by Poppet
I allowed James to come in, to help me, but he has not. He has instead exposed my shortcomings as a disciple. He has shamed me before my lord, publicly humiliating me by reminding me that there is no recompense for those who will not turn to God.
They've had ample opportunity to turn from their wicked ways. In here they've had sermons, given his mark, manna, communion, they've experienced firsthand how meticulously the lord looks after his flock, and still they resist. Their very existence is living blasphemy. They live because of him and yet they refuse to acknowledge it, or give him the credit.
They are beyond redemption, my months of toil have left me with an empty heart and a destitute parish. I am the devout in an asylum of evil, surrounded by satanic possession, and my efforts have been in vain.
Evan has come of age, he is a glimmer of hope in a ward of wretches. He invoked the past when he did as the God of Israel commanded when overthrowing foreign territory, slay everything but the virgin, take her for yourself. Evan took the virgin for himself, and she was an enemy because she is not one of His chosen people.
And God spared his life with a miracle. He was standing in the water when Alpha threw down electricity, a fire extended with his wisdom, to see if the bush would burn when the flames covered it. Like the angel in the fire, he did not burn. Like the bush of the lord, he did not burn.
He has become one of my own, one I can now trust, to bless with responsibility. A brother in Christ, one who has walked the path of the righteous, reborn in the very presence of our Alpha.
This is Julie's fault! Seventy-two tipped the numbers, she is the reason I was disciplined and corrected, walking in public with no hair so everyone can see my shame and know I have displeased the lord.
Rage blisters my pores, igniting righteous wrath.
I will make them pay.
I will clean my house without the help of a foreign god. I will incinerate the sinners who deny the breath they inhale is divine; a gift from God.
They forget that God drowned the whole world, he slaughtered every first born baby of Egypt as payback for disrespect, he massacred the cattle too, he sent plague upon plague on those who made him angry.
His anger is relentless until it is satiated.
After all my sermons warning them of the consequences, how can they think they will go unpunished?
When the tribes rebelled in the desert, the lord plagued poisonous snakes on them, he took Aaron's life, he cut off their air, withheld food and water, the ground opened up and swallowed Dathan and Abiram - and their families, rained fire on them (Numbers 16:35), he sent another plague down which killed 14700 of his own people, he killed Moses (numbers 27:12), he gave virgins to the Levites- his priests (Numbers 31:41/42), he struck them down with disease (numbers 14:37 16:46), he had a man stoned and put to death for defying his command, their firstborns belonged to him (Numbers 18:15) child and animal alike, and if the tribes wanted their children back they had to purchase them from God.
Moses warned the people in 28 Deuteronomy of the high cost of disobedience to the Lord: he will curse everything in your life, striking disease on you that brings boils, swelling, fever, make your body break out in sores, covered with scabs, you will itch, you will lose your mind, go blind, and become addled; your cattle will be butchered, your sons and daughters given to slavery – not even sold but given; you will be hungry, naked, thirsty – and the Lord will oppress you harshly until you are destroyed. He will make the woman secretly eat her newborn child and the afterbirth (Deuteronomy 28: 57) – day and night you will be filled with terror and you will live with constant fear of death (66).
When god was angry he cut off the food and water supply to Jerusalem (Ezekiel 4:11), he made them starve (Ezekiel 4:15), sent hunger and wild animals to kill their children, sent sickness, violence and war to slay them (Ezekiel 4:17),.
It is blatantly clear to me that I have failed. I have failed miserably at my duties. I have been entirely too lenient with sinners who deserve no mercy whatsoever.
James is correct, and I am the disciple in the wrong.
I must atone. I must correct my deficiencies.
Today!
Ashamed, I kneel down, shouting to his all seeing eyes, to his all hearing ears; “Oh God, how I wish you would kill the wicked! How I wish violent men would leave me alone! They say wicked things against your name. O Lord, how I hate those who hate you! How I despise those who rebel against you! I hate them with total hatred; I regard them as my enemies!” (Psalms 139:19)
They are the sinners, not me. They're only getting what's coming to them.
