The Order of Death
“Okay, the recorder is on and ready,” said the reporter to the man
sitting across from him in the darkened room. “Shall we start the interview?”
“Sure,” said the other man.
He had a slight Spanish accent and a feel of insanity about him.
“Very well, let’s begin. This
is reporter John Campbell here with Spike Hunter, brother and bodyguard to the famous business man, Luke Hunter. Now Mr. Hunter—”
“Spike.”
“Sorry. Now Spike—”
“Mhmm.”
Campbell paused for a minute, but then he realized Spike was just giving him
feedback to let him know he was listening.
“Now Spike,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“My magazine received an article—”
“Mhmm.”
“-written by an individual who claims he is the Headhunter—”
“Yeah.”
“—and who we believe is none other than your brother—”
“Mhmm.”
“Mr. Hunter!” exclaimed Campbell
in frustration.
“Spike.”
“Sorry, Spike! Will you please
stop interrupting me!?”
“Mhmm.”
Campbell was not sure
if the man was saying yes he would stop interrupting him or if he was just giving feedback again and not really listening.
“Are you even listening?” he asked.
“Of course I’m listening, didn’t you hear all that feedback
I was giving you? Now get on with the damn questioning.”
“Right, sorry,” apologized Campbell. “Where was I?”
“None other than your brother,” said Spike.
“Oh yes. We believe the sender
of the article is none other than your brother and Luke’s head bodyguard, Adrian Hunter.”
“Did he say his name was Hunter?” asked Spike.
“Well no, but you and your brothers are the only trio in New
York with the names Luke, Adrian, and Spike. Now that can’t be a coincidence.”
“Oooh, you’re good,” said Spike.
“So why are you talking to me and not him?”
“Because he’s already given us a piece of his story, and in it he
said we would have to talk to you if we wanted to learn about you. Not only that,
but he said to stay away from him.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty pissed about little Betty-Betty. Ahahaha.”
“I take it you don’t share his feelings about the situation.”
“Of course not,” said Spike.
“I only saw her when she was a charred clump of flesh. He saw her
when she was a pretty little girl.”
“So are you saying if you saw her when she was alive that you would have
more sympathy for what your brother is feeling?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.
He got an attack of conscience. I don’t have a conscience. Gets in the way too much.”
“He gave the impression that you three are immortal and have been alive
for centuries-”
“Try eons,” interrupted Spike.
“Oh, eons you say,” Campbell
gulped and remembered just how powerful Adrian had claimed he was, and looking
at Spike, he was afraid for the first time of the man he was interviewing. “So
in all your eons of living, you’ve never had a conscience?”
“You keep putting words in my mouth,” said Spike. “Of course I had a conscience once. I was a Roman general
once, then I became a slave, then I became a gladiator who defied an emperor.”
“You just told me the storyline to the movie Gladiator.”
“Yes, and that was a true story about a Spaniard who was a general in the
Roman Army. Do I not look like a Spaniard?”
“So you’re claiming that you were the real Maximus?”
“Yes, I’m the father of a murdered son, the husband of a murdered
wife, and oh yes, I did get my vengeance. Didn’t you notice how in the
movie he watched his family die while it was happening and he was miles away, and how every time he slept he had dreams of
the afterlife? Not only that, but he staved off death long enough to kill the
emperor and to tell the final wishes of the emperor’s dead father. Now
you tell me, doesn’t that sound like a man who is very attuned to death?”
“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Campbell. “So you have had a conscience before.
Is that the only time?”
“Of course not,” said Spike indignantly. “I used to be an angel, you know. An Archangel
in fact, one of God’s highest.”
“How can that be when you’re half demon, as Adrian
claims?”
“Demons and angels are inherently the same thing, like yin and yang. One can superimpose the other; it just depends on their orientation.”
“So if you have a demon who changes its orientation to good, it becomes
an angel, and vice versa?”
“Exactly.”
“And now your orientation is toward evil, so you are a mass murderer, correct?”
“Yep, heehee.”
