Venus Deposition

One might say, “he is so ungrateful to be alive,” but their not the one going through the worst case of “Holy Ghosts,” since the Harlem shake. I am counting my blessings, I should be in jail for the murder of three degenerates, but I'm on a dark road driving upstate with Cynthia riding shotgun. The whole country is trying to become the mysterious hero, I'm running from the life they all want. I just, keep repeating it all in my head as I drive to a new life.

The Calling really was some powerful shit, I used my hand like a dagger and shot a firearm accurately with one hand. But the headaches are insane, I felt like my brain grew inside my skull. I was standing over three dead men with a splitting headache and more holes than Swiss cheese, when I came back from that awful trance. The smell of gunpowder and singed flesh was so pungent I vomited all over the bastards as I walked over their bodies and up the stairs. I really was bleeding to death but I kept going; the kitchen staff ran out at the sight of me, gun in hand looking like Carrie. I dropped the gun into a boiling pot and limped out into a sidewalk with shocked spectators. I tried to say “fuck you,” but I fainted.

I woke up once again, at a hospital under more painkillers than MJ (pick one) and with more commotion around me than a teenage heartthrob. The only problem, I was cuffed to the hospital bed and a police officer was at my door. I spent three months laying like a corpse, drugged up on opiates and relaxers daydreaming about a normal life. Investigators interrogating me like a criminal and nurses fanning me like K-pop, it felt so surreal.

From homelessness to hero one detective said; I felt like a fraud, I simply read from a little black notebook and fate deals it’s hand. By now all of NYC had heard about the mysterious hero that runs from the accolades. While I lay in that hospital bed for three months, police officers guarded the entrance but they also kept the public eye at bay. Many ladies were saved by the detectives and Cynthia during this time, due to the information I recorded, the largest extortion, drugs and sex trafficking rink in the USA was being disrupted. While I vegetated, the cards were dealt and a wave justice fell on the criminal organization.

Three underworld bosses were dead in one day, chaos over took brothels and drug apartments all over Lower Manhattan. Goons and goblins of all kinds tried to capitalize and loot the booty but the cities hero population had risen. But not all the heroes were muscle bound supermodels; the real heroes were johns, marks, misfits and tricks standing up for women and putting their morals and ethics first.

Prostitution had been out of control in the city for a two years, a plague had devastated the world economy and markets crashed. With millions dying and uncertainty on every corner, the sin-economy flourished. But social media economy exploded and soon we were surrounded by cameras and normalized crime. The wave of criminal justice was as unpresidented as the president was, a known bigot, he simply put more guns and corrupt police officers on the street. When the Calling caught that serial killer, it was like a magic hand giving the nation hope. Now there was more fuel for the fire underneath justice’s butt.

Marketing firms, millionaires and joes alike donated millions to those envolved in fight against poverty and crime. Cops were on the prowl now that media behind heroism was paying off, plus, there were rumors of safes loaded with cash. Tricks became saviors as many women saw opportunities to escape or change their situation. I put the scene together from police and nurse chatter all around me. You'd think all these HIPPA acts and sworn in oaths would shut people up but it's just human nature.

After stepping out of that basement massacre with broken ribs, a pierced stomach and a bullet wound on my ass, I wanted to be dead. Once again, fate saved me when two off-duty EMTs caught a glimpse of my bloody face walking up and out of the basement. They called the cops and took me to the emergency room. An investigation found those dead guys wrap sheet to be extensively wrought with drugs, violence and sex-trafficking. The detective assigned to my case, an Officer Guzman, said the attack was likely a hit put on me. She believed it was linked to the serial killer case I was involved in several months ago. She was so off, but that was good for me, as long as I wasn't locked up somewhere I was fine.

When Cynthia played my tape to a lawyer, she was asked if she'd like cash or wire because the recording was a jackpot. A few unknowns were named in it but the information checked out. The problem was that I knew all that information and had no explanation why; when others look at the little black Moleskin book, the pages are empty. Most people think making it appear out of thin air is a parlor trick. All except Cynthia who saw me do it naked and was sure I didn't pull it out of my ass. Eventually, the lawyers and Officer Guzman helped me strike a deal with the FBI as an anonymous tipster.

All kinds of underworld theories were set off by the police bust that ensued. The City had caught the superhero bug and with everyone grabbing the credit, I got left with the cash. I still had to wait for things to officially clear so I kept that morphine button pressed. It's was hard but I ran with the innocent guy routine by staying high; I was going in and out of complex visions but no nightmares. I felt like a whole background history was appearing in my head, probably another side affect of the calling.

