This story is not recommended for children.

Craig is in his element. He’s preaching on a crowded street in the middle of shopping land. There’s a direct channel that’s been opened between himself and the Lord, and he can feel the touch of the Holy Spirit on his shoulder. The Word of God courses through him like fire in his veins. He’s a stained glass window that the light of all lights shines through. A vessel, overflowing with divine inspiration. One thing Craig isn’t short of is metaphors. But how much more perfect could his life be? He has a one-on-one relationship with God. How many of those so called media celebrities could top that?

He doesn’t let it go to his head of course. Craig remembers to be humble, even as he shouts and rants at the masses of lost children before him. Even though he’s convinced that he alone is the sole guardian and representative of The Truth, he never forgets to be meek. This is about passing on the Holy Word of the Creator. It’s not the Craig Raeside show.

Craig simply lets the Word flow through him. He doesn’t know how it happens, but it’s not important anyway. What is important, however, is that for some reason the same God that made the infinite carpet of stars and galaxies, the one who created oxygen, gold, and every single molecule in the universe, has chosen Craig to be His voice. Craig knows he’s right. He’s not some half baked lunatic. What he speaks is The Truth, complete with capital letters. The Lord told him so in a vision. Not a lousy dream! Any idiot gets dreams! This had been a genuine, personal, one-on-one revelation that The Lord God had chosen Craig to do His Bidding. Imagine his surprise!

So, from Monday to Friday Craig works as a low ranking designer of fractal key sockets. But on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings, without fail, Craig becomes the One True Prophet. It all makes perfect sense, of course. Since The Lord chose humble fishermen to do His work. Why not choose an equally lowly fractal key designer?

“…And how many of you stop and think about what you’re really doing?” He asks, trying to catch the eye of the shoppers as the shamble past him weighed down by their earthly desires. “Every time you punch a ticket. Every time you surrender to that beat, have you stopped to consider the consequences?”

His arms are wide, and the people break before him to stream endlessly past in a blank faced conveyance of mindless gloom. “Doctors warn about the dangers of the ticket and how much strain it places on your heart and on your nerves, but what about your soul, eh? Have you stopped to think of the effect it’s having on that most vulnerable of your possessions? This music, these drugs; they’re scooping out your insides and filling you with poison. Your souls are being torn apart as you dance and that’s one part of yourself that you’ll never find a transplant for!”

He’s an island of objection in a sea of complacency. They shuffle past him, watching their feet, tightening their lips. None of them want to confront The Truth. All of them are reluctant to look within, to face what must be faced. But he continues, knowing that if just one soul can be saved today, or next week, or next month; then his work will have meant something.

His voice rises in pitch as well as volume and a couple of passers by actually glance in his direction before altering their course to give him more space to rant. “You’ve got to take control. Before it’s too late! You have to make the choice to leave this world with your soul intact. It has the potential to last for eternity, but you can’t run the risk of -”

“What the fuck are you on?” A face appears before him. Dark and angular, a twentysomething Asian with wide set eyes and high cheek bones. He’s elegantly dressed in subtle russets and browns, smelling strongly of lavender and roses. His hair, worn long, shines with health and vitality.

Craig hardly even misses a beat. He focuses his full attention on the man before him without the slightest hint of being put on the back foot. “What I’m worried about is what these people are on.” he counters, as if discussing an overdue bus. “Three times a week, surrendering their will to the destructive force of the ticket! I have to tell them!”

“Tell them what?” The Asian demands. “I mean, really. What the fuck are you gonna tell ‘em that they don’t already know?” His voice is clipped and aggressive. Street edged and punchy.

“It’s not about what they know.” Craig tells him. “It’s about getting them to think. It’s not about giving the answers, it’s just about getting them to ask the question for themselves.”

“You’re crazy, guy. You’re wastin’ your fuckin’ time!” The Asian gestures wide, encompassing several dozen passers by with a wave of his hand. “What these useless fuckers gonna do with an afterlife? Look at ‘em. Why would God bother giving ‘em eternal life? You fink he’s got a plan for each an’ every one of ‘em? Then why is it they all spend every day o’ their worthless lives sittin’ on their arses an’ watchin’ soap? Why is it they spendin’ their evenin’s stuffin’ their faces with crap and droolin’ in front o’ their screens without even stoppin’ to fink about a single fuckin’ fing goin’ on outside their own front doors? You fink that’s what he made ‘em for? You fink that’s his big fuckin’ plan?”

