Sympathy for the Devil

By Alex Stevens

Lieutenant Colonel Tyler Graven is known as the "Demon of Kyoto," specializing in death. After an assassination attempt on a pharmaceutical mogul, Tyler becomes the lead suspect and the target of a 100 million dollar hit. To save himself and clear his name, he must hunt do

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Stevens
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735177823

Alex Stevens

Alex Stevens is a Marine Corps Veteran with two deployments and a graduate of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas Interdisciplinary Studies program, a unique undergraduate degree that caters to students with various interests of study. He is also an advent traveler and philosophy enthusiast who has spent a lifetime studying religions, with a focus on Non-denominational Christianity. Alex spends most of his time going for walks, spending time with loved ones, and when the juices are flowing, writing. Fantasy fiction is his great escape from the mundane and he likes to create fantastical realities that are blended with non-fictional people, places, and events.

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Title

Copyright © 2020 Alex Stevens

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-7351778-0-9

Contents

Author’s Note

Part 1: The Wounded Warrior

Prologue: From Eden

Chapter 1: Bad Habit

Chapter 2: Some Devil

Chapter 3: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

Chapter 4: Paint It Black

Chapter 5: Red Right Hand

Part 2: Requiem

Chapter 6: Taro

Chapter 7: Walk on the Wild Side

Chapter 8: In for the Kill

Part 3: House of the Rising Sun

Chapter 9: Shallow

Chapter 10: Dissolve Me

Chapter 11: Lost on You

Chapter 12: Gravedigger

Epilogue: I Need Never Get Old

Bio

Author’s Note

Sympathy For The Devil has been that book for me, and it has taken years to get the full story on paper and get it out to the masses. First and foremost, I’d like to thank God for blessing me to complete this work of fantasy fiction. I’d also very much like to thank the two jarheads who were instrumental in helping me actually write this novel, Matthew Brdecka and Adam Hamilton, without whom this book would never have read as smoothly or with such elaborate wording. I’d like to thank all of my family and friends who supported me throughout this time and encouraged me to keep writing, even through the ups and downs that life throws at us. But more than anything, I’d like to thank you, the reader. Thank you for choosing this novel. Hopefully you read it all and find it intriguing and entertaining until the end.

Part 1

The Wounded Warrior

Prologue

From Eden

September 20, 2014

Ivan

This is real. I know it.

An acrid and sour smoke that could only be gunpowder filled my nostrils, caking my mouth with the bitter taste of ammonia. The air sang with an angry chorus of cracking, snapping, and buzzing as tiny projectiles assaulted me in hushed gunfire from every direction. The thuds of pierced wood rang out like hail on a rooftop. My heart raced with pure terror as I cowered beneath the classroom table, hands pressed to my ears.

This is it. They found me.

I had broken one of the rules. I didn’t have a weapon. I had neither Shade, nor a gun, nor a bayonet. Not even a kitchen or pocket knife. I’d even abandoned my eighty-cent mechanical pencil on top of my notebook the moment the shooting began.

They were going to murder me, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Thunder hammered in my head as pure terror consumed me; each second seemed an eternity. I was expecting to feel pain. Maybe even a part of me was hoping to hear one final gunshot that would be the last sound I would ever hear. Instead, I heard laughter.

Sheepishly, I poked my head above the classroom table. Every pair of eyes in my Beijing University International Business class had settled on me. Merriment filled more than a few, but concern and empathy occupied most. After a few moments of displacement, I realized what had occurred: I’d had another episode. This time it was during class, the attack ultimately spawning from my own imagination. And it was set off by one quiet click of a pen.

It was bad enough that I was the only white student in the classroom, as every other student was Chinese. Now I was the crazy white guy in the school. Unspeakable shame quickly replaced my confusion.

Duìbùqǐ, I apologized, clumsily gathering my things. Sorry. Excuse me.

Nǐ hǎo ma, Tyler? my teacher inquired.

More questions would come, I was sure of it. I didn’t have the heart to face them. I couldn’t face anyone at the moment. I avoided their curious gazes as I scuttled behind the students seated at the back of the class. Sitting in the back helps when you need a quick escape. I hurried my pace.

My exit was as noticeable as my episode. I had forgotten both my notebook and pencil.

Tears spilled down my cheeks, and were swept away as I raced across campus to my car. Passersby took note of my escape with amusement and wonder. A crowd of faces, blurred by wet vision, were transformed into a myriad of indiscernible masks of concern, mockery, and startlement.

