Dr. M, I’m bored. I’m coming over and I’m bringing my hatchets. What are we going to do? Or who, for that matter.

I can see you’re confused by this note from Jack. The question is all over your face: Why would any human come to me? Willingly, at least.

It might surprise you to learn, my little angel, that humans come to me all the time. Mostly for revenge, or to get their first-born’s back, but now and then, I’m not ashamed to tell you, I’ll make a friend. A real friend. The kind who you can watch movies with and call when you’re in trouble. People often say that a true friend will help you hide the bodies, but honestly, I can hire help to do that – it’s the people I want to have a drink with that are precious to me.

I rarely cross paths with human men. I prefer the super-powered set. But there are people on this earth that are special in their own way, enchanting. Jack is one of these. Jack and I met when he was smuggling white Bengal tigers out of Peru. White Bengals aren’t from Peru, but that’s the main port they move though before ending up in California at the Zoo or in some rich magician’s estate.

Jack didn’t have a Bengal with him at the time, he had just finished a successful move and had been putting his feet up at his chosen port of call. Jack loved putting his feet up, especially if it was on the back of a well-paid prostitute with health benefits. He always used to say “A prostitute without health benefits is like a day without PVC.”

Jack was the kind of scum I’ve always adored. The kind of man who knows who he is and isn’t ashamed of it.The kind of man who can wear a hat and not look like a fool. That’s Jack.

The weird thing about Jack, the thing that separated him from all the other criminals at the time was that he didn’t care for the money. Jack wasn’t out to bank. Jack was out for the thrill, and whatever his moral background was, well, it was impossible to know. Sometimes he seemed to be without any rules, and then suddenly, he’d put his foot down.

Like with the tigers. Jack knew that the tigers were being imbred, jerked off and inseminated by brothers and sisters, all to keep the bloodline pure. That was producing some pretty ugly creatures and Jack wouldn’t touch them. But he wanted to stay in the business, and the business was full of those things.

So he got his girlfriend at the time, a hairdresser named Jewel to bleach a tiger, stripe by stripe, till the whole thing was white as snow. Smelled awful. But no one buys on smell, and the tiger looked beautiful. A gorgious thing. Better looking than the others because, hell, this was a healthy, young tiger.

He got top dollar for it from a gay magician living in Bel Air. Then Jack made for foreign shores, because that magician had some serious reach. I never knew a man who dressed could both catch a bullet in his teeth and ask his organized crime connections to take out a smuggler.

Jack didn’t have anything against guns, and I’d seen him take a few, but he was never without his hatchet. It’s not a big thing, his hatchet it’s surprisingly light and small, he used to hide the thing in his coat, and he could swing it like a man in a crime of passion. Maybe that’s what Jack was made of, really, not thrill but passion. Maybe he wanted to fall in love. Maybe for him, doing what he did, maybe that was falling in love.

So when Jack says he’s coming over, says he’s bringing his hatchet and asks me what we’re going to do, and who we’re going to do it to, he’s asking me what my passion is today.

And darling, that flavor is you. Jack’s waiting, Angel. I don’t want to disappoint him.

Ask me anything

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