It is late October,  a beautiful time of year. A cool desert breeze blows as black and red dots flicker in your brain.   This time of year the nights get longer, temperatures drop below fifty, and  hotels begin filling up.
    Now, day gives way to night as you sit in an iron chair at your favorite sidewalk cafe. Anticipation of tonight’s crimson ritual quickens your pulse, and you think of your latest article (to be published in a very private journal) on medieval torture devices.
Closing your eyes and imagining  an ecstasy of blood, you feel darkness
settle around you like a warm cloak and smell the people wandering the
closed-off street in front of the cafe.   Evening becomes a feast of meaty odors, some sharp, some sweet.  You think of the tiny room that you have purchased for the night; there, a bottle of  fine French wine awaits you.  Everything seems perfect.  As you  open your eyes and look to the west, sunset bleeds yellow, orange, pink and red, and you sip coffee laced with brandy.
    Seated outside Miguel’s,  the facade a hideous mix of pink and purple,  you study the people, mostly tourists, gathering on the glittering street to watch the extravaganza known as the Fremont Experience, a  light show created to lure people back into the decaying downtown district of Glitter Gulch.   You have just finished a light dinner. Earlier you told  the waitress Maria that you wanted only a large green salad, no red meat please, and coffee laced with brandy.
    "Oh my, have we become Catholic, now?" Maria said, smiling.  "This
is Friday, and good Catholics like me never eat meat on Friday."
    You commented, "No, Maria, I’m not Catholic. I simply want no meat.
Not just yet.  But I must say, you look lovely."
    "Thank you, Professor Lazarus.  You do, too,"  she responded,
flattered, as she turned to put in your order.
    Now, having finished your salad, you  order a piece of rhubarb pie,
a restaurant specialty. The pie’s shape and color remind you of the human heart.  As you  savor the dessert’s bitter sweetness, you see Maria standing over by the door, looking your way, and you realize that you are attracted to her; she is gorgeous with short black hair, dark penetrating eyes, blood red lips, and a figure that would give the Pope a hard-on.   Because she always calls you "Doctor" or "Professor," you’ll likely never touch her.  Finishing your coffee and pie, you imagine seeing her naked, touching her breasts,  sucking her nipples, thrusting something deep inside her. You wonder how loudly she would scream.  Certainly, in the tight red shorts and flimsy halter top worn by all of Miguel’s  waitresses, Maria looks good enough to eat.
It is time to go.  After you pay, leaving a twenty dollar tip, you
glance at Maria, nod politely, and say "Good night, sweet thing."   From
the doorway, she winks and blows you a kiss as you  rise from your table
and walk into the crowded street.
II.     It is an hour later, and like cattle the people on Fremont
Street number in the hundreds.  Anticipating crimson bliss, you conduct
a predatory search, wandering through the crowds of locals and tourists from all over the world. As you stop in front of a small casino and talk with a family of five  from Japan, your eyes feast on the wife, the only one who speaks English.  Her flesh has a sweet, sharp odor.   Wearing a small silver crucifix, this woman speaks nearly perfect English.  Tall and thin,  with black hair streaming down her back, dressed in a white dress, she is gorgeous and  returns your gaze.
    You think of how you look to her: a man of average height and weight, slightly graying and slightly balding, with wire-rimmed glasses, a dark brown beard and perfectly white teeth, you wear a black butler’s coat, a red shirt, and black slacks.    Undoubtedly, she considers you dignified.  You wonder how to separate the woman from her family, take her to the dark room, fuck her in an ecstasy of animal fury,  and, as she lies exhausted, perform the frenzied ritual that has sustained you.
Mouth watering and heart racing, you move forward to touch her.
    As the red and green casino lights blink behind her,  you see the woman give her husband the smile that she gave you.  Halting movement, you feel contempt for her, would like to rip her tongue out, but you know you cannot separate her from her family.
