Midian Unmade Read Online Free PDF

it out for him. Sometimes you can panhandle and get money and not worry about being hated and hunted, because all the beautiful people avoid looking at poor people asking for money. It was how he paid the rent most days.
    â€œâ€˜Drummer,’ huh? No shit? Whatever. Everyone in this town is bullshit.”
    Ian was still looking at him. “Okay, look—we’ve got this band, and we need a drummer. You’re the fuckin’ best thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
    Iblis nodded, as if he agreed.
    â€œSo anyway, you think you might be interested? Here’s the thing. We’re kinda like a speed metal band and we wear costumes and masks when we play, like Gwar, you know?”
    Iblis nodded, as if he did know.
    Ian took another pull, draining it, then threw the bottle into the darkness, where it hit something and may or may not have broken.
    â€œSo anyway, if you’re interested, we’ll get you a mask and a costume and you can jam with us. The money’s not great, but it’s cash under the table and we can usually get free beer.”
    â€œPlus pussy. Man, metal groupies love us!” said greasy hair.
    â€œThis is Damon, he blows bass. I’m Ian, lead vocals and rhythm guitar. You’ll meet Zack. He’s lead guitar. He’s like you—doesn’t talk for shit.”
    Damon belched. “Yeah, but he plays that guitar like he’s fucking a porn star.”
    And that is how Iblis, without ever speaking or showing his face onstage, became a drummer for a speed metal band. He would perform, drumming in front of people, for those brief hours passing as something else: a Breed pretending to be a Natural pretending to be a Breed. He even wore the mask and costume to rehearsals. At first the others in the band made fun of him for it, but as he played they came to see and treat him like some kind of percussion saint, and they left him alone to do his thing, take his cash, and never go out with them afterward.
    But tonight, as small drops fell, he began walking. Something in the world had changed, and he felt it in his soul. His fingers nervously beat a tattoo as he walked. He kept his head down, but could not stop his fingers and hands from pulsing over objects—mailboxes and phone poles, parked cars and parking meters. He was sending some code he didn’t even speak out into the universe, not knowing why, just knowing it had to be sent.
    He walked farther than he ever had, passing the clubs on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. The pounding dance music, rhythmic and ritualistic, drew him, but he might not enter. The men in these clubs were beautiful, their bodies hard and their faces sharp, carved by hours in the gym. Beauty and desire. Rejected elsewhere, in small towns and suburbs, they came here to their own kingdom, where they were the beautiful ones, where they were the Naturals and the norms. Like Iblis, they were drawn to this city to find a safe place to be what they were, but Iblis had no place among them. His body was hard, his muscles like steel wire from the drumming, but no one looked upon his face with desire. He was not welcome among the flashing lights and sweaty bodies. More people pretending to be Breed. And more people who would fear and hate and hunt if they actually saw one.
    He passed through the enclaves of wealth and learning, those on the top, on their way up and some on the way back down again. He walked all the way to the ocean. He didn’t know why, but this was where he needed to be.
    He sat on the sand, head wrapped tight, hooded sweatshirt under jacket with baseball cap and scarf. One must always hide from one’s public.
    The ocean’s susurrus was its own rhythm, and his fingers began to match it on his thighs. Slow, at first. Then going in rapid counterpoint to the waves. It was mindless to him, yet also comforting. It was his way of communicating with the world. Even if the Naturals didn’t understand