The Purging

Supernatural Terrorism 101

CHAPTER 23

Esteban Medina is in the foulest of moods. If there's one thing he hates above all else, it's working with the old ones, particularly channels. Ancients are always bothersome company, none more so than the one he has come to see. Yet here he stands inside Ra's Diablo temple in Guatemala, amid the pictograms and elegant stucco masks carved into its walls. The architecture of the old world baffles him. Were these masks supposed to be scary? To him, they just look like some asshole with a badly broken nose. He'll take the modern design of his Bogota mansion any day.

All of the dust in the air is wreaking havoc on his new hairdo. They’re called frosted tips, not dusted ones. It will take an hour of solid scrubbing to get his head clean. If he knew it was this dirty here, he would have brought one of his thralls to clean up a bit, or at the very least worn a less expensive suit. When he arrived, it was a black and white pin stripe, now it looks more like desert camouflage. He makes a mental note to call his tailor and have something new custom made. A double breasted blue seer sucker would be nice, with matching stingray boots.

Out of the deepest recesses of the temple comes Ra. The smell of brimstone coming from his mouth brings tears to Esteban's eyes, “You're late Esteban. I was expecting you days ago.” One sentence into the conversation and Esteban is already sick of him. As if Ra's desires somehow take priority over his own. The elder species' leaders always addressed him as such. It’s an experience he's grown sick of.

“You're fortunate I decided to show up at all. I have more going on than just our little arrangement.” Running an international drug cartel is busy work. The demand for narcotics didn’t go down in war time. If anything, the business became even more profitable. War has afforded him some unique opportunities. In the opening days of the conflict, he managed to eliminate all of his competitors. The less time he spent placating Ra, the more time he could spend peddling his wares around the world.

The channel puffs out his glowing red chest and raises a smoking right hand to the sky in a dramatic pose. He chastises his guest, wagging a finger in Esteban's face, “The propagation of the holy one's will supersedes all other endeavours, Esteban. The work we do here is critical. We are preparing the way for the new world.” Melodramatic nonsense as per usual, always the melodrama. Esteban once told some of his employees that talking to Ra was like having someone read you Shakespeare with a rusty knife lodged in the cognitive centre of their brain. He has no time for the mumblings of the fire starter. Esteban is on a schedule.

“Yeah, that's fantastic. Let's just get this over with so I can get back home. I've got a shit ton of juice to get shipped out.” A shipment of juice that Ahmu and Kagan had been clamouring for. Every second more they waited is another foot closer they were to showing up on his doorstep.

“The concerns of your paltry cartel are drops of water in the ocean of time. Absolutely nothing in the grand design of the most high. It is what comes after the cataclysm that will shape what is to come.”

Ra kept mentioning those two things every time Esteban came to see him. The 'cataclysm' and the 'most high'. He wasn't clear on exactly what either of them meant. For now, he ignores it and tries to explain his situation, “If I miss a shipment to those slobbering looney tune mother fuckers, then the concerns of my cartel will matter to you. Because if they cross the pond and come for me, I won't be able to do this shit for you anymore.” While Esteban has a loyal following of other tractatori and human thralls, Ahmu's horde would rip straight through them in hours, even without juice.

Ra is not quite so concerned with them, “Neither the mindless consumers, nor the night kin would dare come to this continent for fear of me. You would do well to follow their example Esteban.” Ra raises his right hand once again. An aura of intense flame surrounds his form sending waves of oppressive heat sweeping through the corridor. Esteban's body temperature shoots up several degrees and sweat pours out of him like a river. The organs in his chest begin to cook. Even at death's door, the incubus remains indignant.