Saint Sadist

by Lucas Mangum

  Praise for Lucas Mangum

  “Mangum is the new wave.”

  — Gabino Iglesias, author of

  Coyote Songs and Zero Saints

  “Pay attention to this guy, folks. He’s not messing around.”

  — Shane McKenzie, author of

  Monsters Don't Cry and Muerte con Carne

  “Shit is gnarly in the world of Lucas Mangum, but there’s a humanity, a sense of joy in all the splatter that calls to mind the work of Guillermo del Toro.”

  — J. David Osborne, author of

  Black Gum and A Mino

  Saint Sadist copyright © 2019 by Lucas Mangum. All rights reserved.

  Grindhouse Press

  PO BOX 521

  Dayton, Ohio 45401

  Grindhouse Press logo and all related artwork copyright © 2019 by Brandon Duncan. All rights reserved.

  Cover art image by George C. Cotronis © 2019. All rights reserved.

  Grindhouse Press #049

  ISBN-10: 1-941918-45-X

  ISBN-13: 978-1-941918-45-6

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

  I’d like to dedicate this book to the oppressed.

  May they be powered to remake the world in their image.

  Harlot

  1

  THE SOAPY MUG—DADDY’S FAVORITE, the one that says JOHN 3:16 in bold red letters—slips out of my hands and shatters on the slate. As I stare down at the glistening shards in the sudsy puddle at my feet, something inside me breaks too.

  Daddy’s Favorite. Daddy’s Little Girl.

  Momma’s footsteps follow his into the kitchen. Timid. Less pronounced. Both of my parents stand at the threshold. His eyes are red-rimmed, which signals he’s already got a good buzz going. Hers are downcast. They almost always are. His hands are fists. She keeps hers folded across her bulging lower abdomen, what the boys from school call the F.U.P.A., or the fat upper pussy area.

  “Go upstairs,” he says, a slight tremble in his voice.

  We three know what happens next. Only Daddy knows the method. How he’ll beat me. Depending on how much he’s had to drink and the kind of day he’s had, I can expect anything from open hands to closed fists, from a leather belt to the heel of his boot. I follow his command, and I try to gauge how he aims to hurt me. The tremble in his voice used to give me hope. I used to think it betrayed some inner conflict over abusing me and that one day, that inner conflict would win out, and he’d stop the hurt. My hope was never fulfilled. Tonight, I must take matters into my own hands if I’m to stop this.

  Soapy mug, slips, shatters on the—

  Something in me breaks.

  When I enter my room, I get naked. In the mirror mounted on my dresser, I glimpse my exposed flesh. I give each of my barely formed breasts a gentle squeeze. I lick the fingers of my right hand, tasting dish soap and grease, and massage my clit through the tiny hairs that have so recently started to sprout.

  Soapy, slippery—

  Something in me—

  My father shoves open the door, the leather belt wrapped tight around his fist. He catches sight of me and stops. His fist unfurls. The belt drops to the floor like a dead snake. His jaw drops open and tries to form words. Muted, his mouth twitches. A tear slides down his cheek—slips, shatters on the slate—and gets lost in his beard stubble.

  “Hello, Daddy.” I try to sound all grown up.

  In his whiskey-soaked state, he’s all too willing to stick his cock into my unspoiled, waiting womanhood.

  Soapy, slippery—

  Something in me—

  Pushed on the bed, a would-be victim of incestuous rape, his now immense-seeming body pressed atop mine, my sex speared by the—soapy, slippery—same cock that sired me, I’ve never felt so—

  Shattered—

  Fucking powerful.

  I’m twelve years old.

  Daddy’s Favorite Little Girl tears and shatters, Harlot rising from blood-soaked sheets.

  2

  HE NEVER HITS ME AGAIN after that.

  He lets me get away with a lot more, too, as long as my cunt remains solely his.

  I can drink beer, stay out late with friends, and skip church.

  There is only one condition, unspoken but understood.

  No other man can touch me.

  Our affair continues throughout my teenage years.

  I never find out for sure if my mother knows, not until the night I finally get up the courage to leave.

  3

  A WEEK AND A HALF after my nineteenth birthday:

  My period doesn’t come as expected.

  I’m honestly surprised this hasn’t happened sooner.

  He never uses condoms or pulls out—

  Except that one time when Daddy came on my face and wept—

  And I’m not on birth control.

  I steal some pregnancy tests from Rite Aid, and all but one read positive.

  That’s when I decide to leave. My child deserves better.

  I deserve better.

  4

  THE NIGHT I LEAVE HOME, the sky is a cloudless deep blue. The air is still. It’s April. Still a month before the Texas heat becomes too unbearable. Somewhere nearby, a campfire crackles as it burns, filling the air with a smoky aroma.

  Baptism by fire and Holy Spirit,

  Not a dove, a phoenix,

  Burn down the house.

  A passing car breaks the outside silence.

  My window left open,

  An exit discreet.

