Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  He bursts out laughing, “You'll put the fear of God into them if you do.”

  “Just run the facility for a day. I'll give them an announcement so they know to expect my brother at feeding and shower times.”

  Blue eyes skewer me when he leans forward, resting elbows on his knees, “Two days, that's it. I have my own sinners to fry.”

  I know that look, it's the look Victor had when Shauna was purified. Arching eyebrows, unable to suppress my grin, I pry, “You have a dirty angel?”

  “Yup, sexiest little sinner I've ever laid my jaded eyes on.”

  I know the feeling. Julie's my dirty angel. I'll make a devout worshipper out of her yet. God damn I sure am lookin' forward to it. There's something about her, she's all spit and hiss but it cannot conceal the sensual desperation in her eyes.

  Speaking of which, “Listen James, suit up when you administer to the inmates. They know my face but yours should be kept confidential. And leave the girl in chamber 72, I'll tend to her myself.”

  “Why?” he demands, in the kind of tone that implies he's furious he's been denied access to potential fun.

  “She's new. I need her to mentally bond with me, throwing you in the mix is just going to screw up the psychological advantage I've established.”

  Smirking, he looks dangerous when he says, “She? It's a female, and you don't want me near her. Are you harboring emotion for a sinner?”

  “I harbor emotion for every sinner, James. This is my territory and I expect you to help me when I need it, not screw up for me so I have to start from scratch when I can pull jeans on without biting through my tongue.”

  Pitching the drained beer in the bin, he slaps his thighs, “Right, take me to the control room so I know what the fuck I'm doing here.”

  Picking up the fleece blanket, I gingerly wrap it around my hips, slipping slops on my feet, sweeping my hand toward the door, “This way.”

  Walking to the top floor up old distressed stairs, I open the door to control central, showing him the ninety camera views displayed in rows of stacked screens. He releases a low whistle through his teeth, “Shit bro, fuck he's got you working double time. How come you get so many when we only get one at a time?”

  Shocked by the revelation I slump heavily onto my communion chair, next to the microphone at the pulpit. “Seriously? You guys only have one to purify?”

  Sitting in my black leather control chair, he nods, stroking his chin, staring from screen to screen in the darkroom, the flickering images illuminating his face. “You have men too.”

  “Yes, why the hell did you think I asked you for help? I can't face them like this, they'll feast on my moment of weakness because it's their nature.”

  “How did you subdue so many? What's your secret?” he asks, fixating on the feed from room 18.

  She's a a twenty-year old with the assets to tempt any red-blooded male into gawking. After some counseling with her I discovered she was always a sinner from before womanhood. Incest is her crime. The Satan of Lot's daughters is strong in her. She claims her father was an alcoholic, but we all know she made him drink, she forced him to become inebriated and to fall from grace.

  I shrug, I have no secret, I just do as my lord bids me.

  Tapping her screen, he looks to me, “What's her sin?”

  “Incest, and fornicating with married men.”

  Nibbling his lower lip, deepening his dimples, he quirks his head at me, “Vocation?”

  “Stripper,” I say, looking again at the new stash of manna. It's like a siren calling to me in the hour of my bleak despair.

  “And you are not successful in turning her from evil?” he accuses.

  I wish I could lean back, like he is, swiveling idly from side to side. I need a painkiller. I shrug in answer, “It's a process. The women are more resistant to the truth of their flaws. They don't wish to accept they were created deficient and inferior to men. The men are logical, they simply do as I tell them. They don't scream and cry and wail... or bleed every fucking month.”

  James nods, knowing the tribulations of our craft, “Keeping them in white is a headache and a half.”

  Indicating my parish, I explain, “I need you to deliver breakfast and dinner, change their water, and clean them twice a day.”

  “What's in it for me?”

  He's impaling me with that icy stare again.

  “Choose your sinner and do your worst. Just leave 72 alone.”

  “I have full control for a day?” he smiles, tipping his head forward, making all the tendons in his thick neck stand out.

