Jasper prided himself on the ability to compartmentalize. He measured his days in small moments, focusing on one task at a time. When he woke in the morning, if it was cold, he would scrape the ice off the top of his cardboard shelter so it wouldn’t thaw and make it wet. He would roll up his duffel coat into a small ball and tuck it into the bottom of his backpack, he would fold his blankets and do the same, adding each layer, building a stratum of his daily life. He would add his small kitchen items, his own pan, his own spoon, fork, and reasonably sharp small knife to this bag. 

            The last to be packed were his books. He liked his books on top so he could reach for them instantly. He wanted to know where they were and have access. They were his talismans against the world. When he read, he was invisible to the world and the world was invisible to him. He lived inside of his books and that kept his mind from wandering too far back into his previous life. No good would come from that stroll. 

            Packing done, he would stretch and wash his face wherever he could find fresh water. He would spend the rest of the morning walking the streets of whatever town or city he happened to find himself in. He mostly kept to the West Coast and the I5 corridor. He could hop on trains, catch rides with kind souls or simply walk. He didn’t bother anyone and no one bothered him. 

            He always walked in a counterclockwise pattern, tracing an invisible star that only he could see. He would have to complete his star eight times before he would settle into a space for the night. 

            Whenever he arrived at a new place he would find a map, usually the visitor information center would have a few that they handed out. He would draw his path on the map and walk it, slowly, steadily and thoughtfully for eight rotations, picking up garbage that was in the way or a few odd bottles and cans that he could turn into cash. 

            At the end of the eighth cycle, Jasper would find a place to hunker down for the night. He sometimes carried cardboard with him to make a simple shelter, other times he would simply find a place to build a little nest of warmth and be out of eyesight and therefore, out of bullying range for the night. He would read a few chapters in one of his books and then sleep for the night. Ready to start the day fresh again tomorrow. 

            He had been in Seattle for almost three years now. He liked the city, the rain was fine, he had layers to wear so the cold didn’t bother him much, the only problem was finding somewhere dry to sleep. The homeless network here was friendly enough, they showed him the more popular bridges to sleep under, no one teased him about his books and he was able to get a few more and trade some with others. He was able to stake out a little space of his own under one of the bridges. He still packed up every day and kept his belongings with him, but he did return to his spot at night. He had found a way to incorporate his sleeping destination with the path he walked during the day. 

            He didn’t so much change his clothes as simply add on another layer. The clothes closest to his actual skin were his sacred garments, a fine silk undershirt that he had discovered at a Goodwill or St. Vincent de Paul shop years ago. 

            Jasper washed it out by hand whenever he could, feeling lost without the softness of it next to his battered torso. He had also acquired a pair of satin boxer shorts somewhere along the way. They were a few sizes too big but he liked the way the fabric made him feel. He felt regal in his soft underclothes. The rest of his ensemble was a patchwork of long johns, pants, shorts, tank tops, t-shirts, polo shirts, sweatshirts and a bulky duffel coat that served as both jacket and sleeping shelter as required. 

            In his pockets there were various writing implements, sharpies, pencils and one very fine fountain pen that he used for the most important of messages. He liked the finer things in life, had always had a taste for them and even though he was currently, as he would say, “without permanent domicile” he still maintained a certain sense of decorum. 

            He carried a battered backpack, standard issue military by the look of it. It would probably be dubbed as “upcycled” by the fashion industry. Worn and practically colorless, it seemingly had infinite pockets and zippers and zippered pockets where Jasper could squirrel away all of his treasures and personal affects. 

            The left zippered pouch held his soap, razor and comb, the right, his toothbrush, nearly flat from months of use, he would have to replace it soon and several sample sizes of toothpaste. He would casually shoplift them from any store that carried them. No one noticed when two or three tiny toothpastes went missing. And he always made a point to buy something in the store, so he wasn’t technically shoplifting, he was more getting a gift with purchase. 

            At least that is what he told himself. 

            Jasper’s weariness was beginning to take a toll on his psyche. He was starting to see things. Things that didn’t make any sense. He had been homeless long enough to know that the world wasn’t always as it appeared to be. People who looked kind but would give him a kick while they walked by, or those who looked tough and swaggered who would take the coats off their own backs and offer it to him. He knew to not to judge but listen and watch. Tonight, he still didn’t believe what he was seeing. 

            A couple had entered the alley in a fever of sexual tension, that wasn’t anything new. He had seen that thousands of times, maybe even hundreds of thousands of times probably. He turned away from them so they could couple as privately as they could in public. He didn’t need to witness; the thrill of voyeurism had long passed by. 

