Don Carson ran a quick hand through his bleached yellow hair, raising the short spikes to attention as he trotted along a West Hollywood neighborhood street. It was just a little morning exercise, not for his health, just to pick up on the new day’s vibe. He’d jogged from Pico, doglegged to Santa Monica then up the hill past the posh hotels and trendy entertainment establishments along Sunset before checking his watch. Time to race back for his meeting. He’d just run fifteen miles and not a stop to breathe. What was the point? He was supernatural and had little need for things like breathing, bathing or being sociable. He was the minion of a god, a goddess to be exact, so those menial, mortal activities were wasted energy. He never sweat, never smelled and never required much in general upkeep. Every decade or so, he’d update his look, thus the California beach bum hair. Other than that, life just went on and on. 
           
And on.
           
The small 1940’s bungalow on Stanley Avenue was nothing special, but merely nearing it gave him a euphoric sense of place and time. Not old Hollywood – a different place where he loved life, the job, even the people. Just before Spain sent black-robed men and soldiers to crush the Aztec culture, the boss lady took him and a hundred others like him with her to travel the planet. Culture be damned, she had smeared herself far and wide, making the right offers and dealing the right souls in order to secure eternal employment. So where did she choose to make her headquarters? Not magnificent Mexico City built on the dead bones of ancient Azteca, not exotic Fiji or beautiful Monaco. Dirty, ugly, soulless Los Angeles. Maybe she wanted to be one of those California girls. More the pity, because Carson only had to work all the harder. In order for a Sin Eater like his boss to meet her goals, Soul Eaters like Carson had to find a conscience to tap into. His job was to press the envelope, force the choices and see how far a mortal would go to find salvation. His line of work is tough enough in western cultures, but L.A. had a distinct lack of conscience. Worse than Vegas or Amsterdam by a mile.      
           
He looked up at the tiny porch and blood red door then closed his eyes. The slapping of dusty old palm fronds overhead magically changed into the whisper of lapping water against a rough hewn wooden boat. Sunset, and in the near distance hovered beautiful Tenochtitlan, a city of light. Radiance reflected in the glass-smooth surface of Lake Texcoco as orange and fuchsia afterglow blended with purple mountain shadows. Wavering light twisted across the causeways making the city appear to be hovering precariously in the sky. Tenochtitlan glittered with torchlight, candlelight, the flicker of lanterns and mellow echoing flares dancing off the water. He breathed in the city, moved his eyes from side to side and observed mystical luminous banners floating on the warm nightfall. Intricate airy flags, all the colors of a lovely prostitute, brilliant from the interwoven feathers of cardinals, egrets, parakeets, blue jays and noble herons. And black, looming in the center of the city, the place of the Flowery Death. The pyramids of the gods.

Tenochtitlan was a city of light and darkness, twofold as was his life in the heart and center of The One World. Madness and salvation, much like his goddess, Tlazolteotl.

Suddenly, intrusively and without warning, the door swung open and Carson snapped back to the present, composed himself and entered the house. No one had opened the door, the mere suck of a sigh from the goddess was enough. He walked across the entry room, the standard dining room crowded with a thousand glowing satin pillows and nothing else, through the useless kitchen and finally outside again, this time to stand in a small fenced-in back yard. The space was devoid of grass, greenery or anything living, and that included the figure of his goddess, lying casually on a cheap plastic lounge chair and sunning her too-thin body.
           
In her fingers, a burning Marlboro cigarette threatened to drop a full inch of perfect ash, dead matter like her … like Carson too. Her colorless hair trailed long and loose, waves of tangled variations of grey. Her flesh was not full or rounded, but appeared more like a rough skin coat to cover her bones. But her face? Ah, her face was beautiful. Her bone structure was classic, nose eloquent, complexion a web of fine wrinkles that did not distract from the brilliance of her visage. Tlazolteotl the goddess wore a yellow polka dot bikini.
           
Honest.
           
Don Carson’s initial reaction was as it had been for a long time, revulsion. But she was his goddess and she controlled his existence … or did she? Watching her hand move the cigarette to perfect lips and suck it down to nothing, he knew this would not be the day to confront her. Unless she pulled what he expected. If so, his patience had just about reached the limit. Controlling himself was the key to everything.
           
“You’re late.”
           
He dropped to the ground, prostrate at her side, his nose buried in the gritty, sandy dirt. “Forgive me, Goddess.”
           
“Fine, fine. Let’s dispense with all this crap. We need to talk, Chimali, and we need to talk now. Come.” She led him into the dim house, collected another pack of smokes from a carton then sat on a mountain of pillows.
           
