Tirgoviste The Order of the Dragon

Allow Me to Bleed My Misery All Over You

     Please let me introduce myself. My name is Alex Kerzhan. I am 23 years old, about six foot, thin build, pale skin, green eyes, long blonde hair, kind of pretty face I guess, at least the girls seem to think so. I was born into old money in Chicago, Ill. I'm not really sure what my father did for a living as he was always gone on "business" trips but my mother never minded. She was a dope head herself and loved to pop her Valium and Xanax.

     She is the one I get it from and I'm not talking about the drug addiction, although I suppose that can be inherited as well. I mean the psychic stuff. She never talked about it but I knew she was just like me. We could, you know, talk to each other without saying anything. I grew up thinking that sort of thing was normal. Of course, I couldn't talk to my father that way but I wouldn't have wanted to if I could. I was an only child and because I was "different", my parents elected to have me homeschooled by a series of governesses who were about as loving as Adolf Hitler. My parent's idea of love was throwing money at me and telling me to "go and have a good time", so that was basically what I did. I followed no rules but my own and as a result, got into all manner of Hell that my father had to use his influence to get me out of. I tried to be "normal" but sooner or later, the temptation to use my special gifts would become too much.

     When I was sixteen years old, I had my first real relationship with someone. She was a pretty girl from an upper class, old-money family like my own. Bridgett was her name. There was nothing really fancy about her. She was totally grounded in reality, had dreams of going to Harvard and all that rubbish. At sixteen, all I wanted to do was get laid. She was nice enough to indulge me from time to time, probably because she liked my big c**k. Well, I'm not really sure it was all that much bigger than anyone else's but she told me it was. She was more than likely just trying to make me feel better. She knew I was weird. It was after one such indulgence, as we were lying together and she was sleeping, that I made a discovery about my abilities that I hadn't been aware of.

     I was just lying there next to her listening to the sounds of the summer afternoon outside the open window, birds singing in the lilac bushes, the drone of a distant lawnmower, and the laughter of children in the next yard as they splashed in their pool. Just normal everyday sounds. I reached over and stroked my fingers through her hair and began to zone out a little when I was completely shocked to find myself drifting through her mind, watching her sleeping memories as if they were playing themselves out on television for me. I could wander through her thoughts, visit events of her past life, watch her private moments, and hear the things she had said to others. Naturally, I was interested in what she had to say about me. I had the peace of mind to realize that this wasn't normal but I was pretty used to that by now.

     I wanted to see everything but when I stumbled over a recent scene of her with another boy, a friend of mine, I was not prepared for what I was about to witness. Suffice to say, she was not being faithful to me and they were talking together about me, about how much of a freak I was. They were laughing together at my expense. God, how cruel people you love can be to you! I concentrated on pulling myself out of her head, got out of bed, dressed, and composed a f**k off letter which I left on her bedside table. She never even bothered to call and apologize to me. Not that it mattered. I guess that betrayal was the beginning of my downfall. Not the sole reason for it, mind you, but the beginning just the same.

    When I turned eighteen, I left home for good. I took my trust fund and used it to purchase myself a new, shiny, black BMW, and a sweet apartment in an up and coming Chicago neighborhood. I tried to go to college but that was a joke. I mean it literally bored the hell out of me. I had never considered it cheating to use my abilities to pass a test or "convince" my professors that I had already turned in my assignments. Sure I got good grades but as I said, it bored me to death. So, of course, I had to find other things to do.

     There was a club just down the block from my apartment and I always had enough cash in my pockets to bribe the bouncers not to check my ID. I suppose it was fate that I wound up meeting Tiny. God Tiny! He was a piece of work. He was born in Dublin, Ireland but his parents moved to America when he was thirteen. Tiny was much older than me, I think about twenty-eight or so. He was only about five-foot-four but he was stout as hell. He had a cherub's face, curly, black hair and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. He was pretty cute for a guy but tough as nails when it counted.