            But then he heard the woman moan in a way that didn’t sound pleasurable. It sounded painful, Jasper’s head snapped around and he could see that they were still locked in their embrace, but the man had his lips locked on the woman, as if giving CPR, had she had a heart attack? Was that the source of the moan? Jasper inched forward a little bit and tried to peer through the darkness at the couple. He heard a slithering, wet noise and then the man broke the kiss. It looked like he was going to vomit. 

            The tall man held the woman easily in one arm, lowered her to the wet pavement and scuttled behind the dumpster, he pulled out what looked like a box? No, it was a cooler, Jasper could see that now. He watched, horrified as the man retched into the cooler. The splat was very loud in the quiet alleyway. Jasper’s horror intensified as the man bent over the prone body and sucked at her again, his own body heaving over her with exertion, again, the retching, the splat and the mouth connection. The rhythm of suck, retch, splat was repeated. Jasper watched it three times as his eyes grew ever sharper in the dim light. Finally, he grasped what was happening. The tall man was sucking out the woman’s organs!

            This was not right! This could not stand. He walked the alleys and the streets to keep others safe in world. He felt as a veteran the least he could do was to keep people safe when they wandered into places they shouldn’t, or when four or five guys would pounce on a smaller kid, or the women! The number of women he had prevented from being raped. He didn’t mind if couples fucked in the alleys or under bridges, but he would not tolerate violence and pain. 

            Jasper’s own body was a map of scars and bruises from all of the times he had intervened. One more beating wouldn’t phase him. He knew the woman was probably already dead, but this desecration of her body! It was one thing to kill and have done, but it was another to eat a person! 

            Before he could stop himself, Jasper stepped into the light and started his slow steady shuffle toward the couple. 

            Before he could get closer a hand reached out of the blackness and pulled Jasper behind a dumpster. 

            “Your instincts are noble, my friend, but you can’t save her. This will play out as it has before. We need to watch and report.” A voice rasped in his ear. 

            Jasper was shaking. He had walked through this alley for months now and had never seen anything like this. The man who was sucking on the woman seemed to be convulsing over her and when he would rear up to spit into his cooler his face was all bloody tongue. 

            Jasper was frozen. He didn’t know what to do. He had never seen anything like this. He was afraid he was going to wet himself right there. He had seem dismembered bodies and broken babies, but never anything like this. 

            “I… I… I…” Jasper sputtered. 

            “I know. Just stay put and let him finish. We’ll catch him in the other side of this. It’s too late for the girl. We can talk when he’s gone. Now, hush, Jasper,” the voice commanded. 

            How did the voice know his name? Jasper was very upset. This didn’t fit into his compartments or his routines. He didn’t like disorder. Disorder allowed for randomness and randomness would mean that anything could happen and Jasper didn’t like that. He liked routine. 

            The hand that had pulled him into the darkness pulled Jasper closer to the body it was attached to. Jasper was helpless to resist.

            “Rest awhile with me, Jasper. I know how tired you are. Rest here with me and I will get you home to complete the circuit. Just rest.” The voice crooned. 

            And Jasper felt a sense of comfort come over him. He trusted this voice for some reason and  he felt the tension drain out of his body. Tension he had carried for decades. He thought he might pass out as all the anxiety rushed out of him. 

            “Just rest, I’ll watch. You can rest and together we’ll get you home, Jasper.” 

            Jasper closed his eyes and rested against the body that was holding him in the darkness, not questioning, not worrying, not fearful for the first time in more years than he could count. Jasper slid into a dreamless sleep by the body that held him watched over Jasper’s shoulder as the Demon finished up his horrible al fresco treat. 

            Once the Demon had tidied up his date and rolled her onto a disused pallet, Dr. Charles Rollings, the Street Scholar thought it was time to wake the slumbering Jasper so he could escort him home. It wasn’t too far to Aurora Street from where they were. Dr. Rollings could get Jasper settled and still make it back to the body before sunrise. He wanted to see who would show up this time to either claim her or take her away. Each cycle there was a new shift in the pattern and he wanted to be there to document, and, if luck were with him, to shift the narrative. 

            He pulled a much-loved copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles out of one his commodious pockets, thoughtfully thumbed the pages, made some notations, underlined a few key words and tucked the volume into a hole in the wall near his shoulder. It was a regular pick up spot, the book and the message would be gone before the police arrived. Meanwhile, he needed to get Jasper someplace to rest and then he could come back and see what would unfold this time. 

            If he was fortunate, he might be able to prevent the end of the world.

            This time.