After three foggy months, I was put into the witness protection program and sent to live upstate until the case was over. After it was all done, I'd have to leave NYC indefinitely. The investigation created more mysterious aura around me; it led to the rescue of a hundred fifty seven victims from downtown apartments turned brothels; arrest were still ongoing. Right in the heart of aristocratic NYC, women and children enslaved for pleasure; it made headlines even without my name involved. I was told by the FBI to focus on a new life, that I'd have to become invisible. Cynthia's and mine's lives were about to change drastically because of the case. I started thinking about cars and Cynthia took shooting lessons.

The restaurant basement fiasco had left me shaken up but I was more concerned with my new addiction to painkillers. I was sleeping well knowing those evil men were six feet under but Cynthia was terrified with good reason. The risk of retaliation was so high but the money kept rolling in, my account had reached a little over $400,000 in less than a years time. I hadn't summed in the moneys from this most recent drama but by the time I left the hospital with a Federally provided home, Cynthia and I could pool a million. I hadn't gotten a chance to spend relatively none of it. I was homeless for 2 years prior to the day I found the book, I wanted to feel like a new person so, some retail therapy was in order. I told Cynthia that we'd get through it all together and we had the funds to split so we began to prep. We decided a vehicle and a trailer were the first things to get. We'd park it on a lot till we were ready to leave, meanwhile, filling the trailer with the goods for the trip.

We thought Subaru's seemed safe for that long drive, it was winter then; I bought one and had it delivered without ever leaving the hospital bed. I bought a 2021 Forester, added so many bells and whistles it looked like a tank. Cynthia called it a “redneck hippie’s dream,” I felt like it was out of the movie “Repo Men.” But I didn't have the movie wardrobe, so I decided to get in touch with a tailor named Melissa Warwick.

I hadn't walked till the second month in the hospital, I lost a considerable amount of weight, again. I was so thin, I didn't know where all the strength was coming from but I wasn't complaining. I sustained so many injuries in such a short amount of time, I walk with a cane; Doctors said I was lucky to be walking. They said I was millimeters from losing the ability—I had lodged fragments of mortar brick close to my spinal cord, somehow. They were removed through surgery but now I had to match my style with my disabilities.

I found Melissa online, specializing in creating costumes, I read fast and thought it said custom. I showed up at her studio as Harry unannounced and was well greeted. She started her career making ends meet by doing clothing repairs in the Bronx. She got into making costumes for her daughters Comic-Con and now she was Manhattan working with movies in wardrobe. Custom costumes were a supplementary gig.

Melissa was excited to see what I wanted to design. She was loud and skinny which was annoying to me then, but she was very forward and I liked that. She was just out of a relationship and looked interested but what I really needed was my drawings tailored, so stayed nice and not naughty. After showing her the drawings she laughed. “Are you starting a fashion show? I think you should save what money you have, this stuff looks tediously detailed and I won't do it for pennies,” she said. “How much do you need to get it done ASAP? This is important, I'd make it myself but I just don't have the machines and space.” I said. She gave me a sad look, “I can do it all in two weeks for seven thousand. Half in materials, half in labor.” I gave her the materials half first and got measured.

“You know this is White people shit; looks like 5.11 married Patagonia. I am doing it for you and I hope it works. But all of it, except for trench coats can be found over the counter without the reinforcements,” I interrupted her. “It's ok, its really the reinforcements and extra pockets I'm paying you for, I know it. Just let me know when it's done, I will come pick it up.” I said.

But before I could leave “Are you playing superhero like these idiots on the news?” No, I answered. She lowered her head, “the City will turn on the heroes Harry, there are hits out for anyone calling themselves heroes. The underworld is in retaliation mode, the Bronx is literally hanging anyone who thinks their the law with no badge. I don't want to hear you died with my clothes on you.” She said. “Melissa, all I've ever wanted was an easy and selfish life. If I'm doing anything, it's definitely not hero like. But I do need these made for my safety, I trust you to be discreet. You are the best custom costume tailor I've ever seen. You should be in Hollywood! But we all fall short to circumstance or fate sometimes. I am not a special person but I need this special favor; you can make anything, can you make this for me and forget you made it?” Yes, Harry I can, she said.

A few weeks passed really fast as gathered items on our “to go” list. I had to admit, having money was harder than homelessness. So many choices, when I was on the streets my world was simple but definitely not as significant. I'm working for the Goddesses of life on behalf of a powerful God of fire. She is in the business of creating new female souls and it is in the business of energy conversion.

There was a loophole though, if you could live a lifegiving life full of love and/or create more positive things, then one could ascend in blissful camouflage. Being a male soul that could live in to eternity surrounded by women had its benefits but not as many men made as one might think. Men are born with fire for death or for life and the judge, a blind Krishna, has no tolerance for bullshit. She chops the heads off men for fun, but if your worthy, her tears will reign and bless you with life in eternity. I never really helped anyone my whole life, I turned a blind eye to a lot of things, I had always felt scurried through it all until now.