    Remarking that you enjoyed talking,  you bow politely, and take your
leave.  You stride across the illuminated street and,  looking up, watch  images of Mickey, Goofy, Donald Duck, and Scrooge McDuck dance across the Fremont Street roof; tonight’s show celebrates the world of Disney.  As  the images dance, you scour the crowd  for someone alone, remembering your bloodiest catches: the stuttering young German blonde that you met last month in a coffee shop in LA, her strength no match for your own; the sexy Russian coeds who two years ago went with you to the seedy hotel  north of San Francisco, who satisfied you again and again, but who in the end succumbed to your brutal cunning;  the screams of the stunning Reno shopkeeper, a Korean woman, who last year  invited you to dinner with her husband and who realized, after seeing you mutilate her husband, that she had chosen unwisely.
    Your manhood throbbing, you stroll Fremont Street, sniffing and
whistling.  Suddenly, you see her, a slightly heavy-set but attractive woman standing on the edge of the crowd and watching the  swirling images overhead. She smells like fresh venison.  Putting your hands in your pockets and approaching her, you notice she wears a green top covered with crescent moons, its neckline exposing enormous browned breasts, the right one bearing a rose tattoo;  her short, plaid school-girl skirt hits a point midway between knees and crotch.  Raven hair flows down her back, her legs are shapely, and  she has an invitingly  large ass.
    Looking your direction, she  smiles. You nearly turn around as you realize you know her.  She is a former student and you recall that she confessed to loving Eliot, Pynchon, and Nabakov. At one time she was infatuated with you and wrote in an  paper that she enjoyed kinky sex.
    "Hey, Professor Lazarus," she says, in a low, animal tone.
    "Hello. Rachel Lessing," you say, stepping up and gently taking her hand. This is ripe flesh, you assure yourself.
    "My God, what a memory!" she exclaims, crystal blue eyes sparkling.
"It’s been, what...?"
    "Three years," you say. You remember that she sat in the second chair in the first row nearest the door.  At times, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. Once in  class, she flashed her pussy at you.
    She pauses, looks at you, laughs and says, "Very good, professor.
Jesus, what a memory." You glance at her breasts and lick your lips, and
she smiles.
    "You look stunning, Rachel, " you remark, wishing you could bite her tits,  "absolutely stunning. As always."
    "You don’t look bad yourself," she responds, her lust as tangible as
the pavement beneath you. "Look pretty damn good, in fact."
     "Are you with anyone?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "You seem
alone."
    "Well, I dunno," Rachel laughs.  "I guess I’m with whoever wants me?" She turns the statement into a question, and you recognize the invitation.
    "I wouldn’t mind being with you," you say in a soft voice, enormously aroused.  "God, you look gorgeous."
    It is  then that  she moves closer and wraps her arms around you.
    "You want me, professor?" Rachel asks.
    "Yes, Rachel, I want you," you answer, throbbing under pulsing red and green lights.
    She leans forward and kisses you lightly on the cheek, pulls back , and looks at you.  Next she  kisses you on the mouth.   You put your arms around Rachel’s waist, your bodies now touching,  and kiss her back, placing  your right hand softly on her ass. You pull her firmly against you so that she can feel you.
    "My word," she giggles. "Is that the professor?"
    "That is the professor," you answer.
    People mill around you, pretending not to notice, and Rachel is yours.
III.    You’ve taken a room in the old Sunridge  several streets over.
You used the hotel once years ago, and in a flash of bloody giddiness were impressed with the place’s dinghy darkness. Things that occur in this hotel always go unnoticed.
    You look around  as you and Rachel enter.  Seated upon the cracked
black plastic couch against the brown lobby wall are two  babbling psychotics from the street, and you approach the front desk.  Behind the window of iron bars, a doddering old man wearing coke-bottle glasses gives you your room key. (Two nights ago, you made a reservation using a false name.) He reeks of alcohol, the purple veins on his claw-like hands bulging grotesquely.
    "Kind of a dive, isn’t it?" she asks.
    "Yes, I guess it is," you say.
    "Never been here, Professor," she  says,  perhaps amused. "But, God,
what a fucking dump."
