"For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth." - Romans 1:18
It was suppose to be a casual encounter after a simple reply from a craigslist posting; Armando wasn't expecting to find a doorman standing outside the dive bar dressed in black as if he were working security for a club that sold a single bottle of Grey Goose for five thousand dollars a bottle to simply sit in a private booth. As he walked toward the bar, Armando slowly realized the street was unnaturally deserted that early in the night, being it was not even nine o'clock at night yet. There was only him, and the doorman standing quietly in front of the bar's closed door, facing out, head slightly turned at the sound of Armando's footsteps, one hand holding his wrist before him. Armando had the feeling the doorman hand a gun under the black coat he was wearing, ready for any threat that would appear.
A little nervous, and curious at the same time, Armando stopped before the doorman, staring up at him.
He asked, "Is the place closed for a private party, or something?"
The doorman looked Armando up and down, then moved his head left to right at the street and sidewalk, scanning for anyone else. The street was still vacant of anyone else. The doorman then looked up at the windows of the surrounding buildings, and held up his right arm with his index finger raised.
He then fixed his gaze back to Armando, and said, "Are you the one who posted on the craigslist?"
"Yes," Armando answered, a bit confused. "I thought you and I were going to meet inside the bar."
"No," the doorman said, "I'm not the one who replied. He's waiting for you inside. Go on in."
The doorman opened the door, gesturing to Armando to go inside.
Hesitating, almost wanting to leave, Armando said, "This is - " He cleared his throat with the thought that his night would end with his body cut up, all his limbs put in a trash bag, and tossed into the Hudson River. "I have to tell you, dude, this is kind of weird. I'm not being turned on by this...whatever this is."
The doorman said, in a most professional and serious tone, "I assure you, sir, there's nothing to be afraid of. He told me to tell you, if you were scared, that there may be true happiness for you at the end of this night. And most of all, satisfaction."
"Okay, sounds like it'll be the greatest fuck I'll ever have," Armando said.
He slowly entered the dimly lit bar. Usually the place at that time of night would have a small crowd of people from the neighborhood looking to relax and get buzzed in a quiet atmosphere away from the howling parties of the city's nightlife. But on that particular night the bar was empty with the exception of the bartender whom Armando had never seen before.
"Where's Charlie tonight?" Armando asked the - he guessed - new employee.
The bartender, a well dressed and clean cut man, didn't answer, but pointed at a booth across the room occupied by a man smoking a cigarette with a drink on the table before him which seemed to be a whiskey on the rocks. Armando slowly walked up to the booth. The man, who wore an expensive black pinstriped suit with a red tie with small stripes of blue and white, seemed to have a slight strained expression as he took sometime to look at Armando.
"Hello there," the man said. "Thank you for coming."
The man seemed he could have been a few years older than Armando, but due to his haggard appearance, dressed in a dirty hoodie sweatshirt, dirty blue jeans, and wearing three year old shoes, he felt almost twenty years older than the man sitting in the booth.
"Please have a seat," the man said to him, gesturing with his hand for Armando to sit on the other side of the booth.
Armando just stood there, not moving, perplexed not only by the setting he found himself in, but by the polite man sitting before him.
Noticing Armando's hesitation, the man said, "Now I know what you're thinking. 'This man here, who replied to my posting for a casual fuck, not only had the bar closed to make the meeting more private, but is smoking a cigarette inside which is banned in this fine city.' Am I close?"
"Close enough," Armando said, then sat down.
"Cool. What would you like to drink? It's on me."
"A Lagunitas," Armando said.
"You sure you don't want anything stronger?"
"And a shot of tequila."
The man looked over at the bartender. He said, "A Lagunitas and a shot of tequila for my friend here. And a refill of Van Winkle for me, please."
Armando's brow flicked up. He pointed at the nearly empty glass of whiskey on the table, and asked, "That's Van Winkle whiskey?"
"Yes it is," the man said. "It's all I drink."
"Wow, man," Armando said, impressed. "You are one rich motherfucker. For a casual, anonymous fuck, you go all out."
As the bartender placed the drinks on the table, the man said, "This isn't a casual meeting before a casual, anonymous fuck, Mr. Thadien."
