Jericho's Razor by Casey Doran Page B

Krueger were all in attendance. Lizzie Borden entered the club hand in hand with George W. Bush, who had a hatchet buried in his back. And the Grim Reaper took up the rear, easily six-foot-six, standing like an omen. It made my black-over-black attire seem tame. It also made searching for anyone legitimately dangerous impossible. In this sea of monsters, serial killers, and demons, everyone was a threat.
    On stage, Katrina belted out lyrics that would send the former pastors of this converted church into hysteria. But there was no denying her talent. Whether harmonizing or hollering, Katrina Masters still had the best voice I had ever heard. And she caught me staring. She looked down at me and smiled. It was not a nice smile. I knew it well. I also knew what was coming.
    â€œThis next song is for a special someone! Someone I hold near and dear to my heart!”
    The crowd roared, sensing what was coming. Beer bottles and voices were raised.
    â€œHave you ever fallen for the wrong person?”
    The crowd cheered.
    â€œAnd has that person ever fucked you over?”
    More cheers. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or like Katrina Masters armed with a Gibson Firebird and a microphone. She belted out rapid-fire punk chords that sent the mosh pit swirling like a whirlpool. Her lyrics came like knives into my back.
    Let me tell you all about a guy I know
    A rotten piece of shit named Jericho
    Spawned from the devil under a wicked name
    Heart as Black as his fictitious name
    She was into it, belting out her vocals with fire and hostility. The crowd loved it, unaware that the inspiration for the song stood only a few feet away. If they knew, they probably would have torn me to shreds.
    Katrina finished the song, gave me a jackal grin, and headed for the rear entrance to the stage. I dropped a shoulder and cut a path through the sea of inhumanity toward the stairs. I was constantly bumped as people made their way up, shuffling in costumes, partially blinded by masks and nearly tripping over cloaks. A mummy fell backward into me, causing me to stumble into one of the members of the Brute Squad. I panicked for a moment, thinking that the security guard would recognize me and toss me into the alley via the storeroom. But the brute simply shoved me back up the stairwell, too busy in his own pursuit for a quick nicotine fix to notice. I was grateful to finally get out of the crowded stairwell and outside.
    The converted smoking lounge on the second floor offered an up-close and personal view of the river. The bridge was lit up and looked like a glowing ornament against the black night sky. Katrina was in the far corner, smoking a cigarette in a tight group of people, huddled close together as though trying to preserve body heat. Mostly obscured behind a wall of bodies from across the roof, she still spotted me almost instantly. I approached boldly, making my way through the crowd until I was close enough to be breathing the same nicotine-tinged air. I felt the hostile stares of Katrina’s friends and bandmates.
    â€œThat song gets sweeter every time I hear it,” I said.
    â€œWhat the fuck do you want, Sandman?” She still called me that, although now she put a slightly more angry ring to it.
    â€œIt’s nice to see you, too.”
    â€œI didn’t say it was nice to see you. Although it might be nice to see what Eric and his goons will do to you when they catch you here.”
    â€œI know. It’s so Shakespearean.”
    â€œNice reference, seeing as how everybody tends to die at the end of all his plays.”
    â€œHave you got a minute?” I motioned to a corner of the roof that was secluded.
    â€œTons. But none for you.”
    I felt my teeth grinding. “Two minutes,” I said. “And then I’ll leave you the hell alone.”
    She took a long drag, staring at me, radiating hostility. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say ‘ what the hell? ,’ exhaling the smoke