[b]New York[/b]

The vestiges and trophies of extinguished tribes and conquered raider kings hung draped from the walls of the open chamber. Alongside bent and twisted pipes from whence hung lanterns, bathing the ornaments in a broken rainbow of pale electrical blues and greens, or the warm brazen oranges of open lamp fire. Curaisses made of human bone, hauberks of toughened tanned leather. Plates of mangled steel reforged to masks. There was a baseball bat, a bundle of old beer bottles wrapped together at the neck by rigid steel wire. A cool wind crawled through the open windows, the trophies and ornaments danced in the breeze. The swaying dance of the loot rattled out broken notes from glass and dull metal. The sound was hollow, soulless. Heralding the death of their owners passed, or their own enslavement or conversion to the proper way.

It was a sign of purity.

At the heart of the room atop a red rug stained by centuries of irradiated rainwater, blood, grime, and other refuse stood a bowl of fire, propped atop a cone of spears and rifles slung and branded together to form the cup which the bowl sat atop of. The fire inside burned low but hot. The red coals bathing the chamber in a dull glow, joining with the rest of the lights. Putting aside silky shadows. Despite the cool ocean breeze the entire room glowed as if it were the height of a summer afternoon.

A man stood at the fire's side. Broad of shoulder and towering above the brazier much like the city did its residents. Though far more full than the skyscrapers that surrounded him, he gazed down into the licking tongues of flame. His face a dance between contempt and meditative calmness. He frowned into the fire from underneath his great chocolate beard, hand held out over the lapping blades of flame.

He watched the iron rings on his fingers glow with the captured light of the illuminating fire underneath. He felt the beating heat of the flames bleed through the metal, warming it against his thick scarred fingers. More than a few old tattoos shone dimly in the light. Many he had tried to remove himself. Some with more success than others. White blotches and lines ran crisscrossed across the back and palm of his hand. Some scars though were less precise, being more gouges deep into the skin.

He had found the light. For once his eyes were open to the world. He could see and he could understand. This ancient city was his kingdom, and he could see it all. He was no longer shrouded by the veil of his next hit. Or the consuming desire for whiskey. The old tattoos that had been buried into his skin was too great a reminder of those days, and he had sought for years to remove them. But many more remained.

He turned over his hand, sighing. His wide barrel chest rising under his loose fitting clothes. A mismatched series of animal hides and old-world clothes. It was hard to tell – if impossible – to know if the patches was an attempt to fill in damage inflicted on one set or the other. Were the dark-gray patches of an old suit the repair job for a suit of fur? Or was the fur the attempt to fix a once gray business suit?

Outside a roll of thunder echoed in the distance. The powerful figure looked up to watch the sky between the towers light up. Scattering bands of electricity shot through the clouds. Creating a white spiderweb against the dark gray of a storm. The air was already smelling salty and wet. The storm wasn't unexpected.

Against the glowing neon of the storm the skeleton network of scaffolds and cables flashed. The slow deconstruction of old New York. To clear it out, and build for the new. Somewhere in the far distance men should be surveying the streets outside of the great Central Park, now a desolate desert in the heart of an ancient city, it had become a glorified shanty town. The Central Boulevard they called it. New Jerusalem some others referred to it by. To this man, the first King Solomon in many a millennium it was the front yard, and the great boulevard for a grand design to tower the generations and signal a great rebirth in his adoptive kin. Even from his vantage point he could look out into the darkness and see the flickering bonfires that marked that community.

The thunder cracked again. From the far-side of the room there was a hard knock against metal. Solomon looked up to the chamber entrance, two heavy slabs of sheet metal.

“Come in.” Solomon boomed. His voice was as wispy as the wind, dry as the dust that blew from the inland.

The large steel doors swung open, letting in a small scrawny figure. A tattered and greasy black suit clung tightly to his pale flaking skin. A patchy beard fell from his skin in much the same way flakes of skin peeled back to show the tough leathery muscle underneath. His whole body looked and felt to be giving off a dull heat. A large heavy hat crowned his head, sharp eyes peered out from underneath in sunken, wide sockets.

“Milton.” Solomon said, nodding his head to the slouching ghoul. His mangled feet plodding along the floor as he walked across to the appointed king.

“What do I need to know now?” Solomon asked, looking back into the fire. Pulling his hand back.

“I'm merely hear to schmooze, don't get too anxious.” the old ghoul said, his voice dry as he cracked a waning smile. His sunken eyes looked up to Solomon, a mystified expression of sorrow and pride glowed within them. All the same, he kept his distance, keeping Solomon beyond the edge of his dull aura.

“Then talk.” Solomon bid.

The old ghoul nodded. Yet he kept silent. His jerky tongue licked the roof of his mouth as he looked slack jawed into the fire.

“I've been reminiscing.” he said finally. His tone low and darkened, “I walk the streets these days and look up at the sky-scrapers and apartments I once walked between as a boy on my home from home to the synagogue. They were so clear and crystal in those days, the sun would shine off the glass and for a time you could forget the world was shit. And I suppose I was one of a rarity of New Yorkers then, I looked up. Or maybe we all did, but it just took the world to crumble for us to notice that the city we knew went missing from the second-floor up.

“Now when I look up I see blocks covered in a tangle of scaffolding as we take the city apart piece by piece, with whatever we got. I understand full well why we do it. But I'm over two-hundred years old now shim-shin, so I can't help but kvetch.”

“Well why? Why not look ahead?” Solomon asked.

Milton smiled, “You may have adopted us to you, and the rest of the community has adopted you. But there's a lot haven't learned. You're not fully Jewish.”

Solomon shot the old ghoul a offended look. “Don't worry about it!” Milton said, laughing, “It's not like I'm not used to it. I find your choice to convert endearing and attempts at keeping us alive a compliment.

“But have you heard the story of the old Jew?”

Solomon rose an eyebrow, looking at him with piercing brown eyes. “There are hundred of stories I've heard of old Jews. Which one?”

“Yes, the one with the old man. We're a people of many old men. It comes with being an old race!” Milton laughed, “But there was once an old Jew taking a long voyage. On the voyage he complained: 'Oy vey, oy vey am I thirsty. Am I thirsty!'

“It was so heavy that the people with him gave him water and he was satisfied. As they continued he complained again, “Oy vey, oy vey was I thirsty! Oy, was I thirsty!

“You see shim-shin, it's a thing we all do. We all kvetch.”

“I don't get it.” Solomon replied.

“Get what?”

“Why did the old man not carry his own water?”

The ghoul sighed, “Because who the fuck knows.” he chuckled, “Obviously it is no longer the era such stories will be funny.”

“What was the time like before the bombs?” asked Solomon.

Milton smirked, “Pretty great.” he said, “They said we owned everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well that's what they said.” Milton shrugged, “It depends on who you asked back then. To us, well we were just trying to live like everyone else and not get beat by the cops. Or shot by Communists. We had fears like everyone else.

“My great-grandfather came to this country to escape pogroms and assured death in Europe. You don't know what Europe is, do you?”

Solomon shook his head.

“Eh, it's probably better you don't know. In any case, I imagine there's no Europe left to go back too anyways. Or as much Europe as there is America. Don't fret over it Shim-Shin.”