That etheric city was a great, dying beast, its heart beat faint and arrhythmic. You only encountered the city’s naked soul by surrendering to its dark, devious embrace. Down where the sun’s rays never penetrated, where delinquint spirits, old demons and ruined gods gathered in crooked bars and opium dens, pursuing oblivion to wipe away their grievous sins and ancient anguishes.
That’s where I found myself, looking for a god who'd gone to the dogs.
Long ago, Xolotl, my old comrade, traded in divinity for depravity. These days, I heard, he hung his hat at the Jaguar Cocktail Lounge. This was a dive that gave purgatory a bad name. The air was thick with smoke and regret, the jukebox a requiem for stagnant dreams and torpid dread. I sat at the bar, bought myself a Pulque, and looked around.
I found him there, alright, slumped over the bar, his dog-head cradled in his paws. Xolotl, god of the sick, the misshapen. Now just another drunk, gone to seed, chatting up random velvet-suited demons, nursing his sorrows in a tumbler of Mezcal.
"Xolotl," I said, pulling up a stool. "Long time."
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Daniel Pinchbeck’s Newsletter to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.