Divine Intervention
He really had learned his lesson, as much as he ever learned anything. He hadn't gone back to Jenoff's and he remained determined to never darken that doorstep again. He was strictly sticking to the track right now … so he hadn't learned that much of a lesson. He was still gambling. But, he figured, as long as his soul or his hand wasn't on the line, he was probably fine. Sure he might end up with his legs broken but … they would heal.
And tonight was a good night. Not that he'd won big on the ponies or anything, but he hadn't lost disastrously. And he was out with Kizzie, who he hadn't seen in weeks, and they were sharing a bottle of … it said it was vodka, but it tasted more like paint stripper. But nevertheless - it was getting the job done and, as they stumbled their way home, Doyle's head was buzzing and his feet were having problems walking straight and, all in all, things felt as sweet as the lot of a half demon could ever be.
'No, no, no,' he was slurring, as they staggered down the sidewalk, 'all I'm sayin' is that if Superman is allergi - aller - allulluhluh ... if he doesn't like Kryptonite then Spidey's gotta have somthin' like it too. Otherwise it s'not fair.'
'He doesn't like pesticides,' Kizzie said, struggling to get his tongue around the words.
'Ha!' Doyle snorted in derision, 'that's - that's not the same.' He stumbled a little and gripped onto a lamp post to steady himself. ''Cause 'cause kryptonite's a thing … a thingie… a…' he screwed his face up as he tried to remember what he was saying. 'That means Spiderman would win in a fight.' He stopped and shook his head vehemently - and then groaned as the motion made him feel sick. 'And Spidey shouldn't win in a fight,' he continued. 'Superman is more more … supererer…' he broke off into drunken giggles.
'I think they're evenly matched.'
'No way man - Superman's like a god.'
'What do you think of Batman?'
Doyle snorted again. 'Del - delusions of … grandness. Tha's what. Just a man with a utility belt. I could have a utility belt. I don't go round callin' myself a …' he fought the urge to vomit, and then smiled in satisfaction when he was successful, 'hero.'
'Tha's 'cause you're not a hero.'
'Neither's Batman! He's just a rich fella in a basement. And all that shades o' grey, moral … moral ambib -bibuisnous - ambibuity.'
'Bambiguity.'
'Yeah - that.' He snorted. 'Just lighten up, man - y'know what I'm sayin'? I got no time for the broodin', mysterious types. I like my heroes … heroic. Not hangin' around in the dark, skulkin' over a girl or whatnot.'
He heard a sound behind them and turned to peer blearily down the street. 'Did you hear that?'
'But who do you think would win in a fight? Spidey or Batman?'
But Doyle wasn't listening. He was still squinting down the road in the direction they had just come from. 'Footsteps…' he muttered, 'I think someone is … someone's followin'...' He stepped down from the kerbside into the road, missed his footing and collapsed in the gutter. He was too drunk to get back up, so he just lay there, chuckling to himself - he could hear Kizzie wandering off, the demon was so drunk he hadn't even noticed Doyle was no longer with him.
'I just need to … need to…' he giggled helplessly as he tried to push himself back up. 'Maybe I'll just sleep here.' He closed his eyes.
The footsteps from before came closer. They were right above Doyle and then - suddenly - they came to a stop right beside him. 'Man, you're pathetic,' a heavy Brooklyn accent said from somewhere in the vicinity above him.
He pried one eye open. 'I don't go round judgin' you,' he slurred.
'You're in no position to. Look at you, drunk outta your skull, flat on your back, about to go to sleep in the gutter. Next time you wake up it'll be just in time to see a car drive right over you - splat - and then that'll be the end. And there aint nobody who'll care that there's one less sorry, little demon in the world.'
'I - demon - I…' He pried his eyes open again and tried to focus on the man standing above him. He was short, sort of like Doyle, and he wore a leather coat and a loud shirt … sort of like Doyle. But he had a hat on. Doyle didn't even own a hat. So that was where they were different. Plus the whole - the other guy being able to stand up right now thing, that was a pretty major difference too.
'Yeah, I know what you are,' the guy said. 'I think we should take a walk.'
'I don't think I can walk,' he forced himself up onto his elbow and then slumped back down again onto his back, and giggled helplessly.
'Jesus, you really are pathetic.' The guy reached down, hauled Doyle to his feet and then supported him as they staggered off down the road. 'I think the first thing to do is get you sober.'
...
The guy took Doyle into a greasy little diner, deposited him into a booth and then slid across the bench opposite - so they were facing each other across the table. He signalled to the waitress and ordered two coffees. 'Drink that,' he said, pushing the cup over to Doyle, who did as he was told. He drained the cup and the waitress refilled almost immediately - the place was empty except for them.
After his second cup of coffee, the spinning in his head was starting to recede - thought the glare from the fluorescent lights was still hurting his eyes. He looked at the man sitting across from him. He'd taken his hat off to reveal light brown, thinning hair. He looked totally unremarkable. Like Doyle but … less remarkable, if such a thing was possible. And yet he seemed to know exactly who - and more importantly what - Doyle was. 'Who are you?' the Irishman asked, at last. The coffee must have taken an effect - because he was no longer slurring his words.
