Scenes from a memory

*

The hall was crowded, the odor of sweat drenched dancers and sky high singers permeated the air as they shuffled through the mass of people, heading to the main floor. The lights flashed from black to red to blue to green, streaming from the stage to the floor where men with long hair jumped, swinging their heads forward and back. Women, no longer clothed fully, surrounded by lust filled men, smiled and danced, seducing all those around in their addled states of mind. The music blared; rocking everyone who could hear the rhythm as it floated through the bodies of the guitars and the drums. A couple in a corner fucked without a care, not bothering that their were people watching them go at it like wild dogs. Not caring that this stingy dirty floor hadn't been cleaned in so long.

The Devil rocked his body so lightly as he sauntered past, slithering almost, to the booth that he had his eye upon from the moment he entered. Levi joined him, sitting across from the large man in blue leather, knowing that the embodiment of what he thought was fictitious was here before him, smiling that smile that Levi recognized almost as his own.

The voice was changed, almost as if he had slipped from doing an impression of sorts. It came out dark, grumbling, inhuman. Like the voice of a horny angel.

"Anything."

His face went from the smile as he realized his demeanor, the impression had dropped.

Then, as if it never happened, he cleared his throat and continued.

"Anything. Satan. Lucifer. Bobby Jo. Jesus Christ. Doesn't matter to me, you pick what best suits what you think."

It came to him before he thought of it. It flew from his mouth like he had always known that was the name, like it had ALWAYS been there in his subconscious mind. Dee. No, no Es. Just D.

And The Devil, D, smiled.

"D. I like it. D it is. Or Damain, whatever. Ha!"

He reached in his pocket and retrieved a pack of smokes. The label was in Arabic, so Levi had no idea what it meant, but the cigarettes were slightly longer and thinner than those he had seen before. D lit a match on the table head and lit her up. As he shook away the fire, he spoke from the side of his mouth, the smoke in the other side.

"You know something, Thomas? I've been around you a lot longer than you remember. Hell, I've known you since before you were born. You don't know much about your family history do you?"

"Do you want to?"

That smile again.

"A long long time ago, your great great grandfather was a very powerful man. Oddly enough, his name was Thomas too. Thomas was a legit Italian Don. You know what a Don is right? Yeah, well that was him. He pissed allot of people off, but no one fucked with him because he kicked seven different kinds of ass. There was a reason for that, and I think you can draw your own conclusions as to why."

He winked. That wink sickened Tommy to the core. He felt like his stomach did a back flip.

"Thomas did some dirty shit and eventually at the ripe age of thirty was one of the most powerful men in the southern tip of Italy. His son, being the ungrateful bastard he was, wanted to move to America. He wanted to be an actor. Of course, the problem was that he had no fucking talent. So again, I think you can figure out who came into the picture at this point. I helped him hire a US troop who was stationed there to pick Thomas off and get him to America with a small fortune.

Now being who he was, it didn't take long before people were after his ass and he had to hire backup. There were several times that I had to interfere myself to stop his ass from being killed or else you and your dad and your grandpa never would have appeared. So I guess you can thank me for you being alive here today. Now, around 1919 I think, Chris Leveni, marries Anna Bruce, this damn Scottish chick. He promptly cuts off communication with me, and the mob, moves to Chicago with a couple good buddies and his new wife and changes his name to 'Levi'. About 1920 sometime, your grandpa, Anthony Levi is born. 1921, Chris dies in a horrible 'car accident'."

The Fucking bastard even did the finger motions around 'car accident'.

"Anthony was raised primarily by Mommy The Bitch and ended up going into the army around WW2 and comes out a decorated war hero. I tried several times to get in touch with him, but he never wanted anything to do with me. Every three of four generations or so, that happens I guess. Then, around came your dad in the 60's, Michael Anthony Levi. Mikie was a bastard, but dammit I loved him. I was around that kid from the get go, helping him get in all sorts of trouble. Then in the 70's you came along and I let Mikie alone for ONE DAY and you go and kill him."

"Knew him? Shit, I was his BEST FRIEND."

"He didn't make you kill him Thomas..."

The room spun, the lights went black and the music stopped. He spun around and around, losing all sense of direction. His mind felt like it was going to explode. He saw shapes, he saw colors but none were distinct. Then he was there.

Home.

1981.

The Kitchen.

He looked at his hands. They were still grown, HE was still grown. He was the same age he really was, 28, but in his hands was the spoon that read 'Victoria'. The kitchen tile was still cracked. The fridge stood, half cocked on a piece of rotting wood, ready to fall on the slight tug of an eight year old boy. He could hear his mother sobbing in the other room.

He could hear his father snoring in the floor in front of him.

There he lay, Michael Anthony Levi. A wife beater, blood and beer stained covering his belly, his ample belly. His already balding hair, receding back towards the top of his skull. His eyes, shut.

"Go ahead, Thomas."

He whipped to the shadow. There he sat, The Devil, sitting in a chair right in front of his Father. His face still covered. His eyes still glowing red.

"Ill even help."

He stood, walking, no, gliding to the fridge. He took Thomas' hand, wrapping it around the door handle.

"Tug Thomas. HARD!"

Thomas threw the door. His face was tight, he felt the anger all over again. Mommy was crying. No more crying. No more.

"He's alive Thomas! The spoon! USE IT THOMAS! KILL THE FUCKING BASTARD! HE DOESN'T DESERVE TO LIVE, THOMAS! KILL HIM!"

He fell to his knees, raising the spoon far above him. He saw under the door, the blood spilling out like in slow motion. The scream of his fathers voice echoing in his ears. His eyes, bugging, searching for a reason in his drunken status.

"DO IT THOMAS! DO IT!!"

Stab.

Stab.

Stab.

The eye rolled from under the Fridge just like it did so many years ago.

But this time, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A leather covered hand.

"I've always been here Thomas. I always will be."

He violently shoved his hand off and the world spun yet again. When if finally slowed down, he was in the bathroom, his head bent over the toilet, looking down at what hours before had been his lunch. And that hand was still on his shoulder. That leathery blue hand.
*