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far too much of a lady to be doing that. You're not that type of girl." Cameron shook his head and laid back down, turning away from her. "Give me a break. You're common. Now get out please."

  "You're a horrible person."

  "Yes, I suppose so. You'll have to find another scratching post tonight, sugar. There's no need for an incident. I just want you to leave."

  "I wanted to keep things peaceful. I felt sorry for you, your being all alone and all, but you're so mean." She left the room angrily, slamming the door.

  The following night, band practice resumed after dark, keeping Cameron from getting to sleep. This went on for three nights before Cameron dug through his old belongings, finding the harmonica he played with when he was a boy. He'd never quite mastered it. The truth was that he had only ever managed to squawk out random notes. When the band finally would go to sleep in the mornings, he would then break out the harmonica and play as badly and as loudly as he could, singing along, painfully tone deaf as he was. On one occasion, Neil actually came out of his room, a blanket wrapped around him, eyes blinking, exhausted, angry, and asked, "what the hell is wrong with you, old man?" before returning to his room.

  This type of standoff between Cameron and the other members of the household went on for weeks as his brother still either ignored his calls or wasn't receiving them, the latter being a distinct possibility because of the remote locations he often chose for vacation. In order to supplement his lack of funds, Cameron had taken to stealing his roommates' food whenever they slept. After a good meal he'd leave the house and walk the town.

  One morning, after Cameron had returned from his daily walk he sat outside on the porch. A little boy, bundled heavily in winter clothes and a homemade Packers hat that looked like a misshapen yellow lump on his head with a crooked green G in the center, stopped to look him over.

  "Go away," Cameron said, waving his hands as if shooing away a bug.

  The little boy continued to watch him. Snot had been running down his face and had frozen just above his lip like an icicle.

  "What?" Cameron asked him defensively. "You've got-" he pointed to the frozen snot, "never mind."

  "You want a root beer barrel?" The kid wrestled his mitten off and after a struggle to get his hand into his pocket he produced a handful of lint-covered hard candy.

  "Why does your candy look like its growing hair?"

  "That's just fuzz from my pocket. It comes off." He rubbed one of the pieces of candy on his leg and then held it out toward Cameron for inspection. "See?"

  "You couldn't get me to eat one of those if you held a razor blade to my throat."

  The kid popped one of them in his mouth before returning the others to his pocket and replacing his mitten. "You shouldn't just sit there on your porch like that, mister. Satan will come and drag you away with all the other cats and dogs. He makes them into bones."

  "Well, you certainly are a strange and creepy little boy, aren't you?"

  "He'll come and take you away."

  "Promise?"

  "I mean it. He'll come and get you. You shouldn't make fun."

  "I hardly think so. I don't believe in Satan. Or Santa, he's not real either. Ever notice that if you jumble the letters of their names around they turn out to be the same? Probably not, hmm?"

  "He'll come for you and you won't even see him sneak up."

  "Satan or Santa? Certainly not Santa. He's much too fat to sneak up on anyone. I'd definitely hear him coming. Plus he wears red all the time. Wearing red is just screaming for attention. If he was smart he'd wear all black and come at night like an assassin." Cameron waved him off with the back of his hand. "I think you'd better get on your way, kid."

  "No. I'm talking about Satan. Not Santa."

  "Fine, I hope Satan does come. If the devil did exist, which he doesn't - no matter what your mommy told you - maybe he'd take you first so I didn't have to look at you and your frozen snot nose any longer. Unfortunately, Satan doesn't exist."

  "Satan's a cat. You don't believe in cats?"

  "Oh, a cat. I do believe in cats. Why is it that you call him Satan, then? Cats aren't responsible for the evil in the world, nor do they rule the underworld. They can't even control their bladders properly, let alone corrupt mankind. They piss in the house no matter how many times you yell at them. Can you imagine anyone fearing a dark and ominous figure that couldn't even keep from wetting himself? I imagine that even you can control your bladder. You really should rethink your dismal opinion of cats. They are definitely not the powerful evil mythical beings that you think they are."

  "Everybody calls him Satan. All the kids in the neighborhood. That's his name. He's dangerous and the police can't even catch him."