  “That's what I said,” I grumble, eyeing the jar of white seeds. “And administer manna. They need their daily dose of ordained food from Alpha.”

  Nodding, relaxing back and steepling his fingers, he smiles wide, “I'd better get to work then. This is going to take hours.”

  Relieved, I pop the cap open, palming three seeds of manna, saying, “You can bunk in my chambers tonight. I'm going to use this opportunity to be alone for some quality time with 72. Isolation with me will do her some good. She needs to understand I am her guardian angel and when she's confused by the sin clouding her judgment, I'll be here for her.”

  Happy, he takes the jar from my hand, jabbing a thumb at the screens, “See you when you emerge, I have some worshipping to do before disciplining your flock of filth.”

  I nod to him, picking up the microphone and switching it on.

  “Sinners, pariahs, dirty angels, I am sending my brother to watch over you. He is the Angel of Chaos and he does not permit rebellion or have tolerance for your evil. I'll be back to my usual duties in a day or two. May God bless you and forgive you your sins. I urge you to repent, to get on your knees and admit your sins with a voice loud and shaking with shame. Repent! Confess! Dedicate yourselves to God. And take your communion with gratitude that Victor died for your sins.”

  Cutting the transmission, I watch as James exits the control room, eager to please the lord with a display of leadership.

  The phone emits a digital bleep and I automatically drop off my chair to my knees, answering the call, “Yes Father?”

  “Anoki, John.”

  “I am your servant, eager to obey,” I mumble, bending to rest my forehead on the floor.

  “John I have eyes everywhere, I have ears everywhere, there is no action I do not witness, no conversation to which I do not listen.”

  Shit! He heard every fucking word.

  I'm tempted to head thump the floor for my utter stupidity.

  “John, your temple is overcrowded with sinners. They either renounce their wicked ways and accept me as their lord and god, or they will be put to death. You have two days to convert them. If they don't convert, then they die. Understood?”

  “Yes father,” I whisper, wishing bending over like this didn't make the lacerations from my flogging pull like they're about to bust open again.

  The line goes dead and I sit up, rigid with pain.

  Replacing the receiver, such an apt name for the vehicle through which God gives me commands, I know what I need.

  I require comfort. A warm bosom to rest my head. A woman too sedated to fight me. I'll let seventy-two have all three seeds of manna, and I shall use that time to purge her of sin while relieving my doubt inside her temple.

  ~ Chapter 11 ~

  ...you will feel all the force of my anger and rage,

  until I am satisfied.

  ~ Ezekiel 5:13

  James:

  John the favorite. The beloved one. So God gives him more than he gives us? Seventy-two? More than one disciple deserves and more than one can handle. And the conceited bastard cannot turn this one from evil?

  Well let me show my brother how this shit gets done. He won't be superior in father's eyes after this.

  Her beauty makes her stumble. That is the source of her pride. It is a process he says. Ha! My fucking ass it is. Women are not resistant to the truth of their flaws if you strip away their pride.
r />   I suit up, because he wishes it, but I want to show myself to this one. Full control for a day? The others can wait for their food and manna. This one needs deliverance. She needs to be shown the glory of the Lord.

  And who better to show her than yours truly? I'm the real deal baby. Clearly John has shown you too much mercy, which is why you stubbornly refuse to repent. Unzipping my supplies left in John's chamber, I stroke the armor of my rank with affection, pulling it out, secretly pleased my shoulders are wider than his, my girth superior in every way.

  We wear leather because it's easy to clean, impervious to most weapons, and scares them shitless.

  The weakness of the female still tempts us to eat forbidden fruit, to join her in sin. That woman calls for absolution even through the cold, flat, screen of the darkroom. She is ready for the next level, to know true worship, to comprehend the depth of love we bestow on wicked flesh.

  I watched Victor work for many years, learning the craft of female vanity and weakness. He cut them up, then put them back together so they were more perfect than they were before he remade them. The Satan of Lot’s daughters dwells within her; lucky lady, I have a cure for you. I will deliver you from your satanic devotion, cutting out the evil within you.

