows her off in the ways nature intended.
That time, I ate the marshmallows. Good to keep them on their toes.
Sometimes it requires a little more finesse; a lot of matchmaking goes on like this. Someone wishes for love, I happen to know -- being the observant guy I am -- someone who's interested in them, so I just give a little mental nudge, a little burst of confidence. Sometimes works out, sometimes not, but love's like that.
And then sometimes... sometimes I have to get my claws dirty.
This is one of those times.
I love it when they walk home in the dark. Cocky asshole, but it's time to put paid to that idea once and for all. There are four of the little bastards, but I take them one by one. It's psychological warfare; revenge rather than justice. That's what gods are for, after all.
I time my appearance like a pro; he look down for a second and the next I'm silouetted against the next streetlight. He can see me as much as he fucking wants to, I don't care; I fix his mind so he'll never remember. Even if he did, there's not a jail in the world that can hold me. I fear doing no wrong.
He startles a little, shoots me his best footballer's glare, and takes another step.
"Christian Milhorn."
He really startles, then, stops walking and peers at me angrily. "Yeah. Who the fuck are you supposed to be?"
But I can feel that he knows, because of how I look, all leather and buckles and just like one of Bella's little freak friends. He's been waiting for this, I can sense the dread and guilt that pulls at his insides. I could turn them to maggots and make them eat him alive, but I don't. Fear is almost as good as awe, to a god.
"Your one and only warning," I say, sticking a cigarette between my lips, lighting it by will alone and making sure he sees. "Someone's always watching, Chris, no matter how well you think you've covered your tracks. And some of us don't need evidence to convict. So this is your one warning; you fucked with one of mine, you can deal with either me or the cops, but trust me when I say you will be punished."
"W-what the fuck are you talking about, fre--"
No-one has any respect for the gods anymore.