The night air crackled with electricity as Crash walked the streets of the city. He inhaled and thanked the ancestors for another night. He looked around and frowned at the pollution that flooded the streets. Not trash, but people, their souls. They were trash. Literally. He was sick, saddened, and disgusted at the state of his people. His people. He scoffed at the thought. As if all of them in the Africa diaspora were connected. In the motherland, they'd been separated by tribes, country lines, warfare, language barriers, but connected by the desire to be more, grow more, build more, and to become greater than they had ever been.
The people he sidestepped and grimaced at on the streets bore more resemblance to the people of the past. Their auras were filthy. Stained with misinformation. Broken by miseducation. Distressed by the knowledge. But at the same time, they were comforted by the blanket of ignorance.
"Ay, my man," a gruff voice called out.
Crash stopped and turned to his left. A brother, he used the term loosely, leaned against the window of a laundromat and waved him over. Crash looked him over and swallowed the bile that had started to rise in his throat. The brother couldn't have been more than twenty-five, but the life he'd lived had destroyed his body. His face was hard, cracked, and an ugly scar ran from his left temple to right under his chin. His black air force ones had seen better days as they too were leaning. His jeans were hard, not because they'd been starched, but because the dirt had hardened and kept them in place. His beige shirt had been born white, but it too, had seen brighter and better days. Crash assumed the brother could have at one point been called handsome, but his brown eyes were dull and his lips cracked. His nose was bent because he'd lost one too many fights.
Crash raised an eyebrow, but didn't approach. The man reeked of death. Not his body, but his spirit. Beside him, Crash could see the demons of addiction and strife leaning on either shoulder of the brother, keeping up upright, and holding him in place. Their smiles were menacing and Crash knew that they didn't know that he could see them.
"You got a couple of dollars to spare. A nigga hungry," the brother rasped out. While waiting on Crash to answer, the brother pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
Crash was getting ready to tell the brother no and continue his stroll when a ray of moonlight illuminated the brother. The demons flinched and tightened their grip on the brother's shoulders. Suddenly the brother was awashed in yellow and turquoise light. The smoke he exhaled was a light green and Crash gripped his waistband as he took a step further. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He watched as the demons shuddered and once again tightened their grip. Who was this young brother and why were they so determined to keep him in their grasp.
"Ay, brah, I don't want no issues," the brother declared as he raised his arms. He knew what a defensive posture looked like and it looked like Crash. He looked over at Crash and immediately regretted asking him. The man stood over six feet tall, Brandon would put him at a cool six-two and weighed at least 225 pounds. It was pure muscle. Even though he wore black Nike Slides, Black cotton nike shorts, and a white shirt, he knew the grimacing man was anything but casual. He saw him grip his waistband and raised his hands in submission.
Crash cleared his throat. "Yeah, I got it." He moved his hand from his waistband to his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled dollars. He extended his hand.
Brandon relaxed and took the money. It was seven dollars. He thanked the man and stood up straight. There was a deli down the street that served good sandwiches. Now he had enough for a meal.
Crash watched as the young brother walked, no limped away. It looked as if his right foot was injured. He watched as the demons sauntered behind him. It was then that Crash invoked the spirit of Cagn, a God that ruled over sorcery and shapeshifting. He grunted as the power filled his body and once again he gripped his waistband. Only this time he pulled out a staff He knew that to people passing by he appeared to be engrossed in his cell phone so he wasn't worried. Once the staff caught the moonlight, it glowed. It was then the demons turned back to him, finally noticing him and acknowledging him as an enemy. They gnashed their teeth and growled, but Crash only chuckled as he approached them.
Seeing the fire in his eyes, the demons only hesitated a second before launching a joint attack. The suddenly windstorm startled passers by, by the fight was talking place on a plane that was beyond their sight. A claw caught Crash around his neck and he grunted in pain before swinging the staff.
Whoosh!
Thwack!
The staff caught the demon of addiction in the solar plexus and it coughed up phlegm and a thin white mist exited from it mouth as well. Seeing its partner injured, the demon of strife aimed for Crash's head. A fist as hard as brick caught him in the chest. It brought him to his knees. He struggles to catch his breath as the demons regrouped. He gripped the staff tighter and focused his breathing. He asked the ancestors for help and like they said, a closed mouth don't get fed. He was quickly stuffed. One could call him a glutton as he rushed forward and with a battle cry that would make Shaka Zulu proud, swung the staff three hundred and sixty degrees catching the demons at their knees and forcing them down on the ground. They were held in place by a force greater than them and greater than Crash as red shackles appeared and clasped around their ankles and wrists.
Knowing they were near the end, the demons moaned for mercy. Sadly for them, Crash was no angel.