Kill, the dark voice in my head whispered.

I only ran harder.

By the time I was secure within the confines of my sedan, I was a mess of sweat, tears, and humiliation. I redirected my rearview mirror so I could take a glance at my horrific state. I could barely see the blue in my eyes past the vast blackness that were dilated pupils. An unkempt and stubby white beard pickled my square jawed face. My hair, white as snow, clung to my forehead in a soaked and shaggy state. It looked just about as disgraceful as my exit.

I was only twenty-four, but I felt much older. So much had happened in those twenty-four years.

Still wheezing, I burst into a fit of laughter. It was bittersweet. This was not the laughter of joy or amusement, not even of relief. This was the laughter of a broken man. It was not sorrow that consumed me, but ignominy. I was broken, and I truly looked every part the madman.

Heh, I exhaled. Devil dog . . .

I needed help. I knew that. I started the car, and headed straight to my psychiatrist’s office.

*

The bottle of caplets between my fingers felt like a prison sentence as I sat perched on the smoke-stained mattress. My Beijing studio apartment, always dark and ominous, reminded me of a low budget snuff film. I was somehow oddly comforted by this thought. The mattress was the only furniture I owned, its once white surface now tainted grayish-brown from dirt, smoke, and sweat. A black-and-white comforter lay draped across the window, blocking the fierce sunlight which tried to intrude. The only light in the apartment emanated from a tiny bathroom, which occupied slightly more space than the average walk-in closet. I lived alone within four walls like those of a prison cell, and it seemed I would never escape.

My mind was somewhere.

I wasn’t quite sure where. Maybe I thought of my younger brother, Jack. I could almost hear his witty tongue now.

You really let yourself go, he’d say.

I laughed aloud at the thought. Thoughts of his witty tongue always brought happiness and sorrow, as remembering him reminded me of Shade, who brought both happiness and sorrow. Growing tense, I forced my mind elsewhere, imagining a perfect day in the park with the only love I’d ever known.

Then my thoughts darkened, travelling to a place darker than the deepest depths of space.

After the latest classroom spectacle, I decided professional help was the only option. My shrink wasn’t the best, but he was lesser known in the area, and seemed capable of keeping secrets. The middle-aged Canadian looked more like a biker than a psychiatrist, and at first glance, his appearance shocked me. He was a well-travelled individual, and also an expert on many foreign cultures. After initially diagnosing me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he prescribed a specific selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, and sent me on my way. A mixture of colorful pills now filled my hand, and were quite possibly the answer to a long list of problems. I wondered if they would help me forget her, though, or even the smell of her hair.

After filling my hand with a cocktail of pills, I downed them dry. The medicine was as bitter as a jealous lover, but it promised to put me to sleep.

I slept better than a newborn infant.

*

The deep sleep transported me back to one of my favorite moments. Life was perfect, if such a thing exists, but I certainly didn’t think it was possible. Dreams that I hadn’t the nerve to dream, and hopes I hadn’t the courage to hope seemed so close. She was my chance for true happiness. And never had I felt so complete as when she was in my arms.

She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her dirty blond hair hung in curls, falling to her upper back. I looked into her piercing green eyes and tried to think of what I loved most about her.

Your mouth, I thought.

Her smile could open up the gates of Heaven, and when she spoke . . . her voice was like honey.

God himself painted the Las Vegas sky just for this moment. Thick cumulus clouds crawled across the distant mountaintops, but overhead was the clearest blue one could ever imagine.

I held her close and breathed deeply, soaking in the scent of her hair. I loved the smell of it. It was clean. It didn’t have the fragrance of perfumed shampoo or expensive conditioner. It smelled as pure as fresh dew clinging to newly budded leaves in spring. It smelled of promise. I loved it, and I loved her.

I was twenty-three years old, but it was my first time falling in love. I joined the Marine Corps at the age of nineteen, and my entire commission was consumed by death. Death and her. I was trained to be a cold-blooded killer, and that I had become. I did so well, in fact, that my mind was constantly devoured by thoughts of killing.

Life in the Corps was a simple cycle: train, kill, relax, train, kill, relax. My unit went through this cycle in six-month intervals, but for me, the cycle was different: train, kill, train, train, kill, train, train, kill, train, train. Murder wasn’t an occupation for me. It was a lifestyle. It was all I knew. I had no hope for a family, nor for love, and I never knew what happiness was. I lived for that moment of clarity in battle. Richard had always said I was born for war. My siren’s call was the tinnitus screaming in my ears, the faintness of shouted orders, the thump of my service rifle against my shoulder. And Shade. There was no better feeling than the rush of adrenaline I would feel when my black katana bit into a man’s flesh, my life a hair’s breadth away from eternal darkness.