Rocking, despairing over how blind I have been, thinking mercy and salvation is their right, how deluded have I been? No wonder he shamed me - flogging me. And James was correct, God was indeed far too merciful with me.
They have heard His words as I regurgitate them every evening over the intercom, they know they break God's laws, they are wicked and shameless, heathens and swine. This is their fault! My shame is on their hands. They have made a mockery of my armor, of my disciple leathers with the holy horns on which Aaron placed every sacrifice (Exodus 30:10).
“You're going to pay! I get out of here in five minutes and I am coming for your souls!”
I am ready to be the Angel of Death. I was ordained as such and yet I keep alive the slothful and unclean, I feed the filth and wash it. Unbelievers! Abominations! They have made my faith a sham with their derision!
The timing buzzer rings, and I bolt, up and out of the bomb shelter, running to my armory. I no longer care about the pain. If my skin breaks open with this overdue smiting, then it is just.
Launching through the door to my level, I rush to the window, pleased to see James has left. Shaking with rage, I don't need my leathers, I need justice!
Stomping to the microphone, I click it on.
“Sinners, your day of reckoning has come. I have told you before of Ezekiel 7 verse 4: I will not spare you or show you any mercy – so that you will know that I am the Lord. God was here, recently, and he spared the life of number 66. Make your choices. Those of you who wish to embrace God and claim him as your Lord and savior, stand up and wait at your doors. Those of you who are defiant, wishing to rebuke salvation, remain sitting.”
Clicking the off button, I stare at the screens, aggravated to see Julie stay on her mattress, wrapped up in black fleece.
How dare she! After throwing herself in front of a gun to protect me, she still denies my God?
Snapping back to the mic, I click on, “First I will give you an example of God's wrath. You disappoint me number 72. I am coming for you, and every one of the sinners here will bear witness to your shame. I tried to purify you, you remained defiled. You will not be pure again until you have felt the full force of my anger ~ Ezekiel 24:13.”
She doesn't even roll, or acknowledge the words.
Clicking off, I am riled, my blood pumping, imminent deliverance trembling my hands. Snatching the mobile mic, I ready my SIG, collecting the magazines I will need to purge my satanarium of these possessed miscreants.
Leaving the gun at the door for easy access, I sprint down the stairs, down three levels, striding to the last door, flicking the mic on when I face her cell, my chest heaving with anticipation.
Spinning the lock, unlocking it with the number of the beast, spinning the dial left, right, left, I unhinge the handle, flinging the door wide by punching it, alleviating a modicum of my rage.
She remains on her mattress, sitting up now, staring at me with her haughty disdain.
“Get up, Seventy-two.”
“No,” says boldly, lifting her chin so she can look down her nose at me.
“Do you accept Christ and his Alpha as your lord and god? Will you bow down and worship at his altar? Will you renounce Satan and embrace salvation?”
“No.”
I'm quivering, my heart hammering, blocking the exit because I am tall and wide and she is an insignificant bitch. “Then you leave me no choice bu
t to beat the devil out of you.”
She's looking tense, her shoulders rigid, the exposed legs covered in goose-flesh, but still she remains obstinate, embracing the way of the heathen instead of the road of the saint.
Her rebellion fills me with wrath, hazing my vision, distorting my tone with shaking rage, “Get up!”
She sits, like buddha on a smoking altar she sits.
I should have waited to put my boots on. I should have prepared for discipline. But, I've been in the dojo long enough to deliver a killer blow without shod feet.
Stepping closer, I warn one last time, “Accept Christ as your god.”
“Fuck you, John.”
Snapping my leg up, deftly maneuvering, I roundhouse kick her head, slamming her to the ground and off the fucking mattress, “That's Preacher John to you satan!”
Her ragged breathing is audible, enough for the other sinners to hear. Standing over her I grip the long brown hair, wavy as cobras in flight, brutally hauling her up, onto her knees, hissing in her face, “Give up Satan. This is one fight you will never win.”