Craig doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at the newcomer for a long moment, as if he’s only just noticed him. “I can’t say I do.” He shakes his head.

“You really fink he’s gonna fill the afterlife with the likes o’ these pointless scumbags? Look at ‘em, man. They’re fuckin’ cattle. Look at her.” he points out a young woman with a ReadyGild shopping bag in each hand. “What d’you fink’s the biggest fought she’s ever had, guy? How big d’you fink she’s ever dreamed? She’s nothin’. You know what she is? She’s a waste of oxygen. She’s a lost inves’ment. She ain’t real. No soul left in ‘er. She’s just a fuckin’ zombie in designer gear. You fink she’s gonna let God in ‘er life? Not in a million years. She’s too fuckin’ busy watchin’ telly an’ spendin’ fuckin’ money, guy.”

“She’s not beyond help, though.” Craig doesn’t sound too sure. He’s suddenly looking at all the people as if he’s weighing fruit. “Surely she can be saved. Her eyes can be opened.”

“You fink?”

People pass by. Craig watches them without saying much. The Asian keeps his eyes firmly on him. “Get real, guy. She’s just debt and vanity, yeah? There ain’t nothin’ worth saving still in ‘er. Nothin’ worth savin’ in any o’ these fuckers.”

“Of course there is!” Craig almost laughs at the suggestion. “You can’t put a value on the price of a human life. A human soul is the most precious thing there is. It transcends any amount of wealth you can imagine. How would you measure its value against the cost of the effort that might be put into saving it?”

“Save? You fink any of these fuckin’ sheep would lift a finger to save ‘emselves even if you showed ‘em the way in neon letters ninety feet high? You fink they’d even throw you a fuckin’ rope if you was drownin’?”

“I’d like to think -”

“I tell you what.” The Asian fishes in his jacket and produces a small dagger. It looks like the sort of weapon used by the military, with a dark blade designed not to shine. “Why not give me your fucking wallet while you fink about it?”

Craig looks down at the knife, suddenly aware that his anus is contracting. He tries to take a step back, but the Asian has grabbed his jacket. He can feel his legs shaking and he’s suddenly aware of his own pulse in his head. The blade fills his world as it finds his chest and starts to poke through his clothes.

“Please don’t hurt me.” Craig eventually manages to make his mouth work.

The Asian holds him fast, annunciating carefully and precisely. “I said: I want your fucking wallet, you prick. Now hand it over before I slit your fucking ribs open, innit?”

Craig can’t believe it’s happening. He’s looking out now over the sea of faces, hoping to catch somebody’s eye, but nobody’s looking. They slide away from his pleading gaze like oiled up hookers. His whole body is tingling. Nervous energy is building as the adrenaline dump takes hold and turns his legs to mush.

“Haven’t you worked it out yet, guy?” The Asian demands. He turns his attention to the people who are passing by, raising his voice but not removing the point of his knife from its contact with Craig’s chest. “Nothing to see here, ladies and gentlemen.” He announces, loudly. “Just your ordinary run-of-the-mill robbery.”

Nobody stops. Nobody objects. Craig tries to make his lips work around a cry for help, but he can’t quite manage to make a sound.

“If anyone here feels like paying the call-out charge, feel free to call the police.” The Asian announces in a theatrically middle class voice. “Remember the standard charge for calling out the filth will be deducted straight from your network accounts, and doubled if the arriving team don’t find what you’ve reported. But don’t let that put you off making the call, though! It’s a small price to pay for helping out a fellow human being, what?”

Craig has managed to stop his lips curling back long enough to make a sound. “Help!” He calls, hoarsely. It comes out like a dog’s bark. “Help! Help!” But nobody looks at him. Nobody wants to tackle a man with a knife. And calling out the police to another man’s aid will cost them money (as well as put their names on a caller’s database which will result in a lengthy visit to a police station to fill out a lot of forms and explain their version of events.) Nobody wants the hassle. They all pass by as quickly as they can, trying their best not to draw attention to themselves and quietly wishing Craig could have got himself mugged somewhere else.

“You sir?” The attacker directs his attention to a passing man who is at least six inches taller than him. “Would you like to save this man’s wallet?” The man hurriedly looks down at his feet and hastens his walk.