He tapped the staff once on the ground and the end turned into a scythe. He swung it a final time and grinned in pleasure as their heads rolled on the ground before disintegrating. He was preparing to return the staff when the bodies began to shake. He watched as the white mist that had escaped from the demon's mouth had transformed into a corporeal form. He stood transfixed, mouth agape as moonlight encased the humanoid figure as it reached down to the body of the demon of strife and stuck a hand into its chest.
"Man, What the fuck?" Crash whispered. He'd seen something in his life with his eyes and with his third eye, but this shit here...
"This shit is beyond me," he gasped as the figure pulled, seemingly trying to get something out. He took a step forward and craned his neck trying to see. Suddenly the arm jerked out and the man, spirit, being, whatever it was, turned to him and nodded. Then it was gone.
Crash looked around wildly. It was gone. The bodies were gone. He tried communing with Cagn, but he too was silent. Knowing he was protected, he knelt down, still gripping the staff, and offered up thanks to the ancestors. When he was done, he thanked Cagn before releasing him and returning the staff.
It was only when he returned to the physical plane that the severity of his injuries hit him. Literally.
He coughed and wheezed as he stumbled up the block. He needed to sit down. He passed several people on the way, but none stopped to help or even to offer a concerned glance. They were desensitized and it was truly sad. He didn't know the name of the shop he stumbled into even though he'd passed it several in both the night and the day. All he knew was that it was dimly lit and had booths. Both would serve him well.
He flopped into the booth and ran his hand across his neck. He groaned as the warm, sticky, metallic smelling blood continued to flow in a steady stream down his neck, hand, and onto his shirt.
"Damn. Just had to wear white tonight," he said as he patted his pockets.
Brandon was walking out of the restroom when he noticed Crash. He decided to go and thank him. As he drew closer, he realized the man was bleeding.
"Shit," he muttered as he ran back to the restroom and grabbed all the paper towels he could before rushing back to Crash's booth.
"Here, brah," Brandon rushed out as he tried to give Crash the paper towels.
He was shocked when Crash pulled away from him, creating distance and dropped his hand from his neck.
"What happened to the—I thought you were bleeding," Brandon sputtered as he took several steps back.
Crash looked from the paper towels to the young brother and nodded. "Naw, I'm good. Must've been the light. You get you something to eat?"
"Umm...yeah. I just—ordered," Brandon said as he looked around suddenly paranoid. He knew what he saw. He was certain. He was sober. He knew the man had been bleeding. Right?
Crash noticed the stench of death no lingered after the young brother spoke.
They looked at each other for a few awkward moments before Crash relented and offered him a seat.
Brandon took the seat the man offered with caution. He hoped his mind wasn't playing tricks on him...again.
"What's your name, man?" Crash asked as he picked at his nails.
"Brandon," Brandon extended a hand.
Crash looked at it, but made no effort to return the sentiment.
Ashamed, Brandon withdrew his hand. Most people didn't want to touch a homeless person. He knew that. But manners, you know.
Crash shook his head. "Ain't no offense to you, brother. I just don't shake hands. With anyone," he clarified.
But Brandon was self-conscious. He shook his head and looked back toward the counter. He didn't want to stay seated, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful either. He sighed and turned back around.
"Why?" He asked. Just for conversation sake. "You a clean freak. I see you picking your nails."
Crash scoffed. "Nah. You just can't let everybody in your space. Can't touch everybody. Everybody's energy ain't compatible with yours. Theirs Can throws yours off. I don't need that type of energy in my life, you dig?"
"What energy? Homeless energy? This shit ain't contagious," Brandon huffed.
"I'm Crash," Crash said with a nod.
"Weird name."
"Weird life."
"I appreciate the money. Nigga been hungry for a few days. When you out here starving, folks just turn a blind eye," Brandon remarked sadly.
Crash frowned. The young man's energy had almost been depleted. His vibrations were so low they were almost still. Crash looked him up and down. Electricity fizzed, buzzed, and popped around his head before sputtering out. He was like a dying car battery.
Brandon felt like he was being appraised. He grew uncomfortable. "I ain't with that gay shit," he stood so quickly his knees banged the table. He stifled a groan of pain. "No offense, but I don't get down that way." He'd been on the streets a long time and had seen many men use sex as a way to fund their habits. He was good just panhandling.
Crash shook his head. "Not that type of party, young brother. You look tired." He fished a card out of his wallet and tossed it on the table. "You can go there to sleep tonight. Code's on the back. Enjoy your food." Crash stood and stretched. He felt completely rejuvenated. He rolled his neck. "I think your food's ready."
Brandon turned toward the counter. When he turned back around, Crash was gone. He bent down and picked up the card. He was placing it in his pocket when he noticed three drops of blood on the back of the booth.