     Well, I started to tell you about the club and digressed a little. Let's get back on track. The place was a Punk Rock establishment called Fast Suzie's. Yeah, I know it's kind of a stupid name. The place was a total hole in the wall, one of those converted warehouse spaces that became so popular in the early nineties. Tiny and I hung out there every night. On one such night, we sat smoking in one of the dirty, out of the way, corner booths. The red and blue strobe lights flashing through the thick layer of smoke around us illuminated the darkness in a strange sort of alien-like way. We were attempting to have a conversation over the booming techno-punk music.

    "Ya know Yank," Tiny droned in his thick Dublin accent, "It's like everything good in life just disappears as soon as you hit eighteen. Music's changing, the world is changing. God knows, the game just ain't as fun anymore."

     "Well," I replied, "I think it's all in how you play it."

     He just grinned at me and tapped a cigarette out of his pack. We turned to watch the bodies gyrating on the dance floor.

     "You wanna get out of here?" I asked.

     Tiny shrugged and nodded. We made our way through the jungle of dancers, taking the opportunity to brush a little too close to some choice beauties on the way out. We were on our way, as usual, to score something that would help get us through the night.

     By the end of my freshman year at college, I had spent way too much time with Tiny and his friends. I'd picked up some of their more unsavory habits as well. At first, it was just pot, which could be had in abundance. Then as time passed, it progressed to harder stuff like prescription narcotics. But when that no longer sufficed, I moved on to cocaine, that sweet white powder. It became my vice for a couple of years. But eventually, you need something stronger. Tiny, my new best friend, knew how to deliver.

     By my twentieth birthday, I was a broke, skin-popping heroin addict. Of course, I came up with ways to get more money. I sold my BMW, sub-leased my apartment, and finally in desperation, called and begged my mother. But these efforts could only take me so far and eventually, I managed to alienate myself from my family all together. So it was, that I took to the streets with Tiny. We sold dope, panhandled, hooked, robbed, did basically whatever we had to do to scratch a living for ourselves and support our habits. I wouldn't say that life was good for us. We lived in a variety of cockroach-infested, s**t-hole dumps. We ate when we could but we spent most of what we made on dope.

     I used my psychic "gifts" to convince a couple of pretty college girls that Tiny and I were famous musicians from Ireland. I told the girls that we were going to be in Chicago for a couple of months and needed a place to stay. They were easy targets to hypnotize. We bled them dry before we moved on. Pretty faces go a long way toward getting you a place out of the cold but nothing lasts forever.

     A couple of months before my twenty-second birthday, Tiny and I had a terrible fight over a couple of hundred bucks he thought was missing from his wallet. I was pretty sure we'd spent it the night before when we shot up but he wasn't convinced. Eventually, he pulled a gun on me. Needless to say, it was the end of yet another friendship, if that was what you could call it. But I always manage to find a way to move on. I found a want ad for a maintenance/security position in a run-down apartment building. It didn't pay much but I got to stay there rent-free.

     I worked during the day, panhandled for money all afternoon, and shot up in the evening. The nights were lonely for me. I would walk through the building, "listening" with my hands on the doors, "feeling" what the people inside each unit were saying and doing, psychic eves dropping if you will. I witnessed all manner of human ugliness that way but I never interfered. I came to hate people in general and after some time, to hate myself as well. I had wasted my time, wasted my life, and wasted my money. There was no hope for better.

     One evening, not long after I took the job, the building manager showed up at my door and told me in no uncertain terms, that I was to vacate the premises immediately. Someone had seen me shooting up in the boiler room and decided that they didn't want a heroin addict working on their heating system. That was probably a good idea for them. For me, it meant one thing, homelessness. So it was no real surprise when I found myself in that alley later that night. Maybe it was meant to be, maybe I was drawn there. I think now, that I was. After all, I wasn't the only one in despair in the city of Chicago and slavery takes on many forms and many chains. I went looking for something to ease my pain. The one who found me was looking for the same. Well, now you know a little about me. Please allow me to continue my story of what happened the morning after I met the strange boy outside the club. 