  "Anyone can avoid the authorities. You just need to spend the money necessary on a good lawyer instead of letting one of your wife's cousins handle the case because she promised you that he was brighter than he looked."

  "Who?"

  "Never mind." Suddenly, Cameron decided he needed a pet. "Do you know where he is right now? This feline lord of the underworld that is so feared, so detestable?"

  "Mostly, he hides underneath people's porches and waits to grab kids, but sometimes he sits under the bridge with Winkydo."

  "Winkydo? What the hell is a winkydo?"

  "Winkydo Smokealot, but my mom says that's not his real name. He's Satan's only friend because Satan doesn't bite him."

  "I'd never bite something called a winkydo either. They might be under the bridge, you say?"

  "Yeah, but you shouldn't go down there because if you do, my mom says, you might not come back."

  "Again with your empty promises to end this miserable existence. If anyone around here is the Dark Lord, the purveyor of all lies, I'll put my money on you."

  He dismissed the child, and headed to the bridge, where he found an old homeless man with the most enormous and hideous cat that he'd ever seen. The cat was easily twice the size of any other cat, with a pitch black coat and fiery green eyes. Its head looked mutated, with a strange bony ridge down the center, and it was extremely wide, as if it had been two cats that had morphed together inside the womb.

  "I'll give you ten dollars for that - whatever that thing is." Cameron looked at it more closely and the cat glared back at him. "That thing is a cat, right?"

  "Why you want to buy ol' Midnight?"

  "I thought the cat's name was Satan."

  "Who the hell names a cat Satan?"

  "That's just what I heard. Anyway, I want to purchase Midnight."

  "Midnight's a special cat. She'll catch ghosts and spirits for you. Won't you Midnight?" he said, scratching the cat's enormous head right down the ridge.

  "It smells like you're the one that caught a few spirits tonight."

  "Mind your own damn business."

  "Will you sell me that thing or not?"

  "I asked you once already. Why you want to buy my cat?"

  "I'm a helpless do-gooder that just can't contain my love for animals. I have an undying need to give him a proper loving home."

  "You're full of shit."

  "Wow, such an alert mind, and intuitive as well. What other mysteries could possibly lay under that vomit-covered rag that you're wearing?"

  "Why you want the cat, asshole?"

  "I've got a problem with squatters in my mother's home and I need your vile companion to coax them to leave. At least the animal would have a clean place to live for a little while."

  "He got a place to live. He live here," the man said, waving his arm at his surroundings. "Under the bridge with me. My home ain't good enough for him?"

  "It's perfect for you."

  "Why don't you go away and leave me alone?"

  "Look, I'll give you ten dollars for the horrible business that you've got under your arm, and I'm not referring to any strange growths that you probably have. Do you want to sell him to me or not?"

  "I'll sell him. Give me the money, plus that fancy overcoat. It gets cold under here at night." He smil
ed at Cameron, revealing several missing windows in the old homestead. "With that coat people will think I'm all fancy, just like you," he said sarcastically.

  "You know what they say. Clothes make the man."

  "It's pretty cold. You'll need this," the old man said, removing the raggedy blanket with the collage of stains and the strong smell of urine.

  "No. I'm feeling particularly generous today. You can keep that, too."

  Cameron pulled a crumpled ten from the pocket of his pants and took off his overcoat and handed both to the man. He mentally forced himself not to shiver.

  "So the cat's yours," said the old man.

  "Do you have some type of collar and leash for him?"

  "Of course, it's right over here with his sweater vest and mittens." The old man smiled his gap tooth smile again.

  "A rope or something to tie around him?"

  "Now why the hell would I have something like that? I don't let nobody put a rope around my neck, why would I let anyone do that to him?"

  "Considering the way you're living, you might want to give that rope around your neck a little extra thought sometime."

  Cameron reached for the hideous animal and it hissed at him.

  "So how do I get it home?"

  "Cost you an extra five dollars for me to walk him to your house. Would 'a done it for free but you're just so easy to love."

  Cameron angrily went through the small amount of cash he had left, counting out five ones, and handed those to the old man, as well. The old man, now dressed in Cameron's twelve hundred dollar coat, kept his side of the agreement and walked the dark beast, which hopped from one foot hole in the snow to the next, its black fur contrasting the