by Poppet
I no longer trust my eyes, I don’t trust my intel, I don’t trust anything but my instinct and gut.
He is here.
I know he is.
He’s hidden in these walls, in this lair, in this satanarium for the demonically repugnant. As surely as my sentience was defiled by his zealous obsession with scripture, he is here. I know because I can sense him through walls.
I grew up surrounded by the tumultuous chaos of insanity and terror, and it made me paranoid. He had me listening for his footfalls, sensing the movement of air, a change in scent on the breeze, anything to warn me that HE approaches.
I’d fall to my knees, lambasting my nubile skin, sweating with pain, mumbling scriptures which showed how repentant and pure I was so he wouldn’t have a new reason to beat me until my eyes bloomed shut and my muscles couldn’t move without seizing in agony.
I love you father, that’s why I must liberate you from your own prison. You locked me up in the dungeon of your depraved mind. I will never be free until I have judged you as you have judged others.
You will never be free until you pay for your sins.
We will never know redemption until the scales of justice are once again balanced.
You had me murdered, and ironically I want to say ‘by the grace of God I lived’, but the only god I know has no grace, mercy, or pity. All he knows is wrath, hellfire and sulphur, Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot fucking his daughters, Eve taking the blame for everything Adam did – for what HE did … and the punishments of a million men marched for his pleasure through cesspits of snakes and fed manna for sustenance.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. I guess that means it’s time for you to die, Daddy. But first I have a score to settle.
You broke me, you broke the only thing I ever loved, and now it’s my turn! Now I am God. The scripture says the son of God is god, so I reckon it’s time to see what it feels like to hold the sceptre of divinity.
Twisting to my right, glancing at the army with me who grow more vast as they complete their sweeps of the upper levels, I indicate for Jude to move to my left, Bradley to my right.
My men are the ones to sanctify this sheol, not any of the others. For some reason it gives me immense pleasure to know I am wholly responsible for the carnage here today.
Closing my eyes, calming the wildfire quickening my heart-rate, I find the eye of the storm, and listen, feeling, sensing, as I did as a young boy. It’s supernatural. It’s so easy to identify each person, and where they stand, with my senses alone. Each man has a unique scent, and an energy imprint. It’s this energy which is the alchemical thread between father and son. It’s so cold it freezes the moisture in my eyes, wicking blood to my tear ducts. I sense him.
Fear is a great teacher. It’s the one passion we experience which keeps us alive. It gives us adrenaline and cortisol, it renders us victim to the reptilian brain where we fight to the death and fuck for survival. It’s the animal in me, and no god – no matter how mighty – can separate the beast within, surrounded and embedded within the intelligence of the main brain.
It’s the seed within us all that blossoms like napalm under threat of death. We’re all vipers. We all have a reptilian brain. Which is why none of us can be truly saved in any other way than through death.
When my father is near I am always under that guillotine.
Stilling the runaway voice narrating my pathetic life within the recesses of my mind, I lock on and start running toward his haven. The safety is off and I have the stun grenade pin in my mouth. I’m ready to assault this motherfucker in ways that will shame the proverbial devil.
Isn’t life always a contradiction of perceptions? Lucifer was the first angel, the mightiest, and God’s favourite son. He’s the bringer of light and illumination. That would make me the Devil, always. I am the first, the favourite, the mightiest, and he demonized me as surely as he demonized Lilith and Eve.
Today he will face me for his failures, and pay for every last one of them.
Thrusting the iron door wide I see him sitting at the desk, pretending to be in control, as if everything is fine and I’m here to give him the good news that I am resurrected from death and here to save mankind for its endless stream of blasphemy and revulsive perversions. This god’s mankind fuck animals, torture for fun, rape women and commit genocide on presidential order. Hallefuckinlujah.
“Father,” I smile, immeasurably pleased that he has Peter (John) hiding in here with him.
I knew I’d find them on this final level, as deep as he could go to cower away from retribution. What surprises me is that he has no gun in his hand. For once I have caught this prick unprepared.
“Victor,” he states, as if my arrival was foretold by the oracle of Delphi two thousand years ago.
Laughing maniacally, I suppose it was. Jesus, this is a story we all know so well we can recite it backwards in Hebrew.
I have no patience and no mercy left. I’m not here to debate with the clinically insane. I shoot, once in each foot, once in each hand, and one knee just for good measure.
My father drops from his chair, howling, and for some bizarre reason I can’t stop laughing. This is my moment and it’s horrendously anticlimactic.
Peter-John has pulled his nine-mil and Taser, but Jude does the same to him as if I issued a commandment with my hollow-points impaling my pater. As I stare, John has a hole in each hand and each foot, and I collapse with hysterical mirth.
