Free The Lazarus Heart by Poppy Z. Brite Page A

wear."

    Jared Poe met Benjamin DuBois at a gallery in the Warehouse District, a ramshackle barn of corrugated steel, punky masonry, and bare concrete floors set so close to the river that the air smelled like mud and rotting fish. It was a performance thing and he'd only gone because it was a friend's boyfriend's show and he'd run dry of excuses. With very few exceptions he'd always found performance art either a horrific bore or simply horrible, a last, pretentious refuge for talentless wanna-bes desperately trying to gouge a niche for themselves. Most of the time he'd end up feeling embarrassed for the performer, embarrassed for the audience trying to understand whatever foolishness was being acted out for them, and so uncomfortable that he'd
    sneak out halfway through the show.
    And the scene that night was no exception, certainly not the worst thing he'd ever seen, but bad enough to make him wish he'd just made up a story about car trouble or leaky plumbing and stayed home. The artist stood on a small stage in the center of the warehouse, wearing nothing but an old alligator hide and a pair of expensive-looking loafers, reading aloud from the Wall Street Journal. Fortunately there was a bar and Jared stayed close to it, downing shots of tequila and trying to keep a straight face. But the mask became increasingly difficult to manage as the guy in the alligator skin droned on and on and the Cuervo worked its way through Jared's bloodstream to his brain.
    In an effort to distract himself he began eavesdropping on a couple standing a few feet away from him, near the edge of the crowd. Jared had noticed right away how much they resembled one another, and the woman was so tall he thought maybe she was really a drag queen. They were speaking loudly to each other, almost shouting in order to be heard over the stock quotes being read through the microphone onstage, the nasal voice booming from speakers rigged high along the rusty walls. Both were dressed in impeccably tailored leather and latex Victorian costumes, their skin as white as chalk and their hair like black satin. To Jared they looked like some fetish freak's vision of Jonathan and Mina Harker, an unlikely juxtaposition of the prim and perverse, but they wore that vision well no matter how unlikely it might be.
    "This is surely hell," the woman said. Her voice seemed to confirm Jared's suspicions about her gender.
    "No, no," the boy said, leaning close to her ear and still having to shout. "This is a lot worse than that."
    The boy wasn't exactly Jared's type. He'd always gone for the well-muscled
    submissives, the hard but yielding bodies that could take whatever loving tortures he might happen to devise. He'd always found the goth end of the S&M and fetish scene a little tedious, too much window dressing for his particular tastes. But this boy was something different, something so unexpected with his high, sharp cheekbones and hooded eyes, and Jared was taken completely off guard by the stirring in his jeans. He asked the bartender for another shot of tequila and took a cautious step closer to the pair.
    "Hell has better acoustics," the boy was shouting.
    "And something worth hearing," the woman shouted back.
    "Not impressed, I take it," Jared said, just loud enough to be heard, and they both turned and regarded him skeptically from kohl-smeared eyes.
    "Oh, don't tell me," the boy said, one index finger held up for emphasis. "He's this poor, misguided fuck's lover and we've offended his feelings."
    "Or maybe he's just a critic for some rag," his companion said. Jared realized, now that they were facing him, that the pair were identical twins.
    "No," Jared said, smiling, playing the good sport to their jibes. "He's just the poor schmuck who didn't have any place better to be tonight, that's all."
    "Oh," the boy said. "That's better. Then we don't have to make polite over this drivel." Jared shook his head, took a sip of his tequila before responding.
    "Hardly. Can