He did not sit. This goddess was shifty and always testing him. Better safe than sorry. He stood at ease, like the marines he’d seen in the war movies – eyes forward, face blank, ready to act on command – but after hearing her speak his real name he found himself a far cry from calm inside his soul. Did she know of his fantasies when he reached her house? Had she planted them there like poisonous geraniums? He almost huffed in frustration. There was nothing more fucked up than spending eternity in the service of a goddess you couldn’t trust.
           
“Chimali,” she said softly. “We have quotas to keep, my dear. I have quotas to keep and I am nearly eight souls behind.”
           
“Goddess, you are three souls behind, no more,” he lied to relax her. A little ass kissing never hurt. “I delivered Shirley … the pixie. Don’t you recall?”
           
She struck a match, lit her cigarette then carelessly tossed the flame away. Without a word, he stepped to his right and put out the spark growing in a yellow silk pillow with the sole of his Nike.

“So you did,” she grumbled. “I am seven souls behind.”

He said nothing, biting his tongue. In truth, the goddess was more than a thousand souls behind. They’d surely forgotten her to let her continue like this but then again, the desperation in her voice indicated that just maybe the bigger gods had had enough and given her an ultimatum. He squelched a grin. “Goddess, with great respect, I would like to point out that I am the last of your soul eaters. You’ve … uh …”
           
“Burned all the others? Yes, I have. Mixli … ah Mixli.  I didn’t want to lose him, you understand. I had no choice but to fry his ass. He was so … soft.”

Mixli had been Carson’s boyhood friend. Don Carson, A.K.A. Chimali’s boyhood ended in the year 1510. While the wilting goddess ranted on and on, he heard none of her tirade, rather unnoticing when she stood and paced, kicking pillows and tossing more lit matches. He thought to let her burn him dead, burn herself as well. Then suddenly she stopped and stared at him, a penetrating glare that threatened to sizzle him without flame.

“Chimali, I do know what you want.”

“Do you, Goddess?”

“I understand too. In the old days, you young Soul Eaters were released after a much shorter time, but as you can see,” she waved a bony arm, “there are no more ceremonies to make more Soul Eaters to assist in my efforts. You want your freedom but think about it. If I free you, there will be no one to serve me and I’ll soon perish from existence. I … me … Tlazolteotl … the eternal Sin Eater … will no longer have a reason to continue. Without you, I will be ...” She dropped like a frustrated teenager, flat onto the cushions, wads of cottony grey hair flopping into her face. “I like Los Angeles. I like my bikini. I like … living.”

The boss lady was mad as a Hatter. Again he squelched his response. Hundreds of years ago, people died younger so he and his associates didn’t have to wait so damn long for a man to seek confession. Hundreds of years ago, Tlazolteotl chose cultures that accepted their services. Now, in L.A., if a dying man even felt the need to confess rather than justify his sins, he had everyone from Jesus to Muhammad to Buddha and Vishnu and the third star from Uranus to make his confession to before passing through to the death world.

The goddess had chosen a bad place and an even worse time. A wave of sadness wafted over him. Yes, it was a bad place and time, but in truth, how did he know any different? While Tlazolteotl sobbed and sniffled and yipped her tantrum, he found his heart tightening, soaring, breaking. Mixli. Mixli. Mixli.

The evening he approached the City of Light was the first and last time he ever saw Tenochtitlan. He and Mixli had only seen twelve harvests. They sat in the rocking boat speechless and amazed, mouths agape and astounded at their good fortune. They, among all the children in their village, had been chosen. They, apart from the other average boys, had been blessed and lived not with their parents, doing chores and tolerating siblings, but in the big house of the Reverend Speaker Xococ. They’d been dressed in fine tunics and taught the lessons of soldiers and scribes alike. They were special, they were lucky, they were chosen. How was he to know that fateful night would be the last time he saw normal life? If he’d known his destiny he would have thwarted it. He would have saved himself and Mixli that very day.

Tlazolteotl hissed. “Strickland. The double-dead vampire, Gabriel Strickland. Why haven’t I had him yet?”

Carson wavered on his feet, sensing the whiplash of his vacillating thoughts. He blinked, scowled. “My Goddess, I’m all alone, just one man working like a parched farmer to bring in the harvest. My eyes are not focused on dead supernaturals or double-dead vampires. I can’t determine their next passage into the final death world and neither can you. The urgency to them is not strong. Besides,” he stamped out another little flame from another errant match, “you know we missed our window of opportunity with Strickland. If we don’t nab a dead supernatural within the first few hours, it’s nearly impossible. It took me centuries to get Shirley. You know the holding tank process.” He tossed up his hands. “Just what good would Strickland’s confession do anyway?”