Then again, I had never been in love.

But it had somehow developed over the years.

Life was different with her. Everything felt so alive and vibrant. The sun had never shone so bright. The sky had never been so blue, nor the grass so green. The air had never been so fresh. It filled my lungs with a pureness that I had never believed possible. At that moment I, myself, felt clean. I felt pure. I felt innocent. It was the greatest moment of my life.

*

The harsh buzz of the alarm clock shocked me out of my dream. I was still in my shitty Beijing apartment; I could tell by the smell. I tried to force my eyes open, but it was as if they were sewn shut with thick sutures. At the moment, I couldn’t discern which way was up and which was down. The room was spinning as I tried to push myself out the bed.

If I can somehow get to my feet I could wake up, I thought.

My pathetic attempts failed. All I found was darkness, and the darkness devoured me hungrily.

*

My dreams brought me back to her, back to Las Vegas. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but in the last few months only three emotions prevailed: sadness, contempt, and anger. Now she was angry, and I understood why. She couldn’t give me the time and attention I wanted, and she was tired of feeling like a disappointment. She had told me all of the same reasons before. She had told me again and again. I remembered them. I understood them. I didn’t mean to upset her. I asked because something just didn’t feel right. I asked because we used to talk every day for hours on end, but now she was distant. I also saw the way she looked at Jack, and the way the sentiment was reciprocated. It didn’t feel right anymore. All I wanted was to kiss her. I wanted to hold her, and tell her that everything was okay. I wanted to take her back to that day when we were in love and ecstatic, when the sky was so blue. But I only listened, and watched.

She was waiting for me to say something.

Say something.

I didn’t know what to say. It was broken, and I didn’t know how to fix it. All I wanted to do was fix it.

I could see her pain, her anger, her discord. I knew that it was my fault. That’s what I told myself, at least. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was simply over, and I needed to move on. But I knew it wasn’t. I loved her, and she was angry. And it was my fault.

I didn’t mean to upset you, I responded.

That’s because you don’t think, Tyler! There’s only you and what you want. You don’t understand other people. You don’t try to understand me.

I understand.

Can’t you see what you’re doing to me, Tyler? It’s the same thing over and over again. I can’t, Tyler, she declared, shaking her head. I just can’t.

I’m sorry.

*

The sound of my bedroom fan whirling sluggishly brought me to my senses. As I opened my eyes, remnants of the dream started to fade.

They were only dreams.

No. Those were memories.

Love is a double edged sword, and both sides of her have kissed my skin.

Sometimes I would imagine what things would be like if she were with me in Beijing. She would call and check up on me and, every once in a while, come by and visit. We would hug, and I would treasure every second of our embrace. Her hair would still smell of spring. Sometimes we would go for walks, or grab a coffee at Starbucks. The scenarios were endless. For me, these thoughts brought hope. But she was what seemed like a world away in Twentynine Palms, and those imaginary moments would probably never be attainable.

We stopped seeing one another last year, yet I didn’t have the strength to move on. She was my addiction, and nothing could replace it. I drank. I smoked. I started using street drugs. They seemed to help me forget how much her absence hurt. During my darkest times, I picked up methamphetamine, and then heroin. Anything to help suppress the memories of her and the episodes.

And the voice.

How do I describe the episodes? One moment I would be coherent, and the next, consumed with pure terror. I was at war, but no longer a warrior. I was a coward, but most importantly, I was a weaponless coward. They came from everywhere, and they came for me and only me. They wanted to take my life. I never saw them. I didn’t even know who they were. I only knew that they had weapons, and they wanted me dead. Then, as suddenly as they would come, blazing fire and hell’s fury, they’d be gone. I would be alone at home, or in a grocery store, or cowering somewhere in a classroom.

My head felt like someone had kissed it with a hammer the night before, and my mouth was a mouthful of cotton balls.

I squinted toward the alarm clock.

3:00.

A red dot verified it was p.m., meaning I had slept through my classes. Money wasn’t an issue, but most jobs didn’t hire psychopaths who could lose their shit at the drop of a dime.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the rest of my day. I thought about calling Jack, or maybe Richard. Or maybe her. None of the options really seemed appealing at the moment, though. It wasn’t for lack of love, just . . . 

