Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.

XXX

No closer to his goal than before, Simon mounts the hog, gunning its engine before shattering the stillness of the night. Lemmetjie bled well. Oh, he could squeal and squeal, like a stuck pig when Simon had grabbed him and pressed the broken bottle against the acne-scarred skin of his face.

The razor-sharp glass had parted the skin and something about the blood oozing in a fat red line had prompted Simon to tab two fingertips into it, to paint two horizontal lines over his own eyes, starting in the middle of his forehead and streaked in parallel lines until they reached his cheekbones.

Something about this had scared Lemmetjie even more than the broken bottle and he'd kicked and screamed, pissing himself.

Simon grins as he speeds along Kommetjie Road, the blood striping his face drying against his skin.

Oh, Lemmetjie had spoken and had had much to say, giving Simon some truly tasty leads but first… but first… He frowns, overcome by the memories that push to the forefront of his consciousness.

Doggie-dog grins his manic grin. The blade severs Simon's vocal chords. He falls and the faces swim before him, Ashleigh's eyes turned milky, her head rolling to one side when Paulo's boot makes contact with chalk-white skin. Doggie-dog, Malles, Paulo, Niemand and Willem laugh.

They will taste and know fear before Simon extinguishes their filthy souls.

He'd let Lemmetjie go, of course. The crew no longer stayed out in Ocean View. There's a house in Muizenberg, in the village, among all the old Victorian-era cottages. Thirty-four Palmer Road, to be exact. He knows the road, knows the house.

He remembers the house all too well. He had to fetch Brendan there a few times more than he cares to recall. He had settled Brendan's debt on more than one occasion when his brother had inhaled too many grams of coke, had smoked too many hits of crack and had all but mortgaged his soul to run after the powdery demon with its sly whispers and insidious fingers.

The bird croaks in agreement when Simon parks the bike. He fingers the flick-knife Lemmetjie discarded. This will do. He grins, crusted blood cracking on his face. This will do nicely.

The street is quiet but for the trio of boys fooling around on their skateboards. They see Simon and scarper, crying out shrilly, like little birds.

The crow lands on the front gate, a glint in its eye. Simon casts a glance up and down the deserted street where warm yellow light falls in pools onto the tarmac. The interior of this house is dim but someone is home, for he can hear voices muttering, muffled, within.

Simon stands for a moment on the porch, beneath the sloping tin roof. Then, he smiles, gathers his strength and rushes the door. The wood is old and splinters, the glass pane at the top section falling away with the impact.

"Honey! I'm home!" he yells, his voice echoing. He wrinkles his nose at the stench of the place, of sour sweat and the ripe putrescence of air filled with stale marijuana smoke.

Voices sound out in alarm and Simon thumbs the blade, uncaring that he slices into his own skin.

Two men thunder down the passageway, silhouetted in the glow from the kitchen. A woman screams.

"The wolf is at your door. Actually, no, I've blown your door down. What are the little piggies going to do now?" Simon leers.

He knows this pair. Memory flashes back to that night, where they watched, not intervening, laughing, while Doggie-dog did his worst.

The brothers stop dead in their tracks, their eyes bulging as they realise exactly who stands before them.

As one, they spin about, making to run up the passage, but Simon moves much faster than they can. He fells Willem when he kicks his foot out from beneath him. Niemand, the taller of the pair, makes it as far as the kitchen door before Simon slams him into the frame, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold.

Willem tries to crawl back towards the front door but he can't get up. He twisted his ankle as he fell.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Simon whispers into the man's ear and he cries out in fright.

"Don't hurt me!"

The cold blade kisses the soft flesh of Willem's neck.

"Why shouldn't I?" Simon hisses between clenched teeth. "You didn't stop smirking when Doggie-dog tried to slice my head off my neck. Why should I spare you?"

"But I didn't do anything!"

"Precisely!" Simon crows, ripping across Willem's throat with a savage gesture. Willem drops like so much meat to the oaken floors, the blood seeps between the cracks with the last pushes of the heart while air whistles through an opened larynx.

Niemand moans, dazed – trying to get up. The women who were in the kitchen have fled out of the open back door, their screams piercing in the night. Simon crouches next to the prone man, wrinkling his nose with distaste at the man's sour smell.

"Oh, Niemand, or should I call you 'nobody'? I've come to collect those taxes of the bones of your sins, but first you're going to sing me a little aria. I trust you know what that is? It's what those fat ladies do at the opera house.

"Where do I find Doggie-dog, Malles and that Portuguese – Paulo? Lemmetjie was so kind as to elucidate that you and your brother currently reside in this dungpile and may be able to assist me in my inquiries."

Niemand groans, attempting to raise himself to his elbow. Simon pushes Niemand's broken face down, so that his features are ground into the floorboards. Niemand squeals.

"Oi! Douchebag! You're going to sing? Or, should I remind you how sharp the knife that I used to I slit your brother's throat is?"

"Why would I tell you anything?" Niemand whines. "You gonna kill me anyway?"

"Ah, but Niemand, you still get to choose. Do I let you die quickly or do I let you hurt a helluva lot before I allow you to die?"

Niemand emits a strangled cry and wriggles from Simon's grasp, pulling his body halfway across the kitchen floor.

"Wrong answer!" Simon calls out, placing a boot over the back of Niemand's neck.

Niemand turns suddenly, grabbing Simon's ankle to send him sprawling across the kitchen, where he drags bottles off a counter in his path, crashing on the ground in splinters of glass.

Niemand doesn't stay to find out more about what Simon promised him. He jumps to his feet and bolts out of the door, only to have the black bird flying at his face in an explosion of feathers, claws and a sharp beak.

He cries out, his voice as harsh as the crow's, lifting hands in a futile gesture to protect his eyes when the bird slashes at soft tissue – one eyeball punctures with a wet plop when the cruel point gains entry.

Niemand falls back into Simon's embrace.

"Don't try to fight that which is already dead, Nobody."

Niemand squirms in Simon's grip and is cradled in the man's arms – a grim parody of the Madonna and Child. Niemand whimpers, brushing at bits of broken glass clinging to Simon's clothing that bite into his skin.

"Hush, Nobody. Shhhhhh. I'm going to ask you one more time. Where do I find Doggie-dog, Malles and Paulo?"

"They're helping out your brother ­– running errands and stuff. I swear I don't know where they're dossing. Woodstock, I think, but since… since…"

"Since I bailed Brendan out here one too many times…" Simon finishes for the man, staring up at the stars.

For a moment it seems as if Niemand has something more to say but Simon grips the hapless young man's forehead, pulls his head back and slashes him an extra red smile just below his chin. Before too much blood stains Simon's hands, he throws the body that kicks and twitches out its life away from him and strides off into the night, the black bird spreading its wings and gliding after him.