“Spare me, I know the fucking rules. He’s a double-dead man still walking. He owes me a confession. Just think about it, Donnie my boy. If we play our cards right, we can get him twice. It’ll be a triumph and get me that much closer to quota. I will be rewarded greatly! You really should start listening to me, boy.”

His mouth twisted. Depressing. Done in a timely fashion, it was easier to collect the soul sins of a double-dead vampire or a demised pixie than an average human in the Inland Empire of Los Angeles. Perhaps she was right; perhaps he should ignore the human sinners and focus on the dead supernatural sinners. Station himself at Hollywood and Vine and sweep in the moment they arrive. Dangerous, but achievable. The question was; did he really care anymore about saving his goddess’ ass? Saving his own?

 Tlazolteotl kept talking and he simply tuned her out. For five hundred years he’d listened to the moth-eaten old hag, obeyed her and cowered at her feet, feared and pitied her. Five hundred years ago he was duped into a sacrifice that, had he been fairly informed, he would have opted against.

From the boat, he and Mixli were led through the nightlife of a city on the heels of celebration. Sacrifices had been made and the blood ran thick down the steep steps of the pyramid. This didn’t affect the boys, as there were far too many more interesting things all around them.

“Look,” shouted Mixli, pointing to a circle of dancing women, all naked but for the sheerest of fabric and surrounded by men who looked suspiciously like starving jackals. They stared, for there was a joint new found fascination with all things female.

“What would it feel like?” Mixli whispered and Chimali shrugged, sipped hot, foamy cocoa then grinned wide.

“It would feel like this tastes,” he hissed, intent on keeping their conversation from the Reverend Speaker. Instinctively, they knew that their sudden interest in the bodies of women had caused the upheaval in their lives. They were told that the time had come to move ahead with their very special journey. Were they being rewarded? After all, back home the chance to look upon so many waving, ponderous exposed breasts would have never happened.

Sounds permeated the brilliant, colorful night – the strumming of instruments, the warble of song, the heartbeat of drums and music of conversations and laughter. The boys were not yet as tall as men, but tall enough to rise on sandaled toes to revel in the spectacle of celebratory Tenochtitlan.

Tangled within those sounds were the razor sharp words of the goddess he continued to ignore. Too late. It had taken him too deep. Until he was ready, until the memory had reached its climax, he would not, could not, return to the present. His mind, body and soul were locked to the past. Sweat he never felt coated his body like a slimy mist, like the sin filth that nourished his goddess. Hers was an ugly existence but it had begun when the first man sinned. Without her, no man in The One World could ever enter a peaceful death. Without her, all was doomed. Funny how life changes and thus did Mixli and Chimali’s lives transform.

“I would touch her everywhere,” sighed Mixli and Chimali snorted.

“I would taste her everywhere! I would – ”

“Boys,” bellowed the reprimand they feared. “Come quickly.”

The Reverend Speaker Xococ was not a man to be ignored. He was harsh when angry and stern when pleased. His cloak, meant to be drab to subdue his obvious wealth, had fallen wide, bringing many envious eyes upon the jewels that embellished his timlatli and well made sandals. Gathering the boys to him, he actually pulled the dull, rough woven cloak to embrace all three of them and they awkwardly walked like a six-legged creature through the crowded square. Peeking through a lucky opening, a gift from a warm breeze, a pretty henna-haired girl caught Chimali’s attention but he had no time to enjoy the erection she’d brought.

They swept quickly into a dark temple and as the boys turned to view the unbelievable vision of the brilliant spectacle, huge, heavy iron doors slowly closed them away from the city forever.

For the next seven years, he and Mixli were locked in the inner chambers of the temple. At least once each day, they were taken to the uppermost level of the structure, a beautiful gardened platform enclosed by high stone walls that left nothing to see but the sky and flowers captured as they were inside the space. Occasionally they heard the sounds of life below drift up on a gentle wind, like a hawk catching the heat and escaping gravity’s hold. They never again saw a woman, but had often witnessed, by accident or design, the sexual activities of men with other men, of filthy priests with young men training to become filthy priests.

It soon became clear that Chimali and Mixli were not there to become priests. They were permitted to bathe often and were taught daily in the arts of thoughtful analysis, the rationale of the scribes and of course, the ways of the warrior. And they were repeatedly reminded that they were special. They were chosen.