'My name's Whistler,' the man told him, 'at least - lately it is.'
'Lately?'
'Let's just say - I been around a long time.'
'And you know .. what … I…?'
'What you are? A drunken low life. About the most pathetic excuse for a man I seen in a long time, yeah, I know. I also know you're not just a man. That you're more than meets the eye.'
'I don't know about that…' He'd never thought of his demon half as meaning he was 'more than' anything before. It was definitely a 'less than' kind of deal. Less than a man, less than a human, less than a person. Not even a full mammal.
'You're a half demon, right? Brachen. Comes with enhanced speed, strength, senses. You break a bone, you can pop it right back into place, those spikes mean you pack a mean headbutt and … the biggie … you get visions from the Powers That Be.'
'Just the one time.'
'For now. But see - the big question isn't what you are - it's who you are.'
Doyle frowned. 'Come again?' The waitress filled up his coffee cup again, and both men waited until she had left them alone before they continued their conversation.
'Well, it's like I said,' Whistler told him, 'currently you're a drunk and a loser and a lowlife. Lucky not to be dead - on account of a prayer you sent up recently to the higher powers - a prayer that was answered. But now you gotta pay. See, the PTB have noticed you - they think there's somethin' about you. I don't see it myself but - hey - just the messenger.'
'You work for the higher powers?' Doyle had trouble keeping the disbelief out of his voice. This guy … looked like Doyle. How could he be anyone special?
'You do too,' Whistler told him. 'At least - you're about to be entered onto the payroll … not that they pay.'
'I am?... They don't?'
'Yes and no, respectively. See, you get those visions and that's a gift. A blindingly, searingly painful kind of gift, but a gift. And you get to decide how to use it.'
Doyle stared down into his coffee, trying not to remember the contents of his last vision, or finding all those bodies, or the little girl and her missing shoe. 'That wasn't a gift,' he said heavily. 'It came too late. There was nothing I could do.'
'That one was a punishment. But the punishment is your gift.'
'...You've lost me.'
'You've done wrong, Doyle. And it haunts you. I can see that - in your eyes. It's part of why you drink so much, part of why you keep nearly getting yourself killed. The Powers are gonna give you a chance to put right what you did, make up for it - to atone. Atonement is your gift. Or at least the chance for it anyways. But to achieve atonement - you're gonna have to put the work in.'
'And what does that mean?' Doyle asked nervously.
Whistler leaned back - resting his arm across the top of the bench and looked at Doyle speculatively. 'Right now, the world is in a state of upheaval,' he said. 'Things have … gone a little off kilter. The scales aren't exactly balanced in our favour and things didn't work out the way we hoped.'
'How do you mean?'
He waved his hand airily, 'there's been some nastiness down on the helmouth, you'll find out about it when they're ready for you. Anyway, suffice it to say there's other guys out there like you - screw ups looking for redemption. One that we're working on right now … he's suited more to being a traditional champion than you are: big muscles, caveman brow, glistening pectorals, strong and silent - the whole package. But … he could do with some guidance. And that's where you come in.'
'Me?'
'Well, more specifically - your visions. See, he can't go around saving the honeys if he doesn't know where the honeys are to save. But you - you got a pipeline right to the people who know all that stuff. This is your chance, Doyle - to be better than you are. To stop being the guy talking about heroes and step up and become one.'
Doyle shook his head, 'ah - no - I really don't think the heroics are for me.'
'You might surprise yourself. Here's the thing, you promised anyone who would listen you'd do anything for them as long as they prevented you from losing your soul back at that snake pit you were going to. The PTB have taken you up on that generous offer. They saved your soul - and this is what they want in return.'
Doyle just stared at him, open mouthed. Whistler smiled. 'I mean - maybe you can find some way to wriggle out of it, offer something else to someone else, but you gotta know by now that only gets you into worse trouble. You're bein' give a real chance here - to make something of yourself, to be a player, to have a destiny… or you could ignore it all and go on to become an even more pathetic rodent than you already are.'
Doyle furrowed his brow. 'That's not kind.'
'I'm not in the business of kind. I'm in the business of delivering messages, of recruiting soldiers for our cause. And right now the PTB want you.' He saw the look on Doyle's face, the bewilderment mixed with the disbelief and mistrust - and more than little bit of fear. He dug into his pocket and threw some bank notes on to the table. 'You don't have to make your mind up now - you got time. Like I said, things didn't go according to plan, we're still … moving players around the board. But it's time to think about your future.' He got to his feet.
'But … I'm a demon,' Doyle said slowly. 'Demons can't… save the world.'
Whistler shrugged. 'I'm a demon - I'm still here. We're not all about evil and the destruction of the world. We're as free to make our own way in the world as any of the humans. You can be whatever man you wanna be, Doyle … whatever half man you wanna be. So think it over - and we'll be in touch.' He walked away.
Doyle was still frowning to himself. His eyes focused on something on the table and he looked up suddenly. 'Hey - you forgot your hat!' But Whistler was already gone, and the diner was empty except for Doyle and the waitress.
She offered him another refill, and he accepted. He stayed in the diner for hours, turning Whistler's hat over in his hands and his words over in his mind.