A flush of shock came upon Armando's face when he heard what the man just said. Paranoia and horror came to his emotions as well as the immense desire to jump out of that booth and make a run for it, but he knew this man would not allow him to get very far.
The man noticed the look on Armando's face immediately, and his own jovial attitude to that point was gone.
He said softly to Armando, "Swig down that shot of tequila, Mr. Thadien, and try to relax." Then the man said slowly, enunciating each word, "I am not a monster."
Armando downed the shot of tequila, chased it with the Lagunitas. He looked over to the bartender, pointing to the empty shot glass. The bartender filled another shot glass with tequila.
"Thank you," Armando said.
He became uneasy, not wanting to look at the man in front of him, scratching his head, thinking about sitting in the bathroom stall, and shooting up the heroin he scored the day before.
The man let out a long, heavy sigh. He placed the cigarette butt on top of the wooden table, squishing the burning raspberry with the palm of his hand.
"May I call you 'Armando,' Mr. Thadien?" The man asked.
"That's fine, sir," Armando replied, still not looking at the man.
"I want you to look at me, Armando. You don't have to talk. I just want you to listen to what I must say to you. And I want you to look into my eyes as I say it. Please do that for me."
With what seemed like great effort, Armando raised his head and looked at the man's face.
The man was silent for a moment as he reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieved a gold cigarette case, opened it, took out a cigarette, offering it to Armando. Armando shook his head. The man lit the cigarette with a gold Zippo lighter, deeply breathing in the tobacco's carbon monoxide.
"I've met you before," the man began to say. "Well, actually, I've seen you before. You wouldn't remember because at the time you were blindfolded with a few other boys as you were escorted through the foyer at my father's house. I was sixteen at the time. It was during my so called 'Sweet Sixteen' initiation into the disgusting world my father was apart of. You see, the world people like my father and I occupy is what I consider the 'Above the Law of man' where the worst of human nature can be acted upon if the human has the power to do so without the consequences of being exposed."
The man took another long drag of his cigarette looking uneasy before he continued speaking.
"That night my father had two choices to gain the trust of his wicked friends: keep the lifestyle secret from me - which would give me less opportunity in my own personal life as an adult - or expose it to me, make me watch as he and the others did what they did to you and the others that night. Armando, you must -"
The man's breath caught in his throat. His hand rose before him, shaking.
"Armando," the man continued, finding it difficult, but continuing to explain, "you must understand I had no choice. I was just a kid. After they began molesting you and the others, I left. And I must've made myself forget about that night, even the gun shots I heard from my room. The memory didn't come back to me until my father was on his deathbed last month. The moments before he died he reminded me of that dreadful night. He asked for my forgiveness, and hoped that he would be able to go to heaven. I said nothing."
The man picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it all up. He let out a painful sigh after finishing the drink. Armando's mind was on the horrific night. The night his best friend was shot in the back when he fought the rapist monsters.
"I killed him," the man said.
"What?" Armando said, his painful memory interrupted.
"I killed my father." The man now looking down at the table, holding up his hand. Thumb, index, and middle finger close together. "Like this. I closed these fingers on his throat, choking him in his final moments of life. He attempted to stop me, but was too weak to do so. Now I have all his fucking money to do as I please. I had people look for men who posted on craigslist looking to sell their ass under the guise of seeking anonymous sex. I know that you and the others were made to be opiate addicts by assholes like my father. I remembered the birthmark on your shoulder from that night, and the picture you put up with the post showed that same birthmark."
"Why am I here?" Armando asked. "Do you want me to forgive your father to find some sort of peace?"
"No, Armando," the man said. "As the religious would say, 'Only God forgives.' And -" The man reached in another inner jacket pocket and took out a yellow envelope, "'The Devil punishes'" He then slid the envelope across the table.
"What is that?" Armando said.
"It's a list," the man replied. "Now I can't give you the list of all the people like my father, because this wouldn't be an envelope, it would be a book. A fucking huge book. What I can give you is a list of people that help provide the services to the sick, super rich monsters like my father. What you do with this information is up to you. These are people that aren't known to the public. Some are easy to find, some are listed in the phone book, and have Facebook pages."