  I packed a small overnight bag with—

  The things she carries—

  Clean underwear, a summer dress, my toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush, pens, and a journal

  (For dreams).

  I am a prophetess whore,

  Harlot risen from blood-soaked sheets,

  Escaping my tomb;

  She is risen, Hallelujah! Amen!

  I consider taking the leather-bound King James Bible.

  Words of Jesus, blood-soaked,

  Hallelujah! Praise be His Name.

  I consider it for a long time. At least it feels that way.

  Ultimately, I leave it.

  Amen.

  God does not reside within its ink-stained, weathered pages.

  Preach, sister!

  Maybe he lives somewhere else.

  Outside the walls of my dysfunctional home.

  Outside the limits of my dead-end town.

  Or maybe he’s not there either.

  Hallelujah!

  That’s okay too.

  She is risen!

  This is a brand-new beginning for me,

  (Resurrection and the Life)

  full of infinite possibilities, which includes the notion that there is nothing infinite, only moments dotted throughout the yawning void.

  I slip out my bedroom window wearing jeans, worn leather boots, and a tucked in tee shirt that may have actually belonged to Daddy. It’s a faded white tee with the face of some forgotten country singer emblazoned across the front and tour dates written on the back.

  I don’t bother closing the window on my way out, though I never plan on coming back. I creep around to the front of my house, and jolt at the sight of my mother. She stands in the driveway. Her hair is a mess of dirty blond tangles. She wears no makeup, a white tank top, and flannel pajama bottoms she’s had for as long as I can remember. Her bare feet are pressed firmly into the concrete, as she s
tands her ground. Sudden panic surges through me and I glance around.

  Hello, Daddy.

  Speared by what sired me—

  “He’s asleep, Courtney.”

  Harlot rising from blood,

  Fire and the Holy Spirit,

  Baptized.

  Her voice has the scratchy quality of someone who’s been crying. Part of me wants to embrace her. We haven’t hugged in five years. Instead, I just stare.

  “You can’t do this to him. It will kill him, and he’s suffered enough already on your account.”

  “He’s suffered?”

  “He knows it’s wrong, what you two been doing—”

  Soapy, slips, shatters,

  Something in me—

  “—but he can’t help himself.”

  Sired, speared.

  I say nothing.

  Nothing to say. Time to move on.

  “I know about the baby.”

  My gut clenches as if the fetus itself has found some organ down there and squeezed it.

  “Does he?”

  Daddy’s Little Girl gonna be a Momma. Praise the Lord!

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m leaving, Momma, and you can’t stop me.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I can, but maybe I can make you think about it some.”

  “I’ve thought about it plenty.”

  My child deserves better. So do I.

  “I imagine you have. You always were a deep thinker. Suppose you got that from him. Lord knows you didn’t get it from me. I don’t think much, but I did think lots tonight, while I was listening to you pack up your things.”

  “You gonna let me by?”

  She stares for a long time. I hold her gaze. We’re like two gunslingers in those movies Daddy likes, armed only with the ability to do irreparable emotional damage to each other. Somehow that strikes me as worse than what any gun can do. I try to stay calm, but Daddy can wake any minute. Adrenaline threatens to reduce me to a trembling mess.

  “Let me by, Momma.”

  She steps aside. As I walk past, I avoid eye contact, not out of spite or because I think the sight of her will send me climbing back into my room, but because I need her to know this is forever, and I don’t intend to change my mind.

  “It will kill him,” she calls after me.

  I keep on walking.

  5

  ON THE SIDE OF THE main drag, some five miles from Daddy’s property, I have a vision:

  A genderless angel falls, wings on fire. When it hit the ground, the sky turns red. I’m caught in the infernal blast radius. My child swims like a fish in my belly. Tongues of fire rise alongside me like burning buildings. They line the road ahead, and I walk on.

  A prophetess whore in exile, onward to Canaan.

  6

  THE FIRST MAN I FUCK for money calls himself Simon. It’s probably not a real name, but he pays me five hundred dollars in cash, and he books us a room. I can’t imagine a much better scenario, especially for a first trick.

  I meet him at a drinking establishment on West 6th in Austin, some place called the Green Light Social Hour. After observing him trying and failing to score with every co-ed with a pulse, I approach him and say that for five hundred dollars cash, he can do whatever he wants to me, provided he uses protection and also pays for the room. He’s that special kind of pathetic, and getting him to shell out for access to my pussy proves all too easy. He agrees to my terms, but then we enter the room, and I learn quickly I should have established some clearer boundaries.

  He tells me to undress, and I oblige. I don’t like the way he watches me. He rubs his hands together like some bad cartoon villain. A way too toothy grin is spread across his weasel-like features. If he had a mustache, I’d expect him to twirl it.

  Another red flag is he doesn’t undress himself, just keeps watching me, grinning and rubbing his hands together, a glint in his eyes that shifts back and forth between predatory and something like a kid sitting in front of a bowl of chocolate ice cream that’s sprinkled and topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

  He approaches me, still dressed, stalking me but lacking grace. He’s like a dying panther trying to get one last mouse, one last morsel of the hunt. When I ask him if he is going to take off his clothes, his grin only widens. His approach quickens, surprising me with the sudden burst of speed.

