“And you’re positive this wasn’t a drug induced hallucination?” Buggy asked around a mouthful of what I was assuming to be cheesy potato chips, “I mean, that’s the angle you are working with the Daughter’s of All, right? Drug peddlers?”
“No.” I replied, my voice echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom, “It wasn’t a hallucination. Father O’Brawley and Fiona can attest to that.”
Stripped to my waist, I was staring into the mirror of the restroom in the St. Donovan’s Church. Amongst the various other scars of days gone by, my body had been marred extensively. That insane design of swollen red tissue was still on my chest, angry as ever causing my paranoia meter to peak at an all time high, thanks to confusion and plain old fear from the experience I had just suffered through.
“You took a drug and your soul left your body. Then, after your body got molested by some giant hand, you gained supernatural powers?” Buggy deadpanned, pausing to slurp down some soda, “Yeah. That…that makes perfect sense. Remember to emphasize the part where you levitated when you’re giving your statement to the cops.”
The urge to fling my cell phone across the bathroom, hoping that when it broke would somehow cause permanent ear damaged to Buggy, boiled through me. Somehow I managed to suppress it as I ran my free hand over the scar tissue on my chest.
In the last fifteen minutes, I must have traced the design on my chest at least a hundred times. Touching the damn thing just made it seem that much more impossible, which was usually the opposite effect I had on judging whether or not something was real (especially breasts). But here was undeniable proof of my demonic possession, carved into my very flesh.
The human mind is a very fickle thing, especially when it came to memory. You just couldn’t trust it completely. Some experiences can seem so real, so vivid in the moment but in a few months, days or even hours they seem surreal. As if they hadn’t really happened. But here I was with actual proof that forever linked me to my possession. No amount of time would numb this experience or make me forget what had happened.
“So what do you want me to do?” Buggy was saying, “I can get you a list of the nearest exorcists, voodoo experts or witch doctors if ya want. But I still say you should go to a hospital and get a tox-screen. Just bring the drug in-”
“I flushed the damn drug down the toilet,” I cut the hacker off, looking behind me at the particular stall I had selected for the task, “I didn’t…couldn’t have another experience like that. If an accidental poke could do that to me, what could a full dose do? It was a risk I wasn’t going to take.”
“Brilliant.” Buggy sighed, “You took the only evidence of a new drug that would link this cult to felony charges and flushed it down the drain. Not to mention any chances of analyzing the stuff to make sure it’s not going to turn your vital organs into mush!”
About three hundred and forty-five insulting retorts danced on the tip of my tongue but I didn’t give them voice. While staring at my new scar tissue, an image flashed through my mind. I thought of a pale shoulder, ink twisting just below the skin. The tattoo belonged to the young women hidden in the Hell Scratch’s lounge, their tattoo bearing the same design as that slip of paper which had barred me from re-entering my own body. Those poor girls, trapped just like I had been. How long had they been imprisoned in that hellish limbo? And for what purpose?
“Shut up,” I replied, holding the phone in the crook of my neck as I slipped on my jacket, “I just need that info you dug up on those adoption forms. Those girls are in trouble…I need to help them.”
There was a long pause from Buggy.
“Good lord,” The haphazard hacker breathed, “I think I just might believe your impossible story.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I just heard the craziest thing yet! Arthur Broker, helping someone without anything in exchange. Ha ha, man, I didn’t think you’d piss on someone if they were on fire without charging them a urination fee. Maybe charity is one of the side effects of this mysterious drug, eh?”
“Fuck off. Just get me that information,” I growled, then added as I checked the mirror one last time, “And for the record, I am not doing this for free.”
“Oh? What is the fabulous conman extraordinaire going to manage to get out of this good deed?” Buggy laughed.
“Revenge.” I said coldly.
There was a long pause and I heard the ruffling of papers…or it could have been the sound of a potato chip bag being moved. With Buggy, it was probably both. As I waited, I zipped up my jacket and took note of my appearance. Obviously this drug had done a number on my body. My complexion was pale enough to make any Goth kid jealous and dark rings circled my blood-shot eyes. I was only under the drug’s effects for what, fifteen minutes tops? In that short amount of time I looked as if I had been on a three week cocaine binge.
“Alright, here is what I found out,” Buggy finally spoke into the phone, “And let me tell you, these tidbits are extremely juicy...”