  Stripping off my peasant disguise, leaving jeans and t-shirt next to my boots, I stroll clad in my disciple trousers to locate the guise she'll commune with. She is an animal, so I will meet her as one she can recognize. Moving through John's lounge I hoist up the bear skin from our hunt three winters back. Draping it over my head and shoulders, I feel goddamn ridiculous, but we do what we must. At least I have my leather jeans on. The rustic ink-black nappa is comforting. Meet them on their own level and all that shit, degrading our holiness for their salvation. It riles me enough to put me in a pissy mood.

  Running a discerning eye over the selection of devices, I select the small blade. Twisting it, assessing the edge, I test it with my thumb. Oh yeah, this will work a charm. Christ be praised, and may the Lord seize the praises of this diabolical child.

  Palming the spray I used on John, I have the solution for her new skin. I'm ready to get to work on turning the dirty angel into a purified vessel to worship God. I check his schedule. Fuck, half of these cells have keys. They haven't been upgraded to the spin lock. Christ, bust my balls while you're at it.

  Collecting the master key, I change my mind.

  Fuck that, I want a whole bunch of them. Where's the original set?

  Time is slipping away, the need to get to her eating at me like a guilty conscience, making me rifle through his drawers with impatience, finally unearthing the collection. That's better, this way God keeps account of sinners. A key to unlock each mind, every secret, every shame.

  Stomping to the door, I pause just long enough to pour a quick shot of the liquor he's left out.

  Gaaaah, it burns. I see it now, he knows he's guilty of doing a half job so he self-flagellates from the inside out. He's burning out the shame at his failings as a disciple.

  I hate that I can't fault him. He's not purifying all of them, which makes him defective. He's not as great as God thinks he is. But this kinda shit makes him look like such a good son. Mister perfect and his raw balls. Ha! God laid into you brother, for once he took your mighty ass to task. Staring at the board one last time, double checking her location, I go stalking through the hallowed halls to the barrier between me and sweet little 18.

  Jangling the cluster, I loudly grate her key across the metal door, defacing the paint the way I'm going to scrape away her delusions.

  A shocked whimper squeals from within, the sound a fortuitous blessing. Good things are coming, Eighteen. I am here now, to set your soul back into the aisle of the righteous.

  Her fearful reaction to activity outside her cell means John has done something right. As soon as the lock releases, I slowly ease the door open, taking my time, smiling at the groan howling the hinges.

  “I have come,” I assure her, my tone consoling.

  It offers the comfort required when approaching a wild animal. I know in a few moments she'll be like a cornered wildcat, scratching and biting, hissing and mauling.

  “Preacher John? Please father, I wish to confess …”

  “Confess what? What does your satan wish to conjure now?”

  Two pert tits elevate with her distress, inflating when she inhales and exhales emotion. Watching the exposed hard nipples, I want to kick John. He keeps the swine barely clad, keeping their sins naked before God. And I can see them clear as a fucking church bell in Hades.

  Angered by the flaunting, I step inside her cell, slamming the door shut and locking it. Rounding on the depraved filth, I pry, “Have you been tweaking your nipples? Your breasts are so ripe they are fake, I can see it from here. How is this desecration not punished?”

  Scrambling back, two brown eyes wide with alarm, she murmurs, “You're not Preacher John.”

  “He told you I was coming, because I am the one who does not permit rebellion.”

  Satan makes them stupid.

  Breasts jiggle at me with her agitation and I'm having a hard time ignoring them.

  She brandishes her temptation; her sin. Smutty slut.

  Full lips are open, her fright clear, but she looks me straight in the eye and says, “They are not fake. They're mine!”

  “Are you confessing your vanity, Eighteen? Would you like me to relieve you of the weight of your suffering by slicing them off, freeing you from the bowels of abomination?”

  “No!” shrieks too loud, panic narrowing beguiling eyes and scrunching a ski-slope nose.

