Dragged into Darkness Read Free Page B

man’s shirt. 
    He picked up the body as easily as if it was a bag of groceries.  His strength always increased after a kill and the tall man was not a burden.  The Whistler tossed the body into the dumpster with the trash and slammed the lid closed.  He walked out of the alley into the street and disappeared into the night.
    The following morning, a squad car spotted the abandoned Porsche in the alley on routine operations.  They ran a check on the license plate and placed a call for a tow truck to remove the car.  The tow truck driver found the abandoned car between the two derelict buildings and cursed the scumbag winos that had left the broken bottles in the alley.  He picked up the broken glass and tossed it into the nearby dumpster.  The driver did not see the car owner who lay on a bed of filth inside.  He just got on with his task.  He loaded the sports car onto the truck and drove it to the city impound lot.
    The day came to an end and a new night began.  Paul Thompson awoke from his slumber in his rancid coffin.  A shudder ran through his body ending in a scream.  Enveloped in blackness, he remembered the attack.  Frightened, he burst from the dumpster like a jack-in-the-box and sent a couple of rats scurrying for cover.   He clambered out of his place of rest and stumbled away, falling to the ground on the other side of the alley.  His hand clutched at his throat for the mortal wound but found a healing scar.  He looked at his lacerated hand and saw a jagged line carved into his palm.  He realized he stunk like a shithouse mop and probably looked one like as well.  His clothes were dirty, stained with wine, blood and filth.  The smell was of stale sweat, alcohol and garbage.  He saw his car was gone, probably stolen by his attacker.
    He was hungry like he had never been before.  He was so hungry that his stomach felt knotted.  He wanted to get cleaned up but he needed something to eat, so he went into a McDonalds.  The people looked at him and wrinkled their noses at the sight and smell that greeted them.  The muffled sounds of discontent reached the night manager who came from behind the service counter.
    He confronted Thompson and refused him the right to food because of his condition.  The architect turned to his fellow diners for support but they looked away or at their food.  Others called for him to be thrown out.  The manager who wanted no further disruption to his restaurant took a burger from a rack and thrust into Thompson’s hand.
    “It’s on me,” the manager said bitterly.
    Thompson wanted to pay.  He felt guilty for causing so much commotion and did not want to take charity.  The manager did not care and pushed him out onto the street and sent him on his way with a “fuck off”.
    Thompson walked away from the fast food joint with the food he needed and the meat he had to have.  He made large, untidy bites into the sandwich and had made two swallows before he had an idea of the food’s flavor.  This is revolting , he thought.  It was not that the food was spoiled but that it was repellant to his palate.  It was as if what he was eating was rancid and everything tasted that way—the meat, bun, the cheese and the ketchup.  He dropped the half-eaten burger onto the sidewalk.
    He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich.  Peasant food , he thought.  He felt that this crap was inferior to his hunger.  This was not the type of food that he desired.  Arrogance filled his empty belly; he was worthy of better.  He went to grind the burger into the concrete with his heel.
    He doubled up in pain as his stomach rejected the food.  He vomited over the discarded burger.  His stomach had not digested the food so it pretty much came back out as it went in.  Mucus coated chunks of chewed food splatted hard against the sidewalk.  He was disgusted with his lack of control.  His arrogance got a slap across the face and was put back in its place.  He left his mess where