  Before I can react, he has his hand over my mouth and is forcing me onto the bed. His paunch pushes against me like one of those pads used in football practice. His hardening cock stirs against my inner thigh. I fall on my back, one of my knees bent inward, my arms flailing. The bed groans under our combined weight. He licks my face. His saliva has a soupy quality to it, like he’s been holding a wad of mucus in his mouth for too long.

  With one hand, I pull a tuft of his hair from the back of his scalp. With the other, I ram my index finger into his ear canal and dig into the sensitive flesh. He yelps like a kicked puppy. I twist out of his grasp and scramble to the bedside table. I yank the lamp out from the wall.

  Turning, I see him rise to his feet, shaking the cobwebs loose. He pulls a knife from his trousers, and a mean expression crosses his face. We stand across from each other, our weapons at the ready. Neither of us moves. Perhaps I should feel more vulnerable, but in my naked state, a sense of immense power washes over me. It was the contours of this body that brought an end to my father’s violence. This body that I know how to use, to manipulate for my own purposes, for my own survival. My body is a weapon, a magical charm that can so easily cause the undoing of my enemies. My body is power made flesh, and this power is mine alone.

  I straighten and gyrate in front of the armed stranger, this so-called Simon, rolling my hips and licking my lips and sliding a sensual hand over my left breast and my soft belly. I spread the folds of my cunt for him. His expression softens. There’s no anger, no predatory glint, only that hungry, childlike giddiness. I lunge for him, swinging the lamp at his head. The sconce shatters on impact and he collapses in a heap.

  I consider killing him. Anger at the attempted violation bubbles in me like a boiling pot of pea soup with extra ham. Plus I’d be doing him a favor, ending his misery. The pathetic bastard will never find the lay he wants. No one could love such a gross human being, not even if he has money.

  It would be very easy, with Simon in such a prone position, for me to ram a shard of the broken sconce, or the attacker’s own switchblade into his jugular. All too easy, really, but the last thing I need is the cops on my tail.

  I gather my clothes, and after some deliberation, I take his knife. I pocket it instead of using it on him. Figure I might need it one day.

  7

  I HEAD WEST ACROSS TEXAS. I hitch rides and sleep under bridges. I always keep the knife nearby. There are other men after Simon. Not all of them are pathetic trolls. A couple of them aren’t bad looking and leave me wondering what they’re doing paying for sex. One looks like the actor who plays Sam on Supernatural, Jared something. He’s not much of a lay, but he’s sure nice to look at. Another guy is average-looking, but a very attentive lover. He doesn’t treat me like a prostitute. Instead, he takes his time making sure I’m relaxed and wet enough to receive him.

  Soon, I have a decent-sized nest egg: ten thousand, cash. It’s more than I’ve ever seen up close and I reckon I should put it in a bank or something. Trouble is: I have no ID and no address. So, I keep the stack of money stuffed deep down in my backpack.

  I walk on.

  8

  ANOTHER VISION:

  Baphomet stands in the middle of the road ahead.

  One hand points skyward, the other points down.

  His horns stretch infinitely in all directions, curving and curling. They sometimes seem more like rubbery tentacles than brittle bones.

  I approach, captivated by his red eyes, but no matter how far I walk the distance between us remains the same.

  Above, the sky is fire that fluctuates between red and blue flame.

&
nbsp; Below is void, dotted with celestial bodies.

  Levitating, I’m no longer walking, I drift across dark dimensions.

  White light floods the vision.

  Everything is gone but the light, and the sound of a horn, Gabriel’s Horn, louder, closer. Impact. Pain. The Rapture has come. Blackness blankets me.

  9

  I’VE HAD THESE VISIONS FOR as long as I can remember.

  Used to tell Momma about them, Daddy, too.

  They would take me to the pastor, and he’d interpret them.

  He explained I was seeing the End Times and the War in Heaven. God was calling me; so was Satan. They were wrestling over my soul and the souls of all people. Blinded by bias, I reckon.

  Scales for eyes.

  Way I see it: either I’m schizophrenic or I’m not, and if I’m not, this is bigger than Heaven and Hell.

  I stopped telling my parents about the things I saw, but I never stopped seeing things.

  Always wrote them down, too, exorcising God Himself.

  10

  I WAKE FROM THE BLANKETING blackness, cloaked in pain. I don’t recognize the room. My first fear is for my unborn baby.

  Woe unto them with child,

  To them that give suck—

  My second is for the hidden money.

  Wrapped in a napkin,

  Thou wicked servant—

  I close my eyes and try to feel the life inside me. I grasp for any sense of my child. Feeling nothing, I cry out.

  Taketh and dasheth . . .

  Little ones against the stones . . .

  Selah.

  A pleasant, feminine voice breaks the outside silence, and I open my eyes.