Drinks with Megan

I met up with Megan for drinks last evening. She promised to be on best behavior after what happened last time we held a public rendez-vous. I figured she was lying, but agreed to the meeting anyway. I guess I have a soft spot in my heart for her.

Megan certainly does not have a soft spot for me, because her heart is made of the blackest obsidian. Volcanic glass is hard all over, bitch.

I got there 15 minutes early and saw that Megan was already there. She took a booth near the window so she could see everyone who drove up to the bar. She wanted to see if I had been tailed. Megan stood up to embrace me, and I noticed she hadn't touched her beer.

"You look good," she said.

Then she punched me square in the face. As I tasted the blood dripping into my mouth, I muttered to myself, "I knew she was lying."



---
Hours after that beating, I realized I was lucky.

The cut on my nose will heal; the black eye will fade; the my swollen testicles will eventually return to their regular size. Even my wounded pride wasn't a permanent condition. Not many, few immortals even, walk away from such an encounter with Megan. I danced with the devil and lived to tell the tale.

See, I knew it wasn't personal. It was just business and that's why I didn't attempt to flee (fighting back was never an option). Take it like a man.

She knew that I knew, and appreciated it, which is why she bought me a beer afterwards.

And I knew that she knew that I knew, which is why I stayed and enjoyed a few more rounds with her.

And I think she knew that I knew that she knew that I knew, which may have been why she offered me a ride home but then dropped me off at a highway rest stop 45 minutes from where I live. Actually that was probably because she was drunk.

A quick story about Megan

I have a sister named Megan. This is not about my sister. This story is about a different Megan... a more heartless and deeply complicated Megan.

Megan is a cruel vixen with a heart of stone, her hair as fiery red as her temper. Lives of mortal men mean little to her, and she shows them no compassion in the face of her unchecked aggression. Her ways are mysterious.

One time I watched her rip this dude's soul out with her bare hands, just because he passed her the ketchup. Her moves were swift and sudden, yet remarkably precise. The other patrons of the fast-food restaurant should have fainted in shock after standing witness to such a gruesome spectacle, yet their sheer terror overwhelmed them far more, and none succumbed to blackness. They stood frozen and silent, not daring to move.

"But you asked him to pass you the ketchup!" I screamed. Being immortal myself, I didn't share their fears. However I immediately realized the error of my ways. There are severe penalties for speaking out against Megan, and I knew what would happen.

Without a word, nor even a glance in my direction she proceeded to force-feed the man's raw soul to some woman's baby. There is very little in this world that can stop a mother from risking her life to defend her baby, but then again Megan might not really be from this world. The woman didn't interfere.

I knew that this mother was originally from Oregon. I shuddered at the recollection that Megan hates the Pacific Northwest more than she hates tomato-based condiments. But could she know of the woman's shameful past? I prayed to whatever God could allow such tragedy that Megan had simply chosen this baby because it was the cutest thing in the room. For if she knew of its Oreganian heritage... I didn't dare contemplate.

The woman just stood and watched, a surreal cool seemed to control her, as if she were completely oblivious to the dread that gripped all the others.

She knew.

"Little Francis likes soul," Megan finally said to the mother, as she moved the last spoonful towards his lips. "Don't you wittle bitty Fwancis?! Yes you do!! Yes its sooooo yummy! VROOM!! VROOM!." she babbled as she swooped the spoon through the air, immitating the motions of an airplane.

The baby's name was actually Robert Eugene, in honor of his grandfather and the Oregon city where his parents met. The mother said nothing to correct her. Robert Eugene giggled happily at the mysterious lady with the airplane spoon.

When the last of the soul was devoured Megan informed the mother, "Soul is high in protein and rich in B-vitamins. Francis will grow strong. He will one day be very wise."

Relief flooded over me as Megan turned and walked out. I sat down and finished my McRib sandwich.