Nanowrimo - Day 8

The sand Mike was laying back on was sloped downward, with just enough decline that he could put is hands behind his head, lay back, and still be able to watch the yacht move slowly across his field of vision headed south in the moonlight, taking its wealth with it. The slow movement of the boat against the horizon mesmerized him, and he fell asleep.

When he woke, the water was lapping against his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans. His feet felt wet and heavy. He was groggy, as if some hours had passed, but the moon was hid behind some clouds, and it was too dark to try to read the time of he night from the skies. He pulled out his cell phone to check the time, but it must have run out of battery, because it was off and wouldn't turn back on. The boat he had been watching was gone, which startled him a little. It had been moving so slowly that it must be much later in the night. He stood up and turned around, shaking out his blanket as he did. The restaurants and shops and bars were all closed, their lights out for the night. No one walked the street along the beach, no couples lay on the sand.

And then it occurred to Mike - there were no bums either. Nobody sleeping on the sand or the benches or the sidewalk. There was no noise of cars passing by on Hollywood Boulevard, not at all. Even the waves right by him were silent. He turned to look at them, to make sure they were still moving, and sure enough, they were. Stepping closer to see if maybe he just wasn't hearing right, he strained his ears to hear a sound matching the movement of the water, but he couldn't hear anything. However, what he saw took whatever credulity he had left.

It looked at first like a wad of seaweed washing up of shore, the way they do sometimes, floating in on the waves and bobbing up and down. But the thing he saw was not floating; its movements were much more deliberate. It came towards him, just under the surface of the water, but rising as it slowly came. Then a head emerged from the dark blue waters, about twenty feet out. The foam settled around a perfectly trimmed haircut and brown forehead, but the hair itself and the flesh didn't seem to be wet at all. The eyes that rose out of the sea were as dark and as blue as the waters themselves, as if they were made of the same stuff. Then a straight, broad nose with narrow nostrils that flared just a bit as the person breathed. The mouth and jaw were broad, with thin lips and a pronounced chin.

As the figure continued to rise from the ocean, Mike dropped his blanket and stepped back, almost unconsciously. It wasn't so much that he was afraid, but something in him was repulsed by this figure. But then something else in him was intrigued, wanted to see who this man was, this figure emerging from the foam of the ocean, curiously unwet, in a black suit and red tie, wearing gold cuff links shaped like dice, and walking directly towards him with a stride like a prize fighter, a champion, making is way to the ring for a fight he has already determined to win.

"Mike Barnes," the man said, "I have called you here to offer you that which you desire more than anything else, and I ask for nothing more than what you have given me already."

Mike tried to back away from the man, but found his feet rooted to the spot. It wasn't so much that he couldn't move, just that, as much as he wanted to get away, he also wanted to stay. In a way, it felt like it wasn't even him wanting. It was a desire that seemed to come from outside of him and wash over him, like a lust for a woman or a hunger for a food that afterward you would swear you never really wanted, and never would have indulged of your own free will. Mostly he felt swept along.

"Who are you?" Mike tried to sound firm, screwing up his face in what he intended to be fierce and intimidating, but ended up being the look of a man in pain who doesn't yet now what part of him hurts. "How could you know what I want?"

Somehow, however, Mike was sure that this man did know what he wanted, and knew a lot more besides.

"I am Dagon Prince," the man said, smiling as if he liked the sound of his own name, "and I know what you want because it is what every man wants." The smile faded from the man's face, and he moved uncomfortably close to Mike, resting his massive hand on Mike's shoulder. "What's important is whether or not I can give it to you."

And somehow, Mike knew that he could.

"I want a lot," Mike said, feeling life seep back into his muscles and sense into his mind. "I want a whole lot, enough money that I could spend nonstop and yet never run out. Enough power that I could make anyone, man or woman, do what I want them to do, or punish them if they don't. I want people to know me and respect me, fear me, like they do Corleone, but not just in a ten mile area, not just a run-down neighborhood. All over the world."

Dagon smiled again, this time wider and almost joyous, with a hint of perfect white teeth showing through his thin brown lips. "Yes," he said, "to be a god among men. To speak and make the world obey. To take, and fear no resistance. This is is your desire."

Mike stepped to his left and out from under Dagon's hand. He looked this man over, from the clean line of his hair, cut close to his head, to the blood red tie that stood out against his black suit and black shirt, to the black leather shoes that shined against the white beach, and yet seemed to get no sand on them.

"What does it cost me?" Mike said, his eyes finally resting on Dagon's dark blue eyes.

Dagon eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side. "As I said, only that which you have already given me."

He looked down at Mike's right arm, and suddenly it began to itch. Mike looked down at it, and saw the blood beginning to seep through the sleeve again, first in a small circle not much bigger than the head of a thumbtack, but growing outward, as if it were radiating blood.

Dagon grabbed Mike's right arm and held it tightly. "Your soul." He slid his other hand over Mike's wound, towards his shoulder. The itching stopped, and the blood on the sleeve disappeared.

Mike passed his hand underneath the sleeve of his jacket and felt his arm. The dressing was gone, but so was the wound. No blood, no gash, not even a raised spot where a scar would be. A shiver ran up Mike's back that shook him visibly, and he cursed himself for showing his fear. He tried to laugh to cover it up. "So what," he snorted, "am I supposed to sign some contract? You got a pen to dip in my blood?"

Dagon extended his hand. "A simple handshake will do." He leaned in even closer and winked at Mike. "I trust you."

Before he even knew it, Mike's hand was extended and he almost shook hands with the stranger. Drawing it back, he noted the grin that was growing across Dagon's face.

"Clearly, you don't believe me yet," Dagon said, dropping his hand back by his side. "Let me show you what I mean." He looked directly into Mike's eyes, and it seemed like the dark blue of Dagon's irises expanded and washed over him like an ocean wave, like going under water. Everything got muffled, except for the sound of his heartbeat, which grew louder and louder, until it sounded like it was coming from outside of him instead of from his own chest. He saw himself, on stage, holding a microphone, and dressed in the kind of designer clothes he only thought about buying now, with a diamond earring in both ears, at least a full two carats each. He could hear nothing still, except for his own heart, but that heartbeat was the rhythm that was moving a crowd of thousands of people. He could see that he was rapping, performing for the crowd in front of a line-up of dancers and deejays and musicians, but it was his own heartbeat hat drove the show and moved the crowd. They screamed and chanted and danced. Some rushed the stage and were held back by security at the base of the stage. The women wore fierce looks of hunger, all of them, and he knew he was the object of their lust. He controlled all of them. His words and his beat gave them life, gave them meaning. If he were to stop, they would simply cease to be, and best of all, they knew it too. They revered him.

In a moment, the feeling of water rushing over him returned, and once again he was standing on the beach alone, with Dagon in front of him, still smiling that confident smile, still extending his hand. Mike took his hand and shook it. It was strangely warm, almost hot, and made him feel as if he would never be ale to let go, but he wanted what this man had to offer more than anything, more than common sense or reason, more than his life or his breath, more even than his soul.

When he released Dagon's hand, he realized that he had been closing his eyes, squeezing hem closed, really. They opened slowly, sticking together with what Mike was surprised to find were tears trapped in his eyelids. When his vision cleared and adjusted to the darkness, he could hear the waves again, and the traffic passing along the street behind him, and the music all mixed together coming from some of the bars that were still open.

He drew his phone out of his pocket, and, on a whim, tried to turn it on. To his surprise, it turned on right away, and had about twenty percent charge left on it. He looked around and saw one or two bums coming to settle down for sleep under the lifeguard stand about twenty yards away.