Storytime With Auntie CJ

 James, “Sticky-Finger Jim” to his few friends, was out in the uptown business district, plying his evening trade as a master pickpocket. Thanks to his talented hands, he could make up to five hundred bucks a day, enough to take weekends off. High rises built mostly of glass loomed over the narrow, one-way street. The sidewalk was teeming with people; Jim called them “easy marks.” With great care, he slid a man’s wallet out of a back pocket and stuffed it into his own. He sidled away from the man before opening the wallet to survey its contents. About a hundred in twenties, which he extracted before dropping the leather billfold on the sidewalk. He hoped, vaguely, that the owner of the wallet would come back and find it. He always left any credit or debit cards alone because he knew such things could be tracked. He checked his pockets. So far, he had made about three-fifty, enough for the day. He headed home. His spacious studio apartment was the only luxury he allowed himself,...

Parts one and two:  Deadly Part One: Envy  and  Deadly Part Two: Gluttony Lance rolled over on the bed, withdrawing all contact both physical and emotional from the woman beside him. The passion had been genuine, but now it was over. He was already bored with her, and brushed her hand away impatiently when she tried to touch him. “That was great, Nancy.” “Julie.” “But you should probably go,” he said, as if she hadn’t corrected him. “I have things to do.” The only things he had to do were taking a shower, wolfing down a sandwich, and lying down for a nap. He didn’t need company for any of that. The next night, he was cruising his favorite gay bar, looking for an easy pickup. He was good-looking and he knew it; he got propositioned a lot here, by some damn fine men. He usually accepted. Tonight’s prey was a younger man in a muscle shirt and tight jeans. Cute ass, nicely-sized bulge on the other side. He was currently on the dance floor with some other guy who did...

For part one:  Deadly Part One: Envy  Arthur over-consumed everything. His appetite for food and drink was legendary amongst his friends. (One thing he kept to himself was his cocaine habit.) He even overindulged in luxuries like jewelry and fancy clothes, specially tailored to fit his enormous frame. Most of his substantial income went toward things like groceries and wine. He liked to spend his Saturdays browsing through high-end shops around town, stopping only for a lunch that would put a lesser man in the hospital. This particular Saturday, he didn’t see anything he wanted that he didn’t already own. Somewhat disappointed, he climbed into his custom gold BMW with the gold rims and made his way home. As soon as he came in the door, he went directly to the kitchen and assembled a little snack of foie gras, caviar, rack of lamb with mint jelly, and a slice of chocolate cake. He set the platter of food on the coffee table next to a small mirror piled with cocaine and an u...

  I wish I had a tent , Ernie thought as he hauled his sleeping bag and everything else he owned all over downtown, looking for a doorway he could sleep in. Look at those lucky bastards, out of the wind and the rain. It was neither windy nor raining. It was, in fact, a rather balmy late-spring evening. But to Ernie, the weather was always bad. It was always dark; sunshine never lit up his face or warmed his chilly soul. He felt no gratitude for sunny days or handouts from people with more money than he had. He finally found somewhere to lay his sleeping bag and settled in on the cold, damp concrete that was, in fact, still warm from being in the sun all day. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but he drifted off not long after lying down, pillowed on the battered duffel that contained what he had of clothes and food. He passed another day just wandering around, spending a lot of time in the library and the many public parks. Sometimes he would walk along the busy downtown roads, looki...

This story will be included in my collection Curiosities, due to be republished after I'm done rewriting it.  “You the demonologist?” “Detective Harris, I assume? We are using the term ‘infernal expert,’ but yes.” “This is probably right up your alley, then. We’ve got strange symbols, what looks like a dead goat, blood all over. Candles that smell awful, like rotten meat. Five men dead, we haven’t got positive ID on any of them yet.” “Any smell of sulfur? Strange burns?” “Not that I have noticed.” “Interesting. Let’s take a look.” “Follow me. The scene is upstairs.” “Well, that’s definitely a dead goat. And I recognize most of these sigils. But you will notice that the center of the pentagram is unscorched. And you were right; no smell of sulfur, which you always get with infernals. Also, all five men were beheaded. Demons don’t kill, they possess. That’s what makes them so dangerous.” “So? What does that mean?” “It looks like these guys tried summoning a demon an...