"No words," the devil hissed. "I talk, you listen."

Two unseen men forced Maxwell into genuflection before the hooded beast. His knees burned from the futile struggle he initially gave. A knife scraped at his clean neck, keeping his posture staunch, yet perfectly submissive at the same time.

Maxwell brought his attention helplessly into the dark alley that entombed him. He wished to be awakened from this all too vivid nightmare. Perspiration collected on his brow, zigzagging down his face as his body trembled.

He had heard the tales of the Shadowmen, but like most, he did not believe them. He dismissed them as rumors spun by the Drag's homeless population in an attempt to rid their turf of riffraff and highfalutin college students. Now, the moment it was too late, he realized the truth. The Shadowmen were real-as real as the cold metal blade pressed against his neck.

Memories of recent petty crimes on the Drag surfaced in his mind, coming together as a warning sign received too late. Claims of robberies and bizarre interrogations. Rumors of bloody and violent conflicts between the factions of vagrants and runaways on the Drag. It all seemed to be preceded by a strange mid-summer incident that occurred at the Scottish Rite Freemason Temple just one block off the Drag. An arsonist had set fire to the building after burglarizing it. The damage was significant, yet lacking a clear motive. Objects with considerable value were left intact, while an old fire extinguisher was taken with the words Jobie Lives spray-painted in its place.

Maxwell gazed into the distant traffic lights that bathed the street like a bloodstain. Splashes of vibrant greens, whites, and blues pulsed from neon signs, reflecting off the cracked and weathered asphalt. He imagined the passengers inside the climate-controlled vehicles at the stoplight, oblivious to the crime within their range of senses. A stifling heat still remained in the night air, long after the day's record temperature of one hundred ten degrees. It was the most important news story that day in Austin, Texas. One would be led to believe there was nothing of greater significance worthy of being reported.

Meanwhile, the devil loomed over Maxwell. Black satin cascaded over the beast's shoulders, creating a curtain that concealed his human identity. To Maxwell he appeared enormous.

"What do you want?" Maxwell asked with trepidation, straining to convey a false sense of self-control.

"Cut him," the beast snipped. He extended a misshapen finger that appeared to be stained by tomato soup. His skin looked to have truly come from the bowels of hell, marred by the eternal flames of damnation.

Maxwell could feel the blade slide, cutting through his flesh. The blood flowed down his neck, staining his wrinkled T-shirt.

One of the unseen henchmen, known to his peers as IX, placed his lips over the cut, suckling the wound like a ravenous piglet. Maxwell trembled uncontrollably as he listened to each throaty swallow that relinquished more and more of his blood. He could smell IX's long, straight black hair. It was clean with the faint scent of hair dye. Completely human.

"The cut is closing," IX gurgled.

"Cut him again," his accomplice suggested calmly from behind Maxwell's shoulder. "Deeper."

Before Maxwell could fathom the words, he felt the blade slice into his skin. The devil's henchmen pushed at one another, squabbling over the blood that seeped from his split-out flesh. He could feel their lips on his neck, sucking at the blood, licking the wound with sticky wet tongues. Razor stubble scratched his skin. He could smell their breaths.

The beast grabbed Maxwell's face with his discolored and gnarled hand, forcing mutual eye contact. "I'm looking for something."

"It's closing again," IX grumbled callously. "Where's the knife?"

Tears rolled down Maxwell's pasty cheeks as the two men had their way with his flesh and blood. They swiped at his skin repeatedly, releasing more blood for their eager mouths. Maxwell looked into the menacing and crazed eyes of their leader, certain to have finally come face to face with the Grim Reaper himself.

"Who do you know?" the beast hissed.

"He's an Oogle," IX reluctantly concluded. His speech pattern was very slow and calculated. Almost mechanized in its drone. "He doesn't know anything. He was at the Spider House drinking coffee. He's not from the streets. He's phony. A wannabe. Lives in the suburbs, probably."

"I do," Maxwell confirmed with a desperate cry. "I live with my parents, I'm still in high school."

"Who are you going to tell about this, kid?" the other henchman asked. His voice was jittery, quick with speech and followed by a demeaning cackle. "Because you know we can find you."

"Kiss the ground," the devil demanded. "Look up, and we'll kill you."

They pushed Maxwell face down into the pavement. He hugged the cracked concrete as he listened to their fading footsteps and his own defeated sobbing. He vowed, as he remained perfectly still for an unaccountable time, that he would never step foot on the Drag. True to his word, he remained in seclusion until moving to attend an out-of-state college. He was never seen on the Drag again.