    "Rachel," you respond calmly, turning and looking into her eyes,
"there is nothing to worry about.  You are with me."
    "I’m not worried," she laughs.  "I’ve been in places way creepier than this."
    "If you want to go somewhere else...." You take her soft hands in yours.
    "Oh,  no, don’t worry," she says, glancing at the dark ceiling; "this is fine.  We’re not here for the architecture."
    "No, we’re not," you agree.
    You put one  arm around her and lead her to the elevator.
    "I have to consider my reputation, Rachel". When the elevator comes,
you allow her to step inside first and then follow. An ancient model, the elevator smells of sweat, cigarette smoke,  and alcohol.
    She nods. "Yeah, you’re right. Someone in one of the other hotels
would know you," she says, leaning against you and placing her hand between your legs.
    "I’m sure it will be," you rasp, almost guttural, as the elevator approaches the twelfth floor, where you know you’ll be the only guests.
With difficulty, you contain your passion.

    The room is dreadful and therefore perfect: a sagging double bed with a bright red bed spread, faded brown carpet, dirty yellow walls, and a chandelier that puts out too much light.  The reddish marquis just outside the small dirtied window casts the room in a crimson glow. A picture of the crucified Christ hangs over the bed.   You walk  to the window, pull down the yellowed paper shade,  flick on the light over the bed, walk back across the musty room and turn off the overhead light.
    Wondering if you should destroy the picture,  you pick up the bottle
of red wine sitting on the table next to the battered TV, open it, and pour it into two clean glasses. For a time, you both sip the wine, talking casually.
    Finally, dark craving filling you, you set your glass on the table and Rachel does the same.  In semi-darkness, you take off your coat, move towards Rachel, put your arms around her waist and pull her to you.  You begin kissing her soft  neck, your right hand moving down her legs, under her dress, and up to her ass. As her body warms to your touch,   you discover that she wears no panties and mutter, "My, this is a wonderful surprise." Rachel laughs.
     As you stroke her soft flesh,  Rachel sighs,  puts her arms around you.
    Pausing, she says, "I like it when you play with my ass.  She puts her mouth against yours and inserts her tongue.
    "Let’s undress," she says after several minutes.
     As  she steps back and  removes her sweater and skirt,  you admire her large breasts,  comment on her golden nipple rings,  and smile when you see that she shaves. You can’t wait to taste her.  After removing your own clothes,   you stand before her, your huge brown member erect.
    "My, my," she coos, "if it isn’t the amazing Dr. Lazarus."
    "Just for you," you say, stroking yourself.
     Obviously pleased,  she kneels before you,  takes you in her hands, kisses you, and with difficulty takes you into her mouth.

       It is an hour or so later. You stand over the bed, looking down at the bloodied corpse.  The ritual is over,  but you have not been redeemed. Panicked, you feel as if you are  approaching annihilation.
    Rachel was disappointing.  A great beast, you tore into her again and again, struggling towards elusive ecstasy.  After a  time, she lay on the bed, panting, exhausted,  and when she  turned her head toward the window, you reached under the mattress and pulled forth the tool of execution, a crooked knife with an emerald-encrusted handle used in the middle ages.  You worked at light speed and remember  the terror in her eyes  as  she looked up just as you placed the blade  against her neck and  slit her throat
    "Such a very wicked girl," you whispered as  blood spurted from the
imperfectly severed artery, spraying you, the bed, the floor, and the
walls.
    Because your cut was not perfect, you knew she would spend several
minutes dying.   You remember her final moments. Gasping and choking,
sputtering in her own blood, she looked blindly at you, silently crying
for mercy, and as you looked into her blue eyes you could see her brain’s final image, a pulsing glow marking the tunnel to the abyss. It was then that you leaned back while holding her down, slowly inserted the blade between her legs,  thrust it all the way in, felt blood gush onto your fingers, and felt her quiver as her  soul flew out of her.  At that, struggling to join her, your dark soul leapt toward the abyss, fought but failed to reach  exaltation.     Nonplused that this young woman had somehow withheld herself, you yet placed the knife against her sternum, began to push, and then hesitated. Normally,  you would cut out and eat the victim’s heart,  but this night  you withdrew the knife. You
could do no more with Rachel. You wondered if you would die.

