Zwischen Teufeln/Entre Les Frères

June 18th. Dante stumbled around the corner, gripping his side like a tourniquet, as if his vise-like grasp could cease the blood that spurted from his open wound. He stopped momentarily to take a few staggering breaths of air, mildly paralyzed by pain, but fear that he would never again be able to move compelled him from his dark corner. He refused to die in the streets, among the homeless and the directionless, the weary and the poor. He was startled by a rattling in the alley behind him, and he took off, half-running half walking on toward his flat across the street. There was a trail of blood moistening the pavement below his feet, the pale moon illuminating the dark pools of his vitality. A lesser man would have succumbed to death by now. And a lesser man would not have been in this predicament that he found himself in. It was his stubbornness that bled him this way.

He stumbled pass a few pedestrians on the street, too drunk at this witching hour to care, and threw his body against the rickety double doors of his complex. Luckily, the automatic lock had failed again and he fell into the dim entranceway, half conscious. His impact had made a less subtle noise that he imagined, and a downstairs tenant peeped through the crack of his door to see the struggling devil face planted on the floor. He dashed out immediately and gripped his arm, assisting him to his feet.

"Are you-" he paused moment when he realized the pool of blood that had accumulated on the floor where Dante had for just a moment lay. Dante barely responded with a stiff nod and threw himself up the stairs, slipping on his own spillage. Once at the top of the stairs he managed to find his second story dwelling through hazy vision and thanked God that he did not live up another flight. His body wouldn't have made it. He burst through the door and slammed it shut, tearing off his shirt before he fell upon his unkempt bed in a feverish plummet. His hips were burdened with the pressure of Ebony and Ivory under his weight but he could not move. His arm slid off the bed and dangled, knuckles scraping the floorboards, frosty hair abroad, vacant green eyes focused on a split in the wood that led to the far wall in his studio apartment. He did not remember closing his eyes, but it was dark.

June 12th. At ten fifty- seven am, he sat slumped over his knees bare chest, loading his breakfast into the chamber and spinning the barrel. He clicked it shut randomly and casually put the nozzle above his ear. Pulled the trigger. The hammer had fallen on an empty chamber. Again. He did not fight with fate, rather, with a grumble he started to the bathroom with a dirty towel slung over his shoulder. The heat in his second floor studio had stuck his white jersey to his skin, his white hair to his forehead, his boxers to his groin. He had sweat to much he smelled like Sodium, the blood under his fingernails caked and clotted from the previous night's rendezvous. Everyday, the vicious cycle of his life continued, with the only promise of probability the bullet in his Ruger contained. Maybe one day he'd load in two and stop procrastinating.

But it was Saturday so he got up, bathed his skin, and neglected to lace his boots, comb his shaggy hair or dry off. He stuck an Einstein bagel between his teeth and grabbed a beer from the mini fridge he had next to his bed. It also served as a nightstand in his small flat. He pressed the play button on his answering machine and stood warily next to it listening, dropping crumbs on his white wife beater. Static. Static. A job he'd already done. A woman he'd already done. He tossed the remainder of the bagel into an overflowing ant haven trashcan, tucked his wallet into his back pocket and started out to the world. With a mastered façade of contentment, he skipped down the stairs two at a time into the equally as hot entranceway. His flat was right on the corner of a hill in San Francisco, so the left side of the building sloped, mirroring the neighboring complex across the street. The moment he stepped out into the heat, a Trolley conveniently rolled by on silver tracks and he hopped onto the back of it, riding against the wind on the snaking path down the hill into the heart of the city. He hopped off in front of a Smith and Wesson gun shop, popular with the youth outside littering the glass, prohibited from going in. The chime above the door signaled his arrival. His wayward appearance caught the attention of a few off duty police officers fogging up the establishment, but the shop manager behind the desk waved to him.

"Hi, Mr. Dante. Good to see you out and about." Dante gave him a fickle half smile and went about his business. Every Wednesday a new supply would come in and he'd stock up, examining clips and bullets, guns he could modify in his own devilish way to suit his fancy. It seemed like every other night some minion would swallow up his offense, or he'd loose it defying gravity in some way. He went up and down the aisles, conscious to the gentleman who kept staring at him from the other end of the aisle, not trying to be conspicuous. He heard the manager assure him that "he comes in here all the time." He could also hear the shop manager's daughter, who Dante had to admit, was a gun expert, asking customers for help. Seemed like she was getting declined a lot because he kept hearing her very feminine voice asking everyone. He disappeared into a back room, swollen with heat and darted his eyes to and fro at the miscellaneous weaponry in the back. WWI replicas, medieval weaponry, swords. He wondered how much Alastor was worth. When he exited, he came toe to toe with the manager's daughter who caught her breath and slapped a petite hand over her heart. Dante didn't budge.

"Didn't I just see you in the other aisle? How did you get here so quickly?"

Dante made an incredulous face but she darted by him and entered the room. The heat was driving people to madness. He grabbed a few shotgun shells and started for the desk, peeping down every aisle for a familiar face to no avail.

"How're ya?" The manager asked, moping his damp forehead with a handkerchief. Dante nodded.

"How'd you like the Ruger? 19th century, you know? Get the job done?"

Dante smiled at the irony. "Not really."

The manager nodded. "I can't imagine what the hell you do with all this stuff. You a cop or something?" He paused to mop his forehead again. He had a tendency to run his mouth and Dante had hoped that seeing him with his wallet resting on the counter would hurry him along. But it didn't. Dante shrugged. "Something like that."

He watched him run the laser across the barcode a few time until he gave up to punch in the numbers by hand. "Damn thing. Say, you got a twin brother or something you came in here with? I mean I never seen him before but I figured I'd ask." Dante responded with a flat "No."

"Really?" Came the skeptical voice. "Looked just like you. White hair and all, I mean that's kinda rare dontcha think? I seen bleach blondes but his hair is- whoo." he whistled, gestured to Dante's own wild hair. "Bit more tamed, no offense."

"None taken," Dante responded, annoyed. He finally rang everything up and gave Dante his receipt.

"Before you go, I just got a Deagle in yesterday. Heavy, seemed like something you'd like, since the Ruger didn't work out to well. Pity."

Dante could see his eyes glowing with hopes of a possible sale. Yes, pity. He found himself nodding. In an instant, the burly manager was gone and back with the unloaded Deagle, pure black.

"I got a silencer for it too, scope and all. I mean, the thing makes this cannon noise when you pull the trigger. You think my ears would be immune to this music by now but this buddy packs a whop." He passed the gun to Dante, then taking notice that he was wearing gloves. He whistled again.

"It's gotta be 96 degrees out there. How can you wear gloves?"

Dante examined the Deagle for a while, faking interest, set it down on the desk, took the glove off with his teeth. He held up four and a half fingers for him to see.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"All I need is the trigger finger." He nodded at him and left the store with a smug smile on his face.

A brother. Imagine that. A twin. A replica, a spitting imagine of himself. Clone? He started up the steep sidewalk toward his flat, regretting not having ridden his Red Rocket. Looked across the street at his reflection. His reflection stared back. Blinked. Wait, he didn't blink. The wicked curse of the wretched heat began to affect him. He'd already begun to sweat profusely. He took a step into the street but a trolley whizzed past him the moment he did so, gentle bells tinkling a warning. He stepped back onto the sidewalk, looked again for the reflection, mirage, whatever. He was disappointed.