She's barely touching the floor with her toes, her knees three inches off it where I hold her suspended, her writhing inflicting agony due to the fist of hair in my hand.
Lifting my knee, I slam it into her, smashing her cheekbone, bruising her eyeball. I've been popped in the eye before, it hurts like a motherfucker.
She oofs, but she's not screaming.
“I will put the fear of God in you.”
Bending over her I punch again and again, snapping her head left, right, left, like the combination.
She's wailing now, through the blood sluicing down her face.
I punch again, flat in her mouth, teeth cutting my knuckle.
“I won't stop until every inch of your body is swollen and blue.”
Kicking her ankles wide apart, I deliver a swift kick to the vagina, and this time she howls agony for all the world to hear.
Shunting her aggressively, rolling her onto her side, prone between my legs, I pound with short punches to the kidney, up and in, again and again, until she's screaming so hard her chokes are curdled in blood.
“Do you accept Christ and his Alpha as your lord and God?!” I shout down at the pathetic heathen.
She shakes her head at me, emitting an endless keen of suffering.
Beyond rage, I spin on my heel, stalking out of her cell, slamming the door shut, charging back up to fetch my gun. Dropping the cloak, stalling long enough to pull on my leather pants and boots, the sound of the keys hitting the floor in the cloak pocket remind me of a torture I've not used on a sinner in too many years. The key to the chamber of sin.
Snatching the bunch up, I take them with me, putting the magazines in my pockets, and blast back down to cell 72.
Reopening the door, slamming it so loud it rings my ears, I stride to her, still curled up and bleeding, whimpering.
Kicking her over so her face is in the filth, I bend, lifting her hips, selecting her key, and ram it inside her, turning the sharp teeth around and around and around until blood seeps to coat my hand.
Insufferable wails reach a soul numbing pitch, and I grip her hair, yanking her head back, bellowing, “Do you accept Christ and his Alpha as your lord and savior?”
My only answer is a gurgling howl.
Slapping her skull into the concrete, I smash and smash and smash, “ACCEPT HIM! Renounce Satan!”
Nothing.
Disgusted, I drop the sagging bitch, gripping her wrist and bending the arm, twisting it, turning her, until the socket pops.
Dropping the limp arm, her lack of reaction tells me I'm flogging an unconscious whore. Pulling the big old fashioned key, half the size of my hand, out of her, I wipe it clean on my blanket, stomping back into the hallway and bellowing in the mic, “It's your turn now.”
One by one I fling open doors, pumping four bullets into each sinner, the mic on for all of them to know what's coming. Sniveling ungrateful wretches! One bullet per knee, filling the satanarium with suffering wails drenched in spine searing agony, then I pop a slug in the heart, then the head. The screams are pleasing to the lord. He warned of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Wisdom falls on deaf ears.
Running up the next flight, I pant out the next warning, “You must suffer for the obscene, disgusting things you have done. Ezekiel 16:58.”
Slamming metal doors wide, only those who stand at their doorway are not reaped. The Angel of Death passes over them, sparing their lives.
Slapping the door to 29 open, the sight waiting for me is enough to chill my blood. It diffuses my rage to see the distorted body of a fat python. My god! Some of them have turned into snakes! Fear reveals the truth in all its hideous glory.
Satan slithers inside my hallowed home wearing his natural form.
With adrenaline pumping I empty the entire clip into the evil. “God, are you seeing this?”
Fuck!
Stopping long enough to go back upstairs to pop a seed of manna and take a cleansing and life affirming tumbler of whisky, I turn to the screens, staring at the thirteen sinners remaining.
Seven of them stand at their doors, waiting for me. Five of them defy me, they defy God, they spit in the eye of eternal salvation, preferring damnation.
I'm exhausted, feeling a little traumatized by their sheer lack of repentance.
I couldn't be bothered to go down there to put them out of their fucking misery. Their cells are sealed, more than they could ever know. Flicking the switches on for those five cunts, I let the sprinkler system end them for me.
