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In the dream, I still swat his hand away as if the gun in it were a mosquito. I am impatient, and the roar of the pin striking the base of the bullet that swishes past my head, close enough for me to sense the slight breeze of its wake, is making me excited in a way I have never felt before.

In the dream, I still take hold of the old man's wrist and twist it behind his back, but this time I hear the sharp crack of bone as something in his arm splinters, and instead of shoving him face down on the desk I whirl him onto his back and press my body forward onto his, like a lover leaning in for a kiss.

In the dream, I can see the fright in his eyes, real and solid enough to mask the pain he is feeling, and I know he can see my eyes. He must be thinking, "Demon! Demon! How was it created? I do not know this thing!", but I am no demon. I am an Avenging Angel, and I am his own creation, for I have come to claim redress for the murder of my other half, and I am righteous in my strength.

In the dream, I do not pull handcuffs from my pocket and start to recite the Miranda Warning. The creature beneath me has no rights. I want revenge, sweet revenge, and I cannot gain it by tossing this squirming worm of a monster into a cell so that he can ooze out from between the bars, with the help of his ever-present attorneys, and live to see another day without pain.

Something is still the same, however; and that is the fact that no one, alerted by the noise, rushes through the old man's office door to keep me from my task, for there is no one left. I have killed or maimed every one of the eleven guards and cronies he kept planted in the mansion to protect himself. He cannot shelter himself from my wrath; my wrath is the wrath of God, it burns through my body like a massive dose of heroin; I tremble before its power.

In the dream, I pull my magnum from its holster and hold it to the side, steady, the bandage on my left wrist starting to go red with blood from its reopened wound. This does not bother me. After I have finished with the old man, I will sit down calmly in a corner and tear the knife slash under the white gauze deeper, then twin it on the opposite wrist. Even if I have to do it with my badge, I will be more capable than the old man's minions; I will bleed to death on his silk Chinese carpet and fulfill my own prophecy.

In the dream, I check my conscience, and it is clear and free. I tell the old man, "I am Gabriel, the Avatar; and this, this is your judgment day, James Marshall Gunther." My voice resonates in my own ears, vibrant with dignity, a thing he knows nothing of.

I insert the barrel of the magnum slowly, forcefully, into the old man's protesting mouth. Oh, you made a big mistake, I think, trying hard to silence the weird giggle threatening to bubble up from my lungs. You left me alive. The feebly struggling animal with the long name and the gun in his throat whimpers with fear. I rub up against him sensuously, remembering my partner; the jolt of pleasure is so strong it nearly dislodges my grip.

"You've killed the only thing I ever loved," I whisper, viciously; because in the dream, this had happened: the EKG had flattened out; my mate was gone to another place; I had wept over his empty shell, my heart and soul shaking with grief. There had been no redeeming blip to renew my reason for staying in this evil place; none except my revenge. My sweet revenge.

I shake my head slowly, almost with pity. The old man freezes when I smile gently, terror etched into every line on his face. "I'm not going to kill you," I say, enunciating carefully. "I have .357 loads in this," (I move the weapon fractionally and his head trembles), "and I'm going to shoot you through the back of your neck." He knows as well as I that .357s do not explode on contact; they can crack an engine block. Like they will sever his spine, cleanly.)

In the dream, my erection blossoms completely. I keep brushing against him, the contact making me so crazy that I slow down instead of speeding up. (Oh, those indigo eyes; the feel of him, his hands, his hair, his . . . ) "You fucking bastard." The words slip from my throat like steam from a street grate. "You killed my partner, and I'm going to make sure you pay. With what you have left in this life, I will make your existence a misery. And when you die, I will stand at the Gates of Hell to welcome you."

Now my smile has widened. I am showing teeth. I make sure the bullet will miss his brain stem by jogging the grip of the Python and tilting the weapon down towards his shoulders.

"Quadriplegia becomes you," I murmur softly, pulling the trigger.

In the dream, I turn the old man onto his side, so that he will not drown in his own blood. I can see the vertebrae protruding through his starched white collar, and know that my aim was sure, guided by God. He is not dead. James Marshall Gunther still lives, and my spirit is free, flying towards the sun, the nova of my love.

(My love, my love, empty and dead like the place where something larger and brighter than life itself used to dwell within me . . . )

I call Metro and they connect me to Dobey without even asking. I don't give him a chance for questions, but I tell him to hurry before placing the phone back carefully in its cradle. This will add a few minutes to the time I have left while he contacts the SFPD backup unit outside the house. Then I get down on my knees and flip the old man over onto his back. His face has gone gray with fear as he stares up at me, gasping like a dying fish. Now I spread my wings all at once, with one huge heave; the feathers flying out behind me. The dying sun turns my hair red like an infernal halo. I pry the old man's mouth open and press my lips to his, forcing my air into his lungs; keeping him breathing. Keeping him alive.

I watch the clock, spitting the old man's blood out onto the hardwood floor. After five minutes I turn him onto his side again and pull myself to the corner of the office, curling my wings around my body. I yank the gauze from my wrist, my eyes never leaving the man on the floor before me. I cannot blink. I do not feel the need.

A sharp pocket knife is all I really need. The old man's gaze follows me, oblivious of pain now, amazed and perhaps puzzled. I say, "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me." The old man's mouth twists; something dark trickles out. I think of David; only of David. I am crying, but my eyes still burn with such hatred and thwarted passion that the beast before me actually twitches with fear. He dies yet he fears! Better, he lives and he fears. Truly God is with me!

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies." My attention is riveted on the old man. I hear sirens; I feel my life fading away; I am thankful.

In the dream I say, "Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup overflows."

The sirens stop just beyond the window. I can see my love standing before me; he has attained Heaven, and where he dwells, so shall I; we are one.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life . . . "

As I close my eyes, the old man gapes at me, and I turn away, disgusted that he should view so personal a death. "There's your ambulance," I hiss at him with my last breath, "and your salvation. Oh, you'll live, all right, Gunther. In Hell."

In the dream, I feel the body of my beloved beneath my tired head; he cradles me like an infant and runs his fingers smoothly through my hair. My heart is full; my being free at last. I try to wrap my arms around him; but I am too weak now for the motion. He looks down upon me sadly; tenderly. I study his features, dark and handsome, with intent; suddenly I know the true meaning of sweet. I let my head tilt back into the crook of his arm so that as he leans forward, he can kiss me full on the mouth.

(. . . and We shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever . . . )

"David." It is the last word I say; I say it with my lips against his; I say it with reverence.

The paramedics and police burst through the door, having found no resistance, and discover themselves wading through my blood. "Jesus Christ," one says. Dimly, I hear another voice: "The old guy's still alive; tube him, use a neck brace," and, a moment later, very distantly, "This one's gone—damn, looks like he went right through the arteries. No pulse; can't find a heartbeat."

In the dream, the edges of my mouth have curved up ever so faintly. I have found both my sweet revenge and my other half once more. Me and thee . . .

(. . . forever and ever, unto the ages of ages . . . )

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