HELL'S ANGEL

It didn't just rain heavily; it poured wickedly. The streets were practically empty and only alive through the violent splatters of the rainfall. The night was darker than what the darkness of night usually represented. The alleyway that this man took as he headed for the bar called The BrewClub Bar seemed to look like a literal black hole from afar. Was it him? As he walked, the little squared heel on his shoe hit the ground, and the sound of splattered water from the ground resounded on this dreaded night. He kept walking. He was almost there.

He had his hands in his pocket, and the hood of his coat, which collected his entire face, seemed to grow an extra 5 inches of cloth to even hide his face, complexion, or even reflection, such that it was as though the night itself wore clothes.

He was at the entrance of the bar now; the arrogant echoes of men's laughter and rowdy noises that emanated as he pulled the door open disgusted him. It irritated him. It angered him. Men, laughing, jesting at themselves as they confessed their wicked, selfish deeds to themselves and made humour from it. He didn't mind that he didn't care. He just hated the noises and the stench of the sorrows, greed, and evil of these low lives that hovered around them, drawing him, calling him, that he could not freely feed on without prejudice.

What prejudice? You would ask. Soon, he thought the world would know.

Just then, a potbellied, ugly-looking man dumped half of his upper body on the bar table, ordering 2 large glasses of dry, hard gin. The tired old man, who was the bartender, pushed the man's order sluggishly towards him, and as he carelessly carried them, gleefully peering at his glass cups as he gulped them down, the man in black, without turning to look or even giving an ounce of attention, watched everything even more than those who had eyes. Oh, gods. The stench. The attractive, dirty stench of a man covered in guilt and regret and suicidal settings. The man wanted his soul.

"It's a wicked night, innit?" The bartender beckoned. The man in black made no comment, reply, or acknowledgement, what so ever. "What poison would befit you tonight, sir?" He asked. And the man in black still said nothing. Rather, he made a very deep grunt and tapped his gloved fingers on the bar table.

"Well, then..." The bartender proceeded to attend to another scruffy-looking young man who had just thrown himself at the bar table before his shuddering, hoarse voice came out. "Whiskey."

The bartender turned to him immediately. His voice was compelling. It wasn't loud, it wasn't screaming, it wasn't happy; it was rather still, yet it commanded and demanded. The bartender proceeded to take a Jim Beam bottle and pour its contents into the set glass.

"What the f**k was that?" The young drunk man suddenly spoke aloud as he stared at the man in black. Whoever never turned to him. "I'm f**king talking to you, Hey!!!" He said again, beckoning to him. "I saw what you did. What's that? What did you say or do that the bar guy just now? What's the smoke that came out when you spoke?" The man asked as he hit his hand on the table. The strange man sighed. Indeed, it was true that when a man was so drunk, to the point that he had lost a great portion of his worldly sense and morality, his identity in the spirit began to wake, and it was a struggle, though it wasn't so usual. Now, this man certainly could not live to see tomorrow.

"Johnny! Stupid f**k. Just get your vodka and come over here; you've beat up enough asses today." A man shouted from the back ground, and a group of men laughed along.

"Yo, Sean, Jack, come on, you've got to see this," 'Johnny' said.

"You should listen to your friends, John." The man in black said, but Johnny could have sworn that this man never said a word. "What the f**k, he's in my f**king head!!" And yes, he was.

" What, Do you hear this guy? " Sean said to Jack and they both laughed heavily.

"He's drunk as f**k," Jack said.

The man in black had already gulped down the first glass that the bartender had given him while all this went on. Suddenly, Johnny pulled the man's hoodie from his head aggressively to reveal his face.

And suddenly, Johnny's eyes widened more than they ever had.

"Whoa! Now that is one handsome negro!" Sean clapped and laughed again.

" Sean? Do you not see what I'm seeing?Are you f**king drunk??

Sean and Jack just kept laughing. While Johnny was staring point blank at a true, breathing monster, his pal Sean was looking at the most beautiful man in the world. Poor Johnny, poor Sean.

"You have seen my true being, and now your end will come. All of you." Johnny suddenly began to stagger backwards and stutter.

"No... no... please... what... what..."

Just then, the quiet man in black drew his bench backwards and proceeded to face the other two men. In that instant, his face began to stretch and unstretch until his true face sat, and the two men, who had been laughing nonsensically, were stuck to the ground in shock.

"What... are you?" One asked.

And in the glimpse of an eye, the man raised his right hand, and claws almost 5 inches long cut through his glove and, in a single slash, severed Johnny's head from his body. The man the. He walked towards the body, raised the kneeling lifeless body, and sniffed the part from where his hand had left, and a white, see-through essence seemed to follow as the man sucked it into his own body.

Jack subsequently took control of his body and proceeded immediately for the door. Relief seemed to bore out of his expression when he was an inch away from the door. And then he bumped into the man who appeared from nowhere. Jack looked back, confused.

"How..." he was about to say, but the man opened his mouth and, a red, unearthly fire, came out of it and engulfed poor Jack as he screamed, and the man joyously inhaled Jack's sweet, sweet essence. And when He had savoured Jack's soul and his screams died into the very extinction of this unearthly fire, he then proceeded to Sean.

Sean hurriedly ran, taking a bar stool and running towards the man in an attempt to hit him. But as he neared the man, no less than three inches, his aura itself seemed to create a barrier of which poor Sean could not get through, and suddenly, with no force from the strange man, Sean began to elevate in the air, and he screamed, not out of pain but out of fear. Yes. This was what the man enjoyed. It teased him...excited him.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, please wait...." Sean begged. It was genuine.

"Yes." The man spoke.

"What manner of man are you...?" Sean asked.

Oh. This question! He didn't walk towards him. He didn't raise his voice, but to Sean, his voice echoed with so much bass in his head when he answered.

"I... am not a man," he said, and with that, in the air, the bones that made up Sean's joints began to break, his elbows and knees pointing intensely in the opposite direction, his entire waist turned 360 degrees, as did his neck, and with the screams of a man experiencing the torture of death, he died into silence while the man, who was not a man, sucked his soul and his lifeless, broken body fell to the floor.

"Thank you. I am glad." He said finally, as he turned towards the door and exited. As soon as he left and the doors clicked, it was as though a god's finger had snapped and an invincible veil had been lifted. The bartender and every other individual seemed to be on about it, not noticing that something was wrong or something had just happened, until a scream echoed that brought everyone to the broken body on the floor and the severed head and headless body.

The real question on every mind present was, "When the f**k did this happen?"

The man-or whatever he was-stopped for a second in front of the door, eyes closed, as he heard the bold screams that emanated from inside, and once again, he stepped his left leg into the pathway and began walking again, disrupting the music of the noisy splattering the rain had developed with the pounding and splashing caused by his boots from walking.

Lightning struck, but he was unperturbed.