  I don't believe you, whore of heaven.

  Walking closer, keeping my head down so she's staring right at the head of a bear after taxidermy; I'll assess the whore myself.

  This is an oversight John. A fucking grave one.

  I'm in a brutal mood because she lies, blatantly and without shame. Grabbing a boob with my right hand, I squeeze, disfiguring it by applying all the force at my disposal, flexing my fingers to locate the vanity within. There is no inserted sac in there. Well whaddayaknow? They're real. That's fucking perky for real.

  She screams, wrapping cold fingers around my wrist, trying to get me to release her, straining toned muscles with the exertion. It's the vehicle of her trade, it's her work suit, of course it's kept in prime condition.

  Oh how you are tempting me, gushing distress in my face, holding my body and forcing me closer to you. Flowery perfume fills my nostrils and I blink to deny its effect.

  “You please me,” I nod, knowing she is vulnerable to our techniques without the false inflation of sin in her bosom.

  Oval eyes widen, long brown lashes reaching thin eyebrows.

  Fidgeting with the knife in the back of my trousers, the motion hidden by the pelt, I arch eyebrows, looking down at five foot six – ish, “You wanted to confess? God is ready to hear you.”

  We stare at each other in silence for seconds, a feral wild panic flitting across her gaze, calculating her odds with me.

  I dare you to rebel against me. I dare you to test me.

  “Father, I am a whore. A slut like the woman at the well …”

  I was expecting to hear many things, and none of them were that. Releasing the warm flesh, pleased with the red handprint that remains, I take one step back, resting my fidgeting fingers on my hips, forcing myself to listen before passing judgment.

  I need to pass judgment, I'm fucking craving it.

  “You know of the story?” I mutter, incredulous.

  I want to slap that sweet mouth until it bleeds. If she confesses I can't discipline and correct. I know she requires it, I feel it in my soul and it makes me raging hard. I wouldn't react like this if it wasn't God warning me that I must worship, and she requires purification.

  This is a rouse, this is deception.

  Satan was an angel, of course he knows the gospels. Let me humor her.

  “I do,” she nods, fervent, snaking long brunette
tresses between those succulent tits.

  God damn I hate it when Satan distracts me. I feel like I'm always being tested. I can't be near this kind of evil without it burning my blood and bubbling the ache to purge, to bless.

  “Tell me,” I demand, keeping my voice monotone.

  “Christ came to the well, and saw a woman sitting there. He told her everything she ever did. Then he showed her grace. She led many followers to the Messiah because of this.” She stands straight and arrogant, boldly staring at my perfection without a shred of fear, protruding her wares in all their glory at me. “If you showed me grace Father, I–”

  Her breath catches, seeing me fully for the first time because I raised my own head to interrogate her soul.

  Inhaling deeply, she continues in a small voice, “—I could bring many to salvation. I could convince them.”

  Her nipples are so erect and tempting.

  Tempting a servant of the Lord, has she no shame? No of course not, hence she's a stripper, sliding down poles and opening her legs for coin, when that pleasure is reserved for God and his own.

  “Stand down Satan!” I shout, stepping in and grabbing those fucking objects of desire.

  Pressing my thumbs into them I stab her nipples into her chest, as I have been shown. With nowhere to go but the wall at her back, she shrieks in such a high pitch I'm thankful there's no glass in here.

  “Please, father!”

  I impale harder, holding my tongue, glaring into her eyes, inhaling the potent scent of desperation.

  The time to give words of hope to this one has passed. She thinks she can fool me by reciting words in a book. Anyone can do that, it's not proof of repentance.

  My next words to her will be ones of utter despair. Once I have worshipped my Lord and seeded the temple of her body.

  “You are so destitute,” I hiss in her face, leaning so close I could lick her eyeball. “You are poor. All God gave you was a body, and instead of striving to fill it with his Holy Spirit you use it to sin. You keep it a hollow shell; a vessel for satan.”