Armando picked up the envelope.
"Don't open it until I leave, or wait until you get home," the man said, getting up from the booth. "And try getting off the heroin. I want you better. You were a good playwright back in that school. I actually saw it. 'Silent Knight in silver armor.' Great play? After you get off the H, write one for broadway."
"How could I trust you?" Armando said.
"That's why I didn't give you my name. Neither of us can trust each other. Both of us must have faith."
Armando said, with the thought of shooting up heroin, "I don't believe in God."
Before leaving, the man leaned in close to Armando's ear and said softly, "I don't either."
With what seemed like great effort, Armando raised his head and looked at the man's face.
The man was silent for a moment as he reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieved a gold cigarette case, opened it, took out a cigarette, offering it to Armando. Armando shook his head. The man lit the cigarette with a gold Zippo lighter, deeply breathing in the tobacco's carbon monoxide.
"I've met you before," the man began to say. "Well, actually, I've seen you before. You wouldn't remember because at the time you were blindfolded with a few other boys as you were escorted through the foyer at my father's house. I was sixteen at the time. It was during my so called 'Sweet Sixteen' initiation into the disgusting world my father was apart of. You see, the world people like my father and I occupy is what I consider the 'Above the Law of man' where the worst of human nature can be acted upon if the human has the power to do so without the consequences of being exposed."
The man took another long drag of his cigarette looking uneasy before he continued speaking.
"That night my father had two choices to gain the trust of his wicked friends: keep the lifestyle secret from me - which would give me less opportunity in my own personal life as an adult - or expose it to me, make me watch as he and the others did what they did to you and the others that night. Armando, you must -"
The man's breath caught in his throat. His hand rose before him, shaking.
"Armando," the man continued, finding it difficult, but continuing to explain, "you must understand I had no choice. I was just a kid. After they began molesting you and the others, I left. And I must've made myself forget about that night, even the gun shots I heard from my room. The memory didn't come back to me until my father was on his deathbed last month. The moments before he died he reminded me of that dreadful night. He asked for my forgiveness, and hoped that he would be able to go to heaven. I said nothing."
The man picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it all up. He let out a painful sigh after finishing the drink. Armando's mind was on the horrific night. The night his best friend was shot in the back when he fought the rapist monsters.
"I killed him," the man said.
"What?" Armando said, his painful memory interrupted.
"I killed my father." The man now looking down at the table, holding up his hand. Thumb, index, and middle finger close together. "Like this. I closed these fingers on his throat, choking him in his final moments of life. He attempted to stop me, but was too weak to do so. Now I have all his fucking money to do as I please. I had people look for men who posted on craigslist looking to sell their ass under the guise of seeking anonymous sex. I know that you and the others were made to be opiate addicts by assholes like my father. I remembered the birthmark on your shoulder from that night, and the picture you put up with the post showed that same birthmark."
"Why am I here?" Armando asked. "Do you want me to forgive your father to find some sort of peace?"
"No, Armando," the man said. "As the religious would say, 'Only God forgives.' And -" The man reached in another inner jacket pocket and took out a yellow envelope, "'The Devil punishes'" He then slid the envelope across the table.
"What is that?" Armando said.
"It's a list," the man replied. "Now I can't give you the list of all the people like my father, because this wouldn't be an envelope, it would be a book. A fucking huge book. What I can give you is a list of people that help provide the services to the sick, super rich monsters like my father. What you do with this information is up to you. These are people that aren't known to the public. Some are easy to find, some are listed in the phone book, and have Facebook pages."
Armando picked up the envelope.
"Don't open it until I leave, or wait until you get home," the man said, getting up from the booth. "And try getting off the heroin. I want you better. You were a good playwright back in that school. I actually saw it. 'Silent Knight in silver armor.' Great play? After you get off the H, write one for broadway."
"How could I trust you?" Armando said.
"That's why I didn't give you my name. Neither of us can trust each other. Both of us must have faith."
Armando said, with the thought of shooting up heroin, "I don't believe in God."
Before leaving, the man leaned in close to Armando's ear and said softly, "I don't either."
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