Nobody helps. Nobody even glances in their direction. For a long moment Craig and his attacker look at each other. Craig becomes aware of details in the other man’s face. The way his ears stick out. The way the whites of his eyes have tiny flecks of yellow in them. The tiny pockmarks in his cheeks, and the way his skin lines form tiny patterns. He can smell the man’s flowery scent, feel the body warmth coming from him. In the same way he is now very much aware of his own body, as if only just remembering that he still has one. He tastes the sensation of fear; the way his mind is playing out different scenarios for his entertainment. In the theatre of his mind, a news reader is blandly informing the uncaring world that a preacher has been stabbed before crowds of onlookers in a busy street.

He finds himself wishing he had a wallet to hand over. But he never takes it with him when he goes out, reasoning that somebody might jump him for it. Well, now he’s here, with a knife pressing into his chest, wishing he had something with which to buy his way out of the situation.

He can feel the tension against his chest as the other man grips and twists his jacket. His heart beats against it as if it’s trying to make its own bid for freedom and it strikes him quite profoundly that the other man can feel it too. In a detached and strangely analytical way, he realises that this dark eyed attacker is probably the only living person ever to have done so. There is a level of intimacy here that he’s simply not used to, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. At least not as unpleasant as it ought to be.

But yet, as the Asian unexpectedly palms the knife and releases his grip, he is aware, albeit very remotely, of a tangible sense of disappointment mixed in with the profound sense of relief.

“Forget all about human compassion with these people.” The Asian says. “If you need help, you’re invisible. Nobody wants the hassle. Nobody will lift a finger to save your ass. They won’t even make a call to save your life if they think someone else might do it first.”

Craig feels the tension flowing from his body as if it’s running down his legs. The relief is starting to catch up with him. There’s a fuzziness in his head that’s getting worse with each passing heartbeat and he feels a catch in the back of his throat He’s overwhelmed with the desire to thank the Asian for sparing his life, but as he tries to speak all he manages are a couple of sobs before his eyes have misted over and he’s on his knees, unashamedly hugging the other man’s shins with shaking hands.

At some point, the Asian steps out of Craig’s pathetic embrace and crouches down to talk softly by the side of his head, all trace of the street accent gone. “Don’t feel bad about it.” He says. “I know you meant well. It’s quite a shock to come face to face with the futility of your actions, isn’t it?”

Craig nods a snotty affirmation as the Asian gently strokes the back of his neck. “These people don’t care about you because they don’t care about anything. It’s not that they have anything against you, it’s just that they’ve been anaesthetised. They’re just too wrapped up in their own tiny little worlds to give a shit about what happens to anyone else.”

“But I give - I give a shit about them.” Craig manages to spit out through his tears, defiantly turning to face him.

The Asian keeps stroking as Craig fights the sobs. “I know you do.” He replies, quietly. “That’s why I found you. You have a talent that I need.”

Craig feels his strength starting to return, and he is suddenly aware of the other man’s hand on his scalp. For a very brief moment he appreciates the sensation, allowing his eyes to flicker closed, before his sense of moral outrage gets the better of him. He pulls away and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, bringing himself unsteadily to his feet again.

“What are you talking about? What talent can I possibly-”

“Come with me and I’ll make you a fisher of men. Or Women. Or children. You name it.”

“eh?”

The Asian sighs. “It’s complicated. These people you love so much are all asleep. It’s like they’re here, but they’re not really alive. I’m looking for a way to bring them out of it. I want to help them and so do you. I’m putting together a group of likeminded individuals - those of us who can see what’s actually going on.”

“Likeminded people?” Craig almost laughs. “And did you pull a knife on them, too?”

“Some of them, yes.” He looks at Craig for a very long time, before continuing. “You must understand, I’m not here by accident. I’ve been watching you for some time now. My associates have been taking a particular interest in you. You come… Highly recommended. As much for your determination as anything else. I don’t make this offer to just anyone, do you understand?”

The part of Craig that responds to flattery understands very well. He is eager to understand. The very idea that he could have been singled out in such a way is tantamount to his wildest fantasies coming true. “I control a network of dedicated people with a single but highly consequential agenda: We seek to save as many people as possible from the soporific prison that the mass media, the money lenders and the government have trapped them in. You talk about saving souls? If you’re serious then you could do more to help these people than you could possibly imagine. Preaching is all well and good for those who will listen, but first you have to get people to wake up. That’s where we come in.”

Time passes, and more blank faced people file by, dragging their purchases along with them.

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

The Asian grins. “Nothing much.” He says. “Just help us to save the world.”

