Orgy of Souls

16

“Is this thing for real?” Jacque barely let a few days pass before calling Samson to set up another date. He made a show of examining the contract again.

“What did your lawyers say?” Samson reclined on a velvet loveseat in the VIP room of Club 7, one of the most exclusive nightclubs in San Francisco. Society’s elite packed the room, including a smattering of TV and movie stars, rock, pop, and hip-hop stars, and models like himself, rubbing elbows with businessmen and mafiosos. Everyone seemed to be high on something. A bottle of Moet rested between Samson’s legs, lines of cocaine covered the table in front of him. He casually leaned over and snorted one, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his Versace shirt.

Jacque sat on a recliner next to him with a dusting of cocaine ringing each nostril. His eyes twinkled from the Ecstasy he’d taken earlier in the evening and the cocaine fueled his passions to blinding, manic heights. Two of his usual boy toys hovered in the background casting jealous glares at Samson behind Jacque’s back. Samson flicked them both the finger and then ran his hand down between his legs to seize his cock, brandishing it at them as if it were a weapon. Jacque was so high and so focused on Samson that he misinterpreted the gesture as some type of crude come-on and licked his lips in reply. Samson rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself.

“So? What did your lawyers say about the contract?”

“My lawyers say it’s an air-tight contract. They just aren’t sure what it’s actually for.”

“Just what it appears to be. It is a contract giving me all rights, powers, and privileges, including the right of ownership, of your immortal soul.”

Jacque laughed.

“But you can’t be serious. I mean what does that even mean?”

“It means that when you die your soul won’t go to heaven or Nirvana or fucking Valhalla or wherever it’s supposed to go. It won’t go to hell. It would revert to me.”

Jacque smiled, opening his mouth wide without laughing. His eyes were still sparkling like diamonds in a volcano.

“Soooo, then you’d have two souls? What good would that do you?”

“I’d have much more than that.”

Jacque leaned over and took the bottle of Moet from between Samson’s legs. He drank the remaining champagne straight from the bottle in long gulps until it was almost empty.

“Well, I don’t believe in all of that religious bullshit. When you’re dead, you’re dead. And when you’re alive, you’re alive.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind parting with your fictitious soul.”

Samson took the bottle of Moet from Jacque’s hands, maintaining eye contact the entire time, and drained the last of the champagne.

“To fuck you? I wouldn’t give a fuck if there really was such a thing as a soul. Spending the rest of eternity with my soul in the possession of such a beautiful man would be my idea of paradise anyway. Heaven would be a drag. Do you think they even fuck in heaven?”

“Probably not. Best to get in all your fucking down here while you can.” Samson produced a hypodermic needle. Jacque’s eyes widened in fear. He shook his head slowly back and forth.

“I don’t do the hard stuff.”

“No. This isn’t heroine. This is to take a little bit of your blood. The contract has to be signed in blood.”

“Oh, Jesus! Are you serious? Honey, you are just too melodramatic.”

“Maybe. Still, that’s the only way you’re getting a piece of me.”

Jacque stared at Samson for a long moment with the hypodermic needle between them in Samson’s outstretched hand. Samson smiled when he saw the first hint of fear break through the photographer’s façade. For a split second the flamboyant fashionista appeared almost sad—his eyes moistened and his bottom lip quivered. Then he sighed and took the needle from Samson’s hand.

“Fuck it. You only live once right? This could be the most expensive piece of ass I’ve ever had. You’d better be worth it. Oh, you know what I heard? I heard that Icon magazine has you in the running for this year’s “world’s sexiest man.” Can you believe that, shit? Now I’ll be able to say that I fucked the world’s sexiest man. What a trip!”

“Yeah. What a trip.”

Jacque slid the needle into the thin blue vein in the crook of his elbow and drew out his blood with an ease and sureness that belied his assertion that he wasn’t into hard drugs. He signed his name on the contract in a theatrical calligraphy and slid it back to Samson. Samson smiled and stroked the blade strapped to his thigh beneath his loose-fitting Tommy Hilfiger jeans. He was so excited that his erection was almost as hard as the knife that had inspired it.

“Let’s go to my place.”