(Lately, he had taken to saying things three times. He knew he did it; he couldn’t stop.)

On he walked, words pouring from his mouth and tears streaming from his eyes, until he reached a corner bus shelter, its glass thick with obscenities written in faded black marker. A man leaned against the doorway of the shelter; and as Rogasz drew nearer, he recognized the man as the Adversary — the Fallen One, the Lost One, the Morning Star Eclipsed.

“Good evening, little brother,” the Adversary said.

“Lord of Pus, Lord of Pus, Lord of Pus,” Rogasz replied. “I am drowned in the depths of your ocean.”

“Then it’s time you learned to swim, isn’t it? Whatever you’re doing now, try something different.”

“Different?”

“Yes, change your ways.” The Adversary paused a moment. “I’ve heard it can be pleasant to do good. Why not give that a stab?”

The Adversary smiled. His teeth were white and even. He had no fangs.

Rogasz thought how soothing it would be, to walk through the world so pure and clean.

That night, he killed a hundred pushers.

They died firing their guns at blackness, and their backup men, hidden in doorways or parked Cadillacs, also emptied their pistols into the dark executioner who seeped out of the night’s shadows. Seven innocents were injured in the panicked gunplay, one fatally... if you can use the word innocent for someone who has come to the Zone in search of a fix.

Police talked of gang wars and gritted their teeth — not that most of them cared about the scum who got killed, but they dreaded the media circus that would follow.