“I must get out of this place or surely I will kill one of these stinking priests!” Mixli had been forced to bed an especially filthy, bearded man and as unimportant as the conversation had been, Chimali was determined to support his friend.

“He is foul, but we’ve been chosen, Mixli. We will be rewarded.”

“When? And why can we not be rewarded with women? I will tear his penis from the root if he reaches for me again, Chimali. I will slice his throat. You must help me get out of this temple!”

“We will make a plan tomorrow. Sleep this night in peace. I will find a way from this place, I promise you.”

They were nineteen years old and as much as Chimali too wished for a woman, he found little issue with the sexual penetration of the priests. He could endure. It had been happening for several years by then and he trusted that his reward would be far greater than any discomfort required. Also, he had been fancied by a far kinder priest than poor Mixli’s tormentor.

Both young men were broad of shoulder with strong, thick arms and legs. The priests had no strength. They ate badly, their teeth were rotted and their bodies reeked from the stench of never bathing. It would have taken little to squelch the life from any priest. Only fear of punishment prevented the action, especially for Mixli who had grown sullen and angry and most uncooperative as of late. His desperation to leave seemed even more vital in light of his ever darkening mood.

While Mixli slept, Chimali silently slipped from their chamber to explore the night weaknesses of the temple and hopefully devise an elaborate escape. Strangely, he had never before thought to leave and had no real idea of how to make it happen.  In the darkened temple that very night was the first time Chimali crossed paths with a vampire. The man glowed in the blackness but completely ignored the voyeur as he sucked and lapped at the last few drops of a struggling priest. Chimali grinned and stepped forward. If a murderer could get into the temple, then surely there was a way to help Mixli get out. The bloodsucking creature stood abruptly, dropped his dead prey onto the stone floor with a dull thud then eyed Chimali curiously.

“Pardon my intrusion, but can you tell me how you entered the temple?” Chimali spoke as politely as he could.

“So, this is what you will do,” shrieked the goddess.

His blank expression must have given him away. Don Carson stood even straighter. “Yes my Goddess?”

“You will get me three souls in the next three weeks. If you double that quota … I … I will …”

“Yes, Goddess?”

“I’ll release you. But … one of those souls will need to take your place, and obviously it can’t be Strickland. It must be a living human.”

Carson’s brain shifted into overdrive. Had she really made him such an offer? What the fuck was the catch? And … was he willing to field that catch to attain true freedom? “Make another Soul Eater to serve you? A human? Pardon, my Goddess, but … how?”

“Leave that to me. You feed me the sins of six sinners in the next three weeks and I will manage an acceptable ceremony. Bring me a human worthy of your position and you will be free. Oh, and there will be one more contingency.”

Of course there was another damn contingency. “Yes, Goddess?”

“Strickland. You will bring me the sins of his last two lives, and you will guarantee that he will find his way to the demon’s pit.”

“To hell? You’re asking me to assure that he does not gain his salvation? Ever?” It was impossible, way out of her power and of no use to anyone, even the disgusting Tlazolteotl. Her whole existence was designed for the clean advancement of man into the death world. Mad as a Hatter. Crazy as a loon. It was the catch he most feared. A Catch 22. Not possible but then again, he was always up for a challenge. Anything that offered even a remote opportunity for liberty was fine by him. Doable or not, he was pushing the Sin Eater to her limits.

He waved a hand and boldly glared directly into the goddess’ eyes. “Done. But I’ve got a few contingencies too.”

“Speak, although it’s highly unlikely I’ll agree to your demands, it should be fun to hear them.” She lit another cigarette, this time bouncing the tossed, lit match right off his chest. It fizzled out, impotent on the floor.

He actually grinned. His track record averaged one soul a week – terrible by ancient standards, but damn good for Hollywood. He could do this, but it was time to toss a few lit flames at Tlazolteotl first. This time, ground rules were vital. This time he had a chance to get the hell away from her forever. “No interference,” he began. “No reports. No additional demands. I get four weeks to deliver the sins of six souls. If I don’t deliver, I want out. Out. Burn me, for I’m obviously incapable of serving such a great goddess.”

“Burn you? For failing?”

“Yes.” He shifted on his feet, flexed his knees as though she’d attack. “And, you’re on your own finding a replacement. I’ll have nothing to do with condemning a human to this work.”

She stood statue still for at least an hour, their eyes locked in silent battle. When finally she moved, it began with a blink, like the waking of a well rested babe. “All right, my dear Chimali. Four weeks. The sins of six souls. Succeed or fail, you are free. Get out of my sight. And,” she shouted as he reached the door. “Don’t forget, Strickland is to be damned. Is that clear?”