Speaking into the mic, I say, “Suddenly the Lord rained burning sulfur on the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah - Genesis 19:24.”
Sulfuric acid cleans up my mess, melting through skin and bone. This is the process of sanctification of my satanarium. Sulfuric acid will be followed by hydrochloric acid. Then I let the sprinkler system blast water down for forty hours, the floor elevating so fat and gore, bone and limbs, and half eroded torsos can roll out and under. Washing all evidence away. It's usually chunky, but the reservoir beneath the asylum finishes the destruction of evidence for me.
The screams when the acid hits their naked shame amuses me. I hold the mic to the feed from those cells, letting the remaining flock who have chosen God as their savior, who acknowledge his son, the Christ, they will never forget the day God's patience ran out. The day the Angel of Death did his duty.
Staring at the image of 66, 67, and 19 - they are standing. Evan, Jerry, and Andrew. 72 might be alive, we'll see. 3, 9, and 14 remain.
From 72 to 7 in a matter of minutes.
“Those of you who stood up to be counted as one of my flock, God sees you, he acknowledges you. You may return to rest. You will be relocated to the same floor in the morning. We will hold a feast to celebrate your allegiance to the fire that saves.”
Switching the mic off, dropping it on my desk, I sag into my chair, resting my head in the heels of my hands, when the phone bleeps.
Dropping to a kneel, feeling drained and a little dizzy, I answer God's call, “Yes father?”
“And god saw that it was good. Anoki, John. You have made me pleased. Go forth and conquer one more. I will send the cleaners to spruce up your temple.”
“Thank you father!”
I am jubilant!
Kneeling right down, resting my nose on the floor, pulling my wounds in satisfying discomfort, I whisper, “Forgive me Father. James was correct, I was the disciple with too much mercy.”
“I heard your prayers to me in the priest's hole. I am a merciful God, John. I forgive you. Now do as I command. Meet the sinners and find one more to even the score.”
“Yes father, thank you for your blessings, for your love,–”
The line goes dead on me, and I sit up, slumping on the floor, grabbing the Jack Daniel's and spinning the cap, taking hungry slugs.
I am the reaper, and now I am the fisherman.
Heaving myself off the floor, I must
ready to go out. I must wash off the blood.
Staring at the screens, 72 moves.
Victor hurt Shauna way worse. And she turned to him, she was a purified dirty angel. Fuck, I hate surgery. Seth is much better at it than I am.
Sitting down in my leather chair, I pick up the phone, dialing the second son of God. He will fix her up, so I can do it all again.
After securing his assistance, I lean on the button to her cell, “I'm not giving up on you Seventy-two. I will break you a thousand times so you will know what hell feels like. And that will be your eternity. I will open your eyes to the reality of hell. An angel is coming for you, he will resurrect you. In twelve hours you will be back here, and I don't care how raw your sutures are, it is my duty to refill you with the holy spirit.”
Snapping my finger off the button, laughing at her despairing mumble, I get up, ready to seduce a new sinner.
I'm going to wear the clothes that make women lust, the cologne that makes me irresistible to pheromone addicts, and I will masquerade as a sinner, bringing home a new lamb for my flock.
~ Chapter 18 ~
Happy are those whose greatest desire is to do what God requires; God will satisfy them fully!
~ Matthew 5: 6
66: Evan:
Holy fucking Christ!
The screams through that speaker. I can guess who he did that to, I’ve seen the way he looks at her. About a fortnight ago he gathered us for a group shower and there was one babe he couldn't stop ogling. I don’t think she’s one of the ones who lived. I don’t think anyone could live through that beating.
I will not spare you or show you my mercy—so you will know that I am the Lord.
That’s what he said, and so I stood, because I wanted to live. I heard him roaming the halls like a hellhound itching for death.
What did he say after that? You must suffer for the obscene things you have done? What obscene things? I mean sure, I never claimed to be perfect, but I’m not a pervert who gets off on other men raping near dead women. The most perverted sin I ever committed I committed in this hell hole, at his and that other crazy fucker’s order.