     You are fully dressed.  Standing next to the bed, having  cleaned yourself thoroughly in the bathroom, you know it’s time to leave. You glance over the scene: the blood-soaked sheets and pillows, the corpse almost looking asleep on the bed,   dark stains on the brown floor, drops of blood on the ceiling and walls, the  metallic scent of fresh blood. Tidy from birth, you have made sure that the bathroom is spic-and-span. You glance at the picture of Christ above  the bed and feel death’s chill as the eyes of the man on the cross bore into you. Frantic, hollow, you tear your eyes from the picture.

IV.      You struggle through crowds, tired and dejected. Lights pulse
around you, and moving to a dark side street you can hear people ooh and
ahh behind you as they watch the Fremont Street light show.   Just as you reach  your car, parked one street over from Fremont,  you hear a familiar voice behind you.
    "Well, it it isn’t the amazing Professor Lazarus," it says. "Feel
like eating any red meat, Professor?"
    You recognize the accent and sense that your own dark redemption is
near.
    Taking a deep breath, glad that you dabbed yourself with cologne
back in the hotel room,  you turn.   Standing ten feet away,  her hair
ruffled in the slight breeze, the woman looks at you coyly.    You can’t
help imagining yourself naked with this beautiful woman, who  is wearing
tight, faded blue jeans and a bulky white sweater. A crucifix dangles
from her neck.  You can see the line of her pussy through her jeans and
feel uncontrollable lust building inside you.
    "Ah, sweet Maria," you say in a soft, low voice.  "I thought you’d
be home by now."   Maria smells like sweetmeats, one of your favorite
delicacies.
    "I thought I’d wait for you," she answers, slowly approaching.  "I
know your car. You’ve driven the same one for years."
    She’s correct there. You’ve had this car for quite a while. You wonder, though, how she knew you’d return to your car just at this time.  Quickly, you reconstruct the night from what must be Maria’s perspective and  conclude that she must have seen you with Rachel.
    Struggling to maintain composure, overcome by her scent, you say,
hesitantly, "Yes...?"
    "And I was just wondering," she continued, walking up to you, standing inches from you, putting her arms around your shoulders, "if you’d like to get some coffee, eat some pie,  or maybe, maybe, just maybe get a room together?  I don’t wanna go home to my husband yet."
    This is too good to be true.   You look into her eyes, smile, put your arms around her, and pull her easily against you.
    "I see you’re ready for me," she says, her face an inch away.
    "Ready when you are, wicked girl," you comment, images of  bloody
spectacle filling your  mind.
    "Let’s go, then," she sighs, and you can almost feel her soul joined
to yours.  This one, you realize, will carry you to ecstatic heights.
    "I know the perfect place," you  hiss, lightly kissing her on the
mouth, then placing one hand between her legs.  "Just outside of town."
    You step back, take her by the hand, and lead her around to the
passenger door.  Then, walking around to the driver’s side, you open the
door, slide behind the wheel, notice that Maria has already removed her
sweater. Craving crimson ecstasy, you gaze upon her beautiful pale breasts, lean over and, inches from her heart,  take one of  her large nipples in your mouth. As you do, you know that when the times comes, you’ll slit her neck perfectly, thrust the blade into her neatly, and fly blissfully with her into the abyss.  Her blood will bathe and cleanse you.
    Then, righting yourself, you start the engine, and  pull away from the curb.  Hoping that you can make it out to the motel before going into a frenzy of fucking and killing, you  wish you could thank God for giving you this precious woman but remind yourself that you believe in nothing beyond this existence.  The darkness is all you have.
    Smiling to yourself, you think of the rhubarb pie you ate  earlier that evening and  dream of holding Maria’s beating heart.