For the last few minutes of dialogue Spike had seemed halfway sane, especially
when he was talking about his past. Now he had the insane look again. That sparked another question that Campbell had not thought
to ask previously.
“Adrian describes himself as
an erratic person,” he said, leading up to the question. “You don’t
seem to be that way. So would you describe yourself more as an eccentric person
rather than an erratic one?”
“You mean crazy,” stated Spike.
“Well-”
“The word means strange or unusual, but you mean crazy, I can see it in
your eyes. You think I’m crazy.”
“No, no,” protested Campbell. “That’s not—”
“Don’t lie!” said Spike in outrage. “You think I’m crazy! Well yes, I am crazy! I’m certifiable! I’m a fucking
loon! I need to be in a straight jacket, tied to a bed in a mental hospital! That’s what you really meant to say, isn’t it!? ISN’T IT!!!? She’s still fresh. Yeah, she may not move around much or talk at all, BUT SHE’S STILL FRESH!!” He paused for a moment, and then in a calmer voice he said, “ICP.”
“Excuse me,” said Campbell,
dumbfounded. “Oh, you mean the rap group.
The Insane Clown Posse, right? I didn’t recognize the reference
at first.”
“No, not ICP,” said Spike. “I
see pee. You wet yourself when I was yelling.”
Campbell looked down in
embarrassment and saw that his left leg was indeed wet from urine. He muttered
an affirmation weakly and Spike burst out into a hilarious fit. He went on laughing
for about five minutes until he had tears in his eyes and he was complaining about his gut hurting.
“I-I’m sorry,” said Spike, trying to hold back the laughter. “It’s—it’s just that I was just fucking around with you. I wasn’t serious, man.”
He chuckled a little more and then calmed down a bit, but Campbell
could tell he was still having a hard time not laughing. Every time he looked
at the reporter he made a snickering noise in his nose.
“I’m sorry,” Campbell
apologized. “It’s just that when you began yelling your eyes began
to glow bright red.”
“Oh that, that was just for effect.”
His eyes turned red again. “I do it all the time.”
“I apologize for the distraction,” said Campbell.
“Distraction hell, apologize for the smell,” said Spike. “Hey, I made a rhyme. I’m a songwriter too, you
know. And I play a lot of instruments.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Campbell
insincerely.
“You want to hear me play?”
“No you don’t have to—”
But before he could finish his protest a guitar appeared in Spike’s hands
as if by magic and he began to play. He paused after a moment and Campbell
realized he was just tuning it. Then he waved his hand through the air and room
became filled with music that seemed to come from everywhere. It was a dark kind
of music and Campbell could not place the tune at first, though he felt he recognized
it from somewhere. Then Spike began to play and he knew exactly what it was. It was Ozzy Osbourne’s “Hell Raiser,” and he played it perfectly. Not only that, but when he sang he sounded just like the singer himself.
It has to be part of his demonic powers, thought Campbell
in awe. When he was finished playing, the electric guitar disappeared and an
acoustic guitar took its place. This time two skeletons came out of the floor
and joined him with their own guitars, and they began playing mariachi music. Spike
sang with a remarkable voice and a perfect Spanish accent, amazing Campbell even
further. He had a feeling the singing this time was not part of his demonic powers,
but his natural talent. When he was finished, Campbell
was blown away, so much that it did not occur to him that he had two skeletons in his living room. The skeletons disappeared and so did Spike’s guitar, and Campbell
no longer doubted his power.
“Anyway,” said Spike when he was done, “That’s just a
couple little ditties I thought would show you my versatility. You should see
when I play with Metalhead and some of his family and mine. We’ve had plenty
of time to practice.”
“I can tell. Sorry to change
the subject, but we really do need to get on with the interview.”
“Okay, sure.”
“In the article Adrian wrote,
he said you have a split personality.”
“Not only that,” he replied.
“My head is also a prison for powerful beings that misuse their powers or become immortal through ungodly ways.”
“Explain, please,” probed Campbell.
