Free Serpents in the Cold by Thomas O'Malley

went inside. Dante could hear him talking to somebody.
    A man’s wool peacoat hung on the back of the chair. He sat down and looked at the Oriental rug. Two Christ figurines were lying there, each snapped in two at the waist. He reached down and picked one up. It was hollow inside. His thumb pressed into the abdomen, and the plaster crumbled in his hand. So this was where Karl stored it. Dante shook his head, let what was left of Christ drop to the floor, and wiped his chalky fingers on his pant leg.
    “Hey you, look.” The girl had lifted her skirt higher, spread her legs farther apart. She rubbed the inside of her spotty thighs for a bit before parting the hair and exposing the pink folds, which she spread with skinny fingers. She leered and then leaned forward, inspected her sex as if it had been removed from her body and placed on a dinner plate.
    “Close your damn legs,” he said.
    She cackled in response and probed deeper with her thumb and index finger. Dante stood and made his way to the bedroom. Karl was already on his way out. The door was open and Dante could see inside.
    A white teenage girl was wiping down her breasts with a tissue. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. Her lipstick was smeared over her lips and chin, and her legs were wide open and bent at the knees as if she were giving birth. Before her a man of about fifty was pulling up his boxer shorts. His half-erect penis looked as though it had been bloodied. He wore oval gold-rimmed glasses and looked like a minister, his pale face shaved so clean it shone like polished ivory. Sick bastards like him were the ruin of this world, Dante thought. He looked back at the girl on the bed. Unflinching, she balled up the tissue and threw it on the floor near Dante. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”
    Karl put his hand on Dante’s arm and pulled him back into the living room, closed the door behind him. “Jesus, Dante. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He handed him six fixes tied in a balloon.
    Dante gave him the ten. His jaws clenched and he chewed on the insides of his mouth; he wanted to crack the skull of the sick bastard.
    In the hallway Karl said, “I’ll see you again, soon.”
    “No you won’t. I’m giving up after this, I’m going clean.”
    “Sure, Dante, sure. I’ve heard that one a million times. Sorry, brother.”
    “No, I mean it. I’m done.”
    “I’ll see you in two days, tops, maybe even sooner. And you know it’s only me you can come to. The whole city is dried up and it has been for months. Canto and Boris ain’t carrying, and Gordon is up in Concord. Unless some of your nigger friends can feed you some overpriced shit, probably cut with fuckin’ pancake mix, I’m the only one.”
    “Karl, you’re nothing but a lowlife.”
    “But this lowlife always gives people like you what they need.”
    “Like selling underage girls to get fucked? Karl, they should put you on a pedestal. Then light a fucking match.”
    Karl bared his teeth. He didn’t like sarcasm. “You’ve been lonely since she’s gone, don’t say you aren’t. I could see it in your eyes when you saw those little tits and that tight li’l cunt staring right up at you. You’re no different from the rest of us animals, so don’t be a fuckin’ hypocrite.”
    “You don’t know me for shit, Karl. I won’t be seeing you again.”
    “That’s a good one, Dante. Morning after next you’ll be back. You’ll always come back to Brother Karl.”
    On the street, Dante inhaled deeply to cleanse the clinging odors of incense, bitter reefer, cum, and pussy that had permeated the apartment and had made their way into his clothes. He lit a cigarette and found it tough to drag on. He shuddered with a disgust and loathing he hadn’t felt in some time.
    Hate was the only thing that could make one stronger, and he hated not just himself but every low-down bookie, thug, and peddler of junk and underage girls. Someday the fires of hell would take