     When I woke up on my apartment floor the morning after, I had no recollection whatsoever, of how I'd gotten there. I could almost recall the night's events. I could almost remember his face, almost but not quite. I knew that at some point he must have injected me with a powerful drug. The feeling of euphoria was gone but I could remember it with complete clarity. That was the only thing I could recall absolutely.

     Although my psychic senses told me differently, I managed to convince myself that I had just made out with some cute, young, foreign guy in the back alley of a club and he'd shot me up. But that theory was full of holes. Cute, young, foreign, guys don't walk down the side of a building. They don't make out with junkies in alleys next to filthy dumpsters and they don't shoot you up for free. I tried to forget what happened, to push it to the back of my mind. No matter how hard I tried, it only became more vivid. I packed up my meager belongings and headed over to a friend's house to crash for a few days.

     Luke was a good egg. He was a drug dealer of course but he had a heart. He was a very handsome, young, light-skinned black man I'd met through Tiny. He had always fronted to me when I needed it. Luke had told me time and time again that he was concerned about how much I used.

     "You need to slow down, man. This s**t is gonna kill you!" he would always say. He was surprised to see me at his door but willing to let me crash on his couch as long as it was only for "a couple of days".

     As those "couple of days" passed, I gradually came to realize something. Although I was surrounded by all manner of drugs at Luke's, I had no craving whatsoever. In fact, I was a little repulsed at the idea of shooting some man-made chemicals into my veins when I had experienced something that was so much more potent, so much more beautiful. But every drug produced its own addiction and though I no longer had that painful craving for heroin, I found that I longed for that much more intense high, that beautiful feeling I'd had in the alley that night. I wanted to feel it again.

     My head was getting clearer and clearer. I felt really good for the first time in years. My skin lost the sallow color it had taken on. I began to gain weight and fill out. But still, I felt the subtle undertone of desire. It was manageable, it could be lived with but it was always there on the fringe, calling seductively to my subconscious. Yeah, I wanted to see him again. Hell yeah, I did!  After about a month, I began to really wonder about him in earnest, my demon-angel. Who was he? Where was he? Would I ever see him again? I decided to try and find that alley and with some luck and my special senses, I managed it. I took a bus to the area of my old apartment and started walking in the general direction my "radar" told me to go. After a couple of blocks, I found myself directly across the street from the place I sought.

     My alley was located between two night clubs. The club on the left, "Sliders", was a biker bar. But the one on the right was a private club. It was a tall impressive old building that looked to be made entirely of black marble. It appeared to be an old theatre. The marquee was covered over in reflective glass and directly above in big, blood-red, neon-fire writing, was the word "Tirgoviste". I knew this place, of course. I'd been here before with Luke or Tiny. We'd tried to get in at least a 100 times and always been turned away. The doorman was a hulking Australian with blonde, dread-locks that ran halfway down his back. He was an intimidating fellow who always wore dark glasses even at night. I could hear his voice in my head even now.

     "This is a private club. You can't get in here without an invitation."

     I could see him right now, sitting just outside the front door smoking a cigar and looking across the street, looking right at me. I suddenly understood the clique "alone in a crowd", for though I was surrounded by people standing on the corner waiting for the walk light, I felt as if I were naked and exposed. He sat there staring at me and not moving a muscle. I began to feel a deep sense of foreboding but decided to open up my special senses and see what I could pick up. I closed my eyes, exhaled and relaxed, opening myself up to my surroundings.