“Well, I have a very powerful Black Wizard, to name one. His name is Deth, ironically, and he is second only to the Chaoses when it comes to black magic. His sheer power made him immortal and he tried to conquer a planet with a friend and my oldest brother
(no, not Luke), and they actually succeeded. The only problem was that the planet
already belonged to one of my father’s generals and a very good friend. When
he got back to his planet after a long war he reported the takeover to Kedan. That’s
when he confined Deth to my head.”
“Why to your head?” asked Campbell.
“Do you know what it’s like to be confined to the mind of a psycho
and to know all of his thoughts? It’s definitely a punishment you would
not want to endure.”
“I see. So can you tell me
a little about the Chaoses?”
“No,” he put simply.
“Why not; if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Because a feeble little mind like yours could not possibly comprehend the
magnitude of the mere existence of the Chaoses. They are beyond your grasp in
every way possible.”
“I see,” said Campbell
in disappointment. “Well, on to the next subject I guess. What I don’t understand is, if you are not supposed to let the masses know of your existence and
your powers, then why did you agree to let me interview you?”
“Because people will only see it as a tape of two crazy people having a
conversation,” he replied. “The public doesn’t want to believe
in anything they can’t see, and if they do see it they try to explain it in a logical way so they can sleep better at
night. No one will believe this; it’ll just be entertaining to them.”
“Hmm. I’m afraid you
have a point. Last question for you, and then I was hoping I would get a chance
to speak to Headhunter.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.
What’s you’re question?”
“I was wondering if you would be able to set up an interview for me with
your other brother, Luke.”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?” asked Campbell,
hoping he could get an interview with Luke.
“What’s your religion?”
It was an odd question, but then he remembered that Luke was supposedly the devil.
“I’m a Christian,” he replied proudly.
“Then do you believe that JC died for your sins so that you would be forgiven
and therefore guaranteed passage into Heaven?”
“Yes,” he said confidently.
“And do you believe you’ve led a good and upright life?”
“Well I can’t throw stones,” he said, “but yes, very much
so.”
“Then no,” said Spike.
“May I ask why not?”
“Because you’re about to interview Headhunter,” he replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Interview Headhunter and you’ll find out.”
“Okay,” said Campbell. “Then let’s start that interview.
How do we do that exactly?”
“I just have to let him out,” said Spike. “Just give me a minute.”
Campbell watched the man
closely for any signs of change, but he did not have to, because the signs were evident.
Spike’s chin became stubbly, and the hair on his head went from spiky to neat.
His body changed as well. He seemed to grow four inches taller and become
more muscular. Shades appeared over his eyes, but Campbell
could see the red glow emanating from the edges. He was no longer looking at
Spike Hunter. He was now looking at Headhunter.
“So Headhunter,” Campbell
began, “why wouldn’t I be able to interview Luke after I talk to you?”
Headhunter took a deep breath through his nose like he was getting fresh air for
the first time in a long time. Then he looked at Campbell
as if just now noticing him. He stood up and walked toward the reporter, and
suddenly Campbell was very afraid. And
then there was darkness; complete and utter darkness. Headhunter had punched
him in the nose so hard he sent the nose-bone into his brain, killing him instantly.
Then his body became smaller and he was Spike once again.
“That’s why,” he said with insane laughter. “Because where you’re going, you’ll never see Luke. Hahahahaha!”
Spike reached down toward Campbell’s
inert body and his hand passed through the reporter’s chest. He grabbed
on to something and tugged on it carefully. Soon he pulled out a web-like ethereal
substance and began balling it up. Then he let it go and watched it float up
through the ceiling.
“Enjoy Heaven,” he said. At
that time he walked over to the tape recorder and picked it up. Placing it close
to his mouth he said, “Kids, just as a little note to remember, never ask for Headhunter. He exists for one thing and one thing alone: to kill. Why
the hell do you think he’s such an integral part of Death? Duh.”
He pressed the stop button and tossed the recorder on the lifeless
body of the reporter. Then he grabbed his spiked leather jacket, put it on, and
jumped out of the window of Campbell’s twentieth floor apartment.