The storm left streets wet and humming with leftover electricity. Down Booker Street, in the alley behind Dalrymple’s, where small bags changed hands under watchful eyes of neon, and blows were exchanged, a dark shape hunched by a dumpster.

Gehenna’s fever dream palette—LED security lights mixed with bar signs, and the otherworldly glow that shrouded the city at night—traced a soft outline over the body. Black liquid that would be red in daylight oozed from the knife wound in its throat.

Once again, the shape writhed. Something black and deformed tore at the air, its panicked wails might’ve been pitiful to the right ear. The thing lowered itself to the smeared red asphalt, became as small as possible, and slinked behind the dumpster.

A rat squeaked and jibbered past, knowing not to share its home with the new invader.

From the open back door of The Gemini, a primitive drumbeat snuck into the alley. It was rhythm that outlived language—a beat that could’ve been danced to in ancient temples, long before humans ever spoke the Devil’s name.

Two smoky paws stretched, slow and deliberate, from behind the blue cube. A kitten, all fluff and bone emerged.

“Please allow me to introduce myself…” Mick Jagger’s gravelly voice sang from the jukebox inside the bar.

The kitten tilted its tiny head, and casually walked over the body. The tail curled like smoke as it strolled out of the alley. A dying street lamp illuminated the bloody pawprints trailing behind.

Still puddles of rainwater caught the reflection—not a cat—something taller and vaguely humanoid, haloed in static, for only seconds.

The kitten paused and looked across Booker street. Its silver eyes didn’t look at anything, but through everything.

“Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name…”

The tiny creature crossed the street with the patience of something that knows time doesn’t apply to it. Passing headlights caught its eyes, twin mirrors, before it darted into the mist.

A woman’s laughter echoed from inside The Gemini, and glass shattered in the distance.

Gehenna kept on breathing.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! Don’t be afraid to comment. I like to know someone is reading my stories and that my contributions are being noticed.

Sympathy For The Devil was written By Mick Jagger, not by me. I don’t claim any ownership.

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The image above was created with DALL-E and modified by me with Photoshop. In the future when life slows down a bit, I plan to use my own art for these stories. But for now, this works.

Thanks for reading.

V.