Minutes ago, Craig was convinced this man was going to cut out his heart. Now… He takes in a long, slow breath and wipes his nose again. He knows damn well that he should tell this bastard to fuck himself. He almost has the words on his lips, but he can’t quite bring himself to say them. At the back of his mind is a tiny voice that he doesn’t want to listen to. It’s a small, previously undiscovered part of himself that wants to feel the warmth of his hand again.

“My name is Shakil.” The Asian tells him “And I’m delighted to have you with us.”

* * *

Ten minutes before eleven in the Wobblin’Goblin and we’re building up to the first climax of the night. Sticky Hour. I just love it. Bring a femme here, or if you’re a lucky bastard like me you bring two, and you get to watch as the best DJ this side of the Atlantic flicks all their switches at once.

DeeJay Freak Doubt plays the room like God. He’s the master of sensory titillation and he works the crowd like a pulsating dildo. It’s legendary. His beats and rhythm, his lights and flashes, his dials and tweaks optimised to bring on the juice and jack the punters into oblivion.

Maggie and Lisa are flanking me like bookends. The ultimate accessories. Jenny, fresh faced and ginger. Lisa, big eyed and dark. Both barefoot in little dresses, UV contours pulsing on their skin with the jam pouring from the Kontaggio speakers, deep and low. Aromatic bass they call it. Bass you can smell.

The Crowd are ready and the DJ handles them like a pro. No ham fisted application here like in those out of town clubs. This ticket’s first class. You’ve got to be a vampire bat to spot the subtle changes in sound, to pick up the new scent. Just - There. And - There again. A shift in cycles, a ripple of noise, a doppler pulse phasing in, catching onto the back of the old peaks, and without even knowing it the two foxes with me close their eyes and bite their lips in unison. Sweet. Maggie’s hand finds her stomach. Lisa’s finds my chest. And for one perfect, wanktastic moment, just before the phases fall out of sync, even I’m lost to the ticket. I can feel my body pumping in time to the little pulses of ecstasy. My pants suddenly don’t fit and all I want to do is get inside these girlies. My hands are burning to grope.

And then it’s gone again. Only Maggie’s still feeling it. Her eyes remain closed, hanging on to the last scrap of sensation as if it’s a distant star she never wants to lose sight of. Lisa exhales deeply and turns her face to mine. “God,” she whispers, “I’m fucking soaked.” Before kissing my mouth and pressing herself hard against me.

The lights are low. It’s almost peaceful as the pulse and the beat take a pause. It’s a little moment of perfect clarity that fills us with a different type of euphoria. No ticket now, just a cinnamon tinged bass hum, a delicate contralto, and the delicious anticipation of what’s still to come. There are a thousand faces amongst the smoke and lights, drinking in the moment, hands to heaven, hands on each other, hands on themselves.

Lisa finishes kissing me and I open my eyes to see Shakil, flanked by half a dozen acolytes heading my way. It’s instant cock rot. “Troy!” He beams, extending his arms to hug me. “How’s life at the very top?”

I wish he wouldn’t do that. I make a show of being polite to him. I nod at his cronies. I slap his shoulders and shake his hand. All the while I’m aware that this building has at least three dozen cameras and by now they’re all scoping us out. It’s smart, of course. Shakil keeps everything he ever does above board. He never holds furtive get-togethers in rented back rooms. He never plots and schemes like so many wannabes. In fact, Shak’s life is so transparent it’s a wonder he even casts a shadow. But that doesn’t make him honest. It doesn’t make him law abiding, and it certainly doesn’t make him safe to be around. Shakil lives by what the old magicians used to call misdirection. If ever anyone goes out of their way to prove they’ve got nothing to hide or that there’s nothing up their sleeve, you can bet your virginity that there are elephants and dancing girls hiding just behind a distant curtain.

The pulse of the ticket has picked up again, and Maggie and Lisa have found each other. They’re locked in a long kiss with their hands wandering. Shakil regards them appreciatively for a moment, before turning his attention back to me. “Good to see you again, Troy. I was just thinking about you this afternoon. I’ve got a young girl I think you might be more than a little bit interested in.”

Despite the ticket, I can feel my balls shrinking. Any minute now, Shak’s going to offer me something I don’t need. And then he’s going to want something in return. And then he’s going to remind me that I owe him a very big favour. And when that happens, my evening is almost certainly about to take a sudden and probably irreversible change for the worse.

* * *