     As always, it became an instant bombardment of sensation and sound, the briny smell of Lake Michigan behind me, the stink of car exhaust and the sounds of the crowd, their thoughts, voices, and the noise of the traffic. I had to concentrate hard to shut it all down and seek for what I wanted, make it come to me. I stood frozen to that spot as the Australian continued to watch me and although I believed that he knew what I was doing, I ignored him and reached out with my mind toward that dark ominous building. A crowd was beginning to gather there, the hopefuls, waiting to get in. Are you in there my demon-angel? Something made me believe that he was but no matter how hard I tried, my senses could penetrate no farther than the door.

     I don't know what it was that made me decide to cross the street but I followed the crowd across with the signal. I walked past the hopefuls inside the black, velvet, ropes and went right up to the front door to face the Australian. I could hear the protests of those waiting in line but I phased it out as so much noise, not worthy of listening to. He was still sitting there, absolutely still, eyeing me over his glasses. I stood just as still and returned the look he gave me. I refused to be intimidated by him. What I wanted was inside, I just knew it. I would try to hypnotize this man if I had to. I didn't like to do that to people but by God, he wasn't keeping me out! Not tonight. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached up, took the cigar out of his mouth, and sat back on the stool.

      "So you wanna go inside, man?" he asked, c*****g his head toward the open door.

     I remained silent for a moment to hide my stupefaction. I peered past his shoulder, through the glass doors, into the dark interior of the club. Cool air filtered out from under the doors, a welcoming enticement against the sweltering summer evening.

     "Should I go in?" I asked him in return.

     "Your business, man, not mine", he replied and popped the cigar back into his mouth.

     "I'm looking for someone. Can you help me?" I asked turning back toward him.

     For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer but he removed the cigar once again and laughed low in his throat.

      "Of course you are, man. Why else would you be here."

     I ignored the remark and continued my questions. "He's young, probably about my age, black hair, dark eyes, dark skin, black, leather jacket…"

     The Australian jumped up off the stool and I took a couple of steps back but managed to hold my ground.

      "Now just hold up there, man," he said, as he took the dark glasses off and leaned down to look deep into my eyes.

     Although my first instinct was to turn away, I didn't. I let myself feel and try to discern exactly what it was he was looking for. That was when I picked it up. That same vibe I'd had in the alley. He reminded me of the strange sensation that had bombarded me when I first met my demon-angel. I sensed he wasn't as strong as my demon-angel but the similarities were definitely there. The Australian, apparently having satisfied whatever suspicions he had about me, sat back down on the stool, replaced his glasses and the cigar, and leaned over to open the velvet rope for me. 

     "Go inside. He'll find you. Welcome to Tirgoviste!"

     I decided to again remain silent, as I was, for the moment, without words and as I pushed open the door, I heard the protests of the hopefuls and the Australian, once again saying his famous line. "This is a private club. No one gets in without an invitation." I didn't have an invitation but I decided to keep that to myself.

     As I passed through the doors into the outer room, I could see the old ticket booths to my right. Directly in front of me were two large, wooden doors, each beautifully carved with dragons facing each other toward the center of the doors. I could hear the slow, steady drumbeat and the bass reverb of the music. I could smell alcohol, smoke, sweat, and something else, a copper odor that I couldn't quite place and that scent from the alley. It was cloying, inviting, familiar, and yet, not so. I understood at that moment, that if I passed through those doors, my life would probably change forever. If the Australian was right and he was in there, I would go right back to being a junkie. I knew it.

     Whatever drug he had given me that night was stronger and more potent than anything I'd ever had before. Those kinds of drugs eventually kill you. I took a deep breath, reached out, and pushed open the doors.

The old theatre's main floor had been converted into the dance floor and was packed with people moving in rhythm to the strange Middle-Eastern sounding music. The constant flash of the strobe light was unsettling. I ducked involuntarily as I felt, rather than saw, something come swooping toward me and as I looked up, I noticed that there were two trapeze artists performing high up above the crowd, and with no net, I might add. I stepped forward as flames shot up on either side of me in clear tubes, illuminating the pale faces around me. I was aware that the dancers had noticed me, the newcomer and some of them were beginning to take an interest.