Butcher Bird

Across the street, a griffin, its leathery wings twitching, was lazily chewing on the carcass of a fat, gray sewer rat. Emerald spiders the size of a child's hand ran around the griffin's legs, grabbing stray scraps of meat that fell from the beast's jaws. The spiders scrambled up and down the griffin's hindquarters. Gray stingray-like things flapped overhead, like a flock of knurled vultures. A coral snake lazily wrapping itself around the sacrifice pole stopped its climb long enough to call Spyder by name.

Spyder's head spun. He stepped into the street, flashing on the demon in the alley the night before. The mugging had been real. Had the monster part been real, too? He leaned his head back. Spinning in the sky overhead were angels with the wings of eagles. Higher still crawled vast airships. Their soft balloon bodies glowed in the bright sun, presenting Spyder with profiles of fierce mythological birds of prey and gigantic lotuses.

A cab turned the corner onto Harrison Street and Spyder frantically flagged it down. "Haight and Masonic," he said to the driver, trying not to sound as deranged as he felt. Spyder slid into the backseat and as the driver pulled away, he peered out the cab's rear window. The businessman was on the corner, talking to three pale men in matching black suits. Their clothes and general formality reminded Spyder of bankers in an old movie.

One of the bankers stepped forward, reached into the businessman's chest and pulled out his heart. Turning stiffly, he dropped the organ into an attache case held up by another of the trio. That done, the third banker used a knife to carefully peel the businessman's face off. The cab turned the corner and Spyder lost sight of them.

Five

Communication Breakdown

"How you voting on Prop 18?"

Spyder looked up. The cabbie looked exhausted, Spyder thought. One of those guys in his forties with eyes that make him look ten years older. His skin hung loosely on a gray, unshaven face.

"The companies make it sound like it'll put more cabs on the street, but really it's just going to screw up the medallion system even worse and give all the power to the big cab companies. We aren't employees, you know. All us cabbies are freelance. I owe money the moment I take my cab out. The moment I touch it. A cab driver has the job security of a crack whore. Worse than slaves, even. We're up at the big house begging the master for more cotton to pick."

"I'm sorry, said Spyder. "I don't know anything about Prop 18. I don't vote:ever."

The driver shook his head. His black hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he'd been sleeping on it just a few minutes earlier. "Voting's not a right, you know. It's not a privilege. It's your duty. My daddy died in the war so you could vote."

"Hey driver, uh," Spyder looked at the name on the man's taxi license, "Barry. Do you want to play a game?"

"I don't think so."

"There's a $20 tip in it for you. "

"Are you a cop?"

"No."

"Fag?"

"No."

"You from the cab company?"

"No, Barry."

"What kind of game?"

"Don't rush getting me to the Haight," Spyder said. He leaned his head against the window. It was cool on his forehead. "Take your time. Let the meter run. As we hit each corner, you're going to tell me what you see.

"What's on the corners you mean? Like buildings and people?"

"Exactly. Big or small. Whatever strikes your fancy."

"Give me a for instance," said Barry. "Like this corner."

"Okay," said Spyder leaning forward to peer out the windshield. "That semi up ahead. The blonde eating a taco in front of a bodega. The mailbox painted like a Mexican flag. That blimp shaped like Garuda."

"What's a Garuda?"

"A bird-beaked messenger deity from Thailand."

"I don't see nothing like that."

"Tell me what you see."

Barry breathed deeply and craned his head on the end of his long, doughy neck. "Some bums with shopping carts. Some hookers. Mexican or Asian, maybe. Can't tell from here. They got on high heels and the littlest goddam skirts. You can see all the way to Bangkok when they bend over."

"Keep going," said Spyder.

"Just stuff?"

"Just stuff."

"A Goodwill. A closed down porn theater. Cholos drinking forty-ouncers by a low-rider. A cop car stopping near 'em:" Barry fell into a singsong pattern, reciting as they drove. "A mom with her kid in a stroller. A couple a dogs fucking. Get some, boy! Some dope dealers. Bunch of teenyboppers cutting school. Little shits. Don't learn to read and we end up paying their welfare so they can have babies." Barry glanced into the rearview mirror at Spyder. "This is kind of a stupid game, buddy. When is it your turn?"

"My turn?" Spyder lit a cigarette, his first of the morning. "Everything you saw, I saw. But there were other things, too.

"Dazzle me."

"A winged horse. A lion turning into a golden bird, then into smoke. An angel sharing a cigarette with a horned girl whose skin's blue and hard, like topaz."

"Jesus fuck, man," said Barry. Spyder saw the driver's eyes widen in the mirror. "Are you on drugs or do you need drugs?"