“You’re not supposed to be here-” The soldier choked on his own tongue as the crystal blade rode up his throat, and stabbed through his tongue and into the top of his head. Floyd retreated the blade from the base of his neck. The blood squirted out in spurts. He let the body drop before dragging it along and stealing the clothes. The nude corpse was left somewhere, only he in his insanity, believed to be a safe spot: a small cart of dirty laundry made dirtier by the fresh blood.

It made it easier for him to escape, it made it easier for him to find a sewer and to take off his getup and make his way into the heart of the city.

He wandered into darkness.

"You were never meant for anything short of this," Thomas Wolfe Sr. said, standing in front of his folded chair in front of a setting sun. The incomplete construction laid beneath him, only the final bits remained; paint, some accessories, signs, small things that would be done before the year ended. His hands were wide open, side to side as if holding the level sands within his grip.

"This is what we were born for, made to do. By God, who else?"

Floyd stood there, ice cream in his hand, sitting in a green lawn-chair with the vanilla dripping down his hands and his face smothered white.

"Oh, I've suffered, lord knows I have. But what can be bought without suffering? Nothing of value. Oh, I have suffered. Your mother knows it. And I waited patiently, the Lord knows it. I was virtuous. Loyal." He turned to Floyd. "And now the bounty of my patience has given me proper deliverance. My new kingdom."

The crooked neon lights hung by cable wire. “El Rey Casino” were spelled out crookedly across the front.

It was going to be built soon.

Thomas Wolfe Sr. knew it. Knew the name too, far before the creation was even there in his heart. Knew the casino would be his long before he had any desire to even own one. It seemed like Thomas knew everything, at least to little Floyd who sat and gawked and paid idle attention to his supposed birthright. Why, after a while, little Floyd even began to believe it. Because it only takes a little bit of effort and repetition to get a kid to believe anything. So after a while of Thomas preaching the good Lord and His gospel and pretending Thomas was more than just lucky - terribly lucky - that even Floyd began to feel as if...above. As if royalty.

He bought it.

He didn't know how they were royalty. He wasn't related to no king, no prince, no fancy European family. Southern families usually weren’t. All they had to their name were plantations and bad history. He learned that in the history books.

But apparently, they were kings.

And in the matter of children, no amount of book-learning could out teach father-splaining.

He was royalty, dad said so. He was a prince, dad say so. This was their kingdom, dad said so.

This large expanse of sand, the tower standing center of it all, looking down at the little houses like coves of cockroaches and dens of parasites.

The metal girders to his side blocked the wind and caused it to rise above them, lifting Floyd's hair. Thomas approached the ledge, never fearful. For what does a servant of the Lord fear? Only the Lord, of course.

"I have made this empire for you, son. Your mother, your sisters, you. And I hope to see you extend this past my life," His voice suddenly slow. "We all don't live forever, and we barely live long enough for one thing. I've lived most of my life then, for this, for the beginning of our legacy. And I hope you live through its apex."

Floyd kept licking his ice cream. A boy of twelve, only recently home-schooled with no friends but his sisters and no blood connections (he wouldn't know of his half-brothers until three years later) past them.

"You can do that for me, right? Floyd?" He asked. “You can take over when I leave, right?”

Which was really too much to ask a boy.

"Uh huh," Floyd said.

"Good," Thomas lowered his hands, the sleeves of his white blazer coat lifted a bit, the tattoo pronounced black underneath. He had sweat coming off that area, his arm, and his armpits and the back of his neck.

"I hope you’ll never live like I did," He said. “Like rats.”

Like a rat.

He slipped out of the manhole, his hair shaggy and drenched with filth. It clung to his skin.

He had nothing on his person, nothing that differentiated him from the rats and the trash. Nothing that made him different from the men hanging by the sides of walls with old vomit clinging to their cheeks, and their faces downtrodden towards the floor. The sojourns, with rattling wheel-broken carts and the empty looks in their faces as they went any which way. And though they walked, it was as if they did not move at all, for they always congregated in their same alleys, in their same hell with no hope and perhaps no motivation for anything more. Like compasses with broken needles.