Movies nor literature seemed appealing at the moment, nor did going for a walk, or working out. Honestly, I felt like doing . . . absolutely nothing. I laid in my bed, staring at the half-shaded ceiling. I found myself wondering what she was doing. She was probably out getting coffee with someone new. Smiling at him with her perfect smile. Telling him she loves him with a voice that only angels could possess. I visibly shook the thoughts from my head, grabbed a handful of pills from the nightstand, and swallowed them dry.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just sleep for a while?

The pharmaceutical cocktail consumed me.

*

I was at the park again.

This is the happiest day of my life, I thought.

But it was somehow different. The sky didn’t seem quite as blue, or the grass as green. The clouds which had once held such unspeakable beauty seemed depressing. And she was gone. I wasn’t just alone; I was utterly alone. I accepted this stoically, but something still wasn’t right. I slowly became aware of what it was. I noticed the deafening silence, and the lack of common, everyday noises. The steady hum of cars was one. The chirping of birds was the other. I heard neither. Absolutely nothing.

Silence.

Rising to my feet, I searched the area, but not a soul in sight. After leaving the park, I crossed the barren road which should have been bustling with afternoon traffic. Deserted stores still held their wares, but no clerks remained. It was as if every living being on earth had disappeared, leaving only me to reign free. Entering a bakery, I dropped a courtesy hello and devoured several cinnamon rolls and brownies.

In the next store over, I tried on the most expensive suits I had ever seen. Many didn’t fit properly, but that didn’t matter. The sheer quality of the suits was akin to wearing silken gold.

What would the ladies of Beijing think if they saw me now?

I let out an approving whistle, and bagged a few in case of a miracle hookup. I’ve definitely fallen into a wormhole. Either that, or I slept through the second coming.

Continuing my shopping spree, I sampled the finest foods and took my pick of expensive foreign clothing. I even picked up a familiar pair of Remington 1911 R1 Stainless Handguns, along with a Smith & Wesson M&P15 rifle with a hefty supply of ammo in case of apocalyptic looters. Pondering on that thought, I considered the irony of it and I laughed maniacally.

The sun was beginning to set when I entered a luxury car dealership, and exited in a dark gray 2010 Lamborghini Reventón Roadster. The vehicle was sex on wheels. I had always wanted one, but my father would never relent in his conviction that consumerism was the root of all evil. Soon, I was floating down the abandoned Las Vegas strip, the untamed beast roaring and grunting with every depression of my foot.

As the late evening set in, I headed for home. The place looked more like a castle than anything, with an immense road leading to a roundabout which encircled the front of the property. I let myself in through a window in the back, using my elbow to smash out one of the panes. A shrill alarm began to scream, but I found a nearby security monitor and entered the passcode.

Silence.

Conveniently, the house had a full store of food that was the best quality I had ever seen. Everything was sealed in packages that promised gluten free, organic, or meat raised in a nice caring atmosphere before being delivered to the slaughterhouse. I wondered if this estate’s shelves had ever been graced by Cotsco brands since its construction, but I knew the answer was no. It didn’t matter. I didn’t mind pampering myself for a while, making French toast and scrambled eggs.

After eating, I took a hot shower in a stall bigger than my apartment’s entire bathroom, then decided to watch some television. I couldn’t say for certain how big the TV was, but I knew it was taller than any I had ever seen. Unluckily for me, every channel I turned to was occupied by a blue screen. Either the rich stiffs didn’t pay their cable bill, or cable was nonexistent in whatever world I was inhabiting.

That left me alone with only my thoughts, and it was maddening.

An observer might say that I was alone. There were no people about, nor fleshly beasts that would share breath. Not even the tiniest and most insignificant of insects. The only guarantees were the ever-persistent sun, followed by an unchanging full moon. I often wondered why the moon phases never cycled, but wondering did nothing to change it.

This insistent routine carried on for days, and eventually weeks. Initially, I entertained myself by scouring the ghost town that was Las Vegas. I would fly through the city in my dream car (absent of any music, the radio didn’t seem to work either), spinning donuts in the middle of the strip.

Some fortresses of solitude were meant for desolation, stoic ice houses with no need for either comfort or compassion. Their existence served as the almighty benefactor and inspiration of their purpose. They lived to exist, and existed so that they may live. This was not I.

My solitude came with the hushed whispers of ghosts. Every waking moment was met with the faces of men that I shouldn’t remember. Men with empty eyes and mouths fixed with agony. Men who reached out for me with