Maybe that’s what made Floyd different. He walked past a slew of these homeless, they spat in his direction. Perhaps they were envious.

He knew where he was going. He was poor. Dingy. But not lost. He knew exactly where he was going, where it was that pushed his heart a certain direction over another. He approached a thoughtful looking homeless (he was cooking something over a barrel of fire). From his own pocket, Floyd picked a photograph.

The chef said nothing. So he pointed the picture downwards, to another homeless man near him.

"Have you seen this woman?" A picture of Aenea. The homeless man with the beret and the wheelchair gave a long drawn out no, then began to cycle away towards another fire, a small one where a pot of water was being boiled.

The darkness was setting, cold long since coming before. The streets were struck first by the wind. It pushed clothes on laundry lines in one direction.

"Do you want in on this?" One of the homeless asked. He gestured towards the pit fire.

Floyd walked away. He left the channels and the broken boulevards. His face risen high to the neon lights of Vacancy signs and strip-malls. Nothing kept him still, nothing save for a pay phone some miles into his trek through the city.

"Do you know where she's at?" He spoke into the receiver in a tone that could only be described as impatient.

"Maybe," The voice on one end said. "We've tracked her credit card spending at least."

It was a familiar voice. Old, busy. An investor's voice.

"Now, you will go public with the casino, right?" The voice asked. “When you own it?”

"Whatever you want. I don't care. Just find her."

"Well, alright." The voice was giddy. With a dry cackle, like an old witch. "Wherever she is, or her credit card is, the last we've seen her spend was on some burgers and fries. Believe it or not. A...Mandos mega burger?"

He didn't say thank you. He didn't say anything but press the button on the box and let the receiver dangle by its metal cord. He stepped out the phone box, the sides of the glass were warped. The floor was warped. Every step he left small foot sized craters. Within the cavities; traces of black and white marble. Crystalline substances. Shiny dust.

His gaunt eyes looked across the horizon, across the strip clubs, across the apartment complexes with the noisy couples arguing and the sounds of heat and want.

Everyone was inside. And no one was out but the alcoholics (who confused Floyd for an apparition with the way he moved as if shackled) and the homeless (who knew better than to look the crazy sonofabitch in the eyes).

Sometimes, when he walked through, he even found insane people.

"You look lost buddy." One of these types said. He laughed from behind a bottle. He wore a sweater with two holes at the heart and the chest. Bullet holes. An old sweater. It smelled like rancid garlic.

Floyd looked around. There were two of them, a friend with a crutch that he used as a pseudo-white cane. He had black sunglasses and khaki shorts and was bald at the top of his head. He was grabbing onto the drunks arms, which could not pry the bottle of whiskey from his mouth.

"Let's go, come on." He said.

"Maybe I can help you, bud." The more courageous of the two said. "Or maybe the streets are too rough for you. As it is for most rich fucks, right?"

He threw the bottle, and it rolled, cracking as it did.

"It’s cold ain’t it?” He said. “The type of cold that makes you wish for a bed, huh?”

"Henry, stop fooling around."

"Naw, I ain't fooling. I'm pissed." He said. "I’ve got too good a memory to be kidding."

“Let it go.”

The bottle rolled unto Floyd. He stopped it with the ball of his feet. It clanked against the sole of his shoe. He stepped on it.

“I’ll never let go,” The stout man said.

"Alright Henry, you're on your own then." The blind homeless said. He didn’t seem so blind as he ran off with his cart with precise cowardice, dodging all ramps and nooks.

"Do you even know who I am?” Henry said.

"No," Floyd said.

"Of course you wouldn't. I was your floor manager. Remember that?”

"No." He stepped forward into a puddle, the splash broke a reflection of the two, reverberations driving down the street and towards the homeless man. "I don't remember trash."

“You don’t remember your cunt sister firing me? You don’t remember all the people I beat the shit out of? Did you even care when I was left out?” He asked. “Did you even care what happened to me?”

He took out from his pocket a knife, at least Floyd presumed it to be. And it must have been a knife with how much pride the homeless man carried it with, with the kind of security that only a weapon could give you; stiff shoulders, a low head and an extended hand as if in stance for fencing.

"I’ve gone through hell," he said. "And you don’t even care. Well, I’ll make you care. You’ll know what it means to lose everything."

"I don't need to know that." He said. "I've known that feeling for a while now."

The man did not hesitate. The muddy, dirty water splashed beneath his holed boots as he ran full stride at Floyd. His knife was forward.

The stout man, ferocious, steadfast and so terribly - terribly - slow.

Slow enough to not even spur Floyd to attention. Slow enough to let him think.

For a second, Floyd thought about how to kill him, and felt his arm burn and the crystals of black form at his fingertips, as if black particles collected at the points. Then he clenched his fist. They dispersed like spores, ephemeral black mist. The man came forward. His stabbing arm extended out. It was a piece of glass, bright pink.

Floyd grabbed him by the wrist. Turned, and flipped him.

Henry landed on his neck, onto the water. Floyd put his foot against his neck. He extended the arm with the knife and twisted it once, at the bicep. He heard a bone pop. The man let out all his air into a long, silent sigh. His eyes were open, the water drowned them, his open mouth was facing the floor. The water seeped in to fill the gap of his toothless front gums.

He didn’t close his mouth to stop the dirty water. Henry kept it open as Floyd kept twisting. The pain was too great to fight against, and too great to even scream against. He just left his mouth agape and exhaled air like a dying balloon. All courage, all momentum, drained from him.

A second bone pop. This time at the wrist.

Floyd let go. He felt his arm heat up again and the particles collect into a blade in his arm. He raised the man, who was less a man and more a rag. His clothes dragged against the floor and dripped. One half of him was a giant wet spot, the other side was dirt and green colored.

The homeless coughed. The scent of alcohol filled Floyd's nose.

“What was this worth?” Floyd asked. “Anything?”

Henry’s eyes were dizzyingly circling. Floyd slapped him then pinched his nose. The man coughed again.

"Who fired you?" The knife came up to his neck. "What compels a man to look for death? Who compels him?"

"I hate your face," He laughed. "I hate it so much..."

Floyd let him go. He landed on his knees and laid out like a broken doll.

“I hate your cunt sister. I hate all those bitches. I hate you.” He cried. He tried to speak again, then hesitated. He looked up to Floyd and hesitated again; to cough, to spit, to taste the blood in his mouth. He hesitated, because Floyd’s look was too much.

“Aenea?” Floyd said. “She’s been ruining people this long then?”

Henry tried to scream. He looked to crawl with his one arm. Floyd caught it. Twisted it. Twisted it until there was nothing but skin holding it together.

“Oh, how curious. That messy bitch couldn’t even finish this job right.” He said. “What a pity.”

The man waited there. Waited. He did not spur, did not scream, did not do much. Pain had knocked him unconscious, which perhaps was a good thing.

“Well, we better leave a letter of resignation. No? Shouldn’t she be informed about you? Henry, was it?” He said. “She needs to know you’re here. Needs to know, I’m here. Yes. Yes.” His breath was heavy, the glint in his eye had died as the night receded. Sirens were far off, ever approaching, like a looming invasion over the horizon.

And from his hand came out the small black spike. A little short of a foot with a point so small it seemed like a fencing sword. And with one quick movement, he impaled it into the man’s eye through the back of his skull. It struck the floor, that crystalline blade. Like a kebab of a human’s skull; first bone, then brain matter and at last at the end, the severed eye.

Then he went again. With another spike…and again…and again…

Until his bated breath had him knelled over and his arm burned with concentrated intensity and the veins in his body pulsed and bulged. A fatigue, magical fatigue, perhaps. Or maybe he had just gone insane and it finally left him tired.

Whatever it was, he fell on his back and kicked his feet off from the floor to push himself into the alley. He knew where to go. Or knew where to begin, Mandos mega burger.

A stupid name. The kind of name that made his tired face smile as he receded into darkness as the red and blue light approached.

The body was left there, crucified on the broken streets with careless aim. As if the man had been eaten by an iron maiden and spat out. He laid there, bleeding, waiting to be found.