HOLY FUCK! This is so perfectly biblical that the only thing we’re missing is the sermon on the mount and a few crucifixes and nails for those holes. Somehow when evil men scream in agony, the agony in me dissipates.
With omniscience I absorb the room around me, mapping dimensions, seeking exits, gauging how easy we are to corner or attack. This is the fortress, from here there is no escape or these two fuckwits wouldn’t have been caught in our crosshairs.
There are conversations to be had between a son and his father, so I calm my giggles and wipe the tears by moving my goggles, waving my backup to the door. “My gratitude, gentlemen. Please be so kind as to wait outside the door. If anyone comes anywhere near here, shoot them. Me and Jude have to have a few choice words with Daddy and his darling here.”
It takes them minutes, which I don’t waste. Indicating for Jude to secure John, I head to Daddy. They are both wounded with shattered bones in hands and feet, but that means nothing to me. They are to be considered armed and dangerous until dead.
I love calling him Daddy, because it pisses him off so much he would cut out my tongue for it if he could.
I have planned this day for so many years, lying awake with months of insomnia, that now that it is here I have a calm which should terrify the sane. He’s not sane, so he can’t see penance when it stares him in the eye. Unlike the women I’ve cut up in His name, I will not silence him for this. Let every last one of my men witness the fall of the abomination, the awful horror sitting in the holy place. They may not see it, but they will hear it.
“Anoki Daddy,” I smirk, stalking him prone on the floor, bleeding. Let him bleed, maybe it will let him of his pious lunacy.
He grunts, his eyes wild and flat with revenge. He’s thinking of all the ways he’s going to teach me to respect him. The penny still hasn’t dropped.
How is this my father? This pathetic excuse for a human?
I’m not going to taunt and waste breath on deaf ears. He only hears his side, his version. He’s the victim or martyr, the rest of us are just collateral damage. He twists it, making us the doers of wrong, the ones who MADE him discipline us, we MADE him hurt us, we MADE him teach us the error of our ways, we HURT him when we disobeyed, blah blah go fuck yourself.
With deft efficiency I have him stripped and tied to the table with my abseiling rope. This shit doesn’t break for nothing. I debated using ribbon, but he doesn’t deserve the gentle softness I reserved for my fallen angels. This is not a fallen ange
l, I AM, nay, this is a fallen god. It doesn’t get uglier than this, right here, right now.
“Daddy,” I giggle, moving to the chair he fell off, arrogantly withdrawing the soldering iron from my satchel. “You, father, have taught me in all my ways, both good and evil. I am here, now, to show you how much I love you. I am here to sanctify you with my infinite love and mercy.”
I’m fucking with him, and can’t stop the ridiculous giggles. Did they put happy gas in the air-con down here? Choking myself laughing, I ignite the gas on the soldering iron.
It’s so useful that mankind created tiny pen-sized gas soldering irons. The angel of vengeance within my heart relishes this new tool in my arsenal. Alpha is covered in tattoos. I’m about to make them permanent in more ways than one.
“You claimed to be God. You claimed that like the god in the black tome you have written our names on your skin, so we are counted among the living and not the dead. Your skin is the book of the living. I’d hate for you to forget about me considering you had my brother put to death, my mother put to death, and had Peter here plant a bullet in each of my lungs, then for good measure you had James do it from a distance because he’s our best sniper, and you tried to get me to believe Peter did it. You then raped my wife after giving her to my brother. So lest you forget …” and I take the torch to the first tattoo on his back.
The pinprick of blue flame blisters skin immediately, the smell familiar to me, and my father’s scream is a bellow of hoarse suffering. “Show me how mighty you are, Father! Show me you are god! Prove to me that you are almighty! Undo these binds and save yourself! Everyone will be purified by fire as a sacrifice is purified by salt.” Mark 9:49.
Smiling wide I glance up from my task, taking my leisurely time with it, to look Peter in the eye. “Watch closely cupcake, you’re next.” Jude gets the giggles with me when I double over gusting laughter when Peter- John pisses himself. I’m just screwing with him. I have a much nastier plan for him to carry out.
It will give me the kind of justice for Shauna that I can’t get myself. When we’re done he will pray for death, and the angel of Vengeance will surely deliver that wish to him in due time
“Cursed is he who dishonours his father!” hollers Daddy.
Deuteronomy is one of his favourite books in the scriptures. I know the passage because he’s used it on me a thousand times.
Adopting a saintly expression, drawing on my father’s tattoos with a gas flame, I say sweetly, “You must suffer for the obscene, disgusting things you have done.” Ezekiel 16:58. This is going to be one long night if we’re going to now duel with gospel.
I keep on blistering skin, watching it mushroom and split, the flesh raw and ruddy, oozing pus and fluid. His corporeal form weeps for his wrongdoings. How appropriate and familiar this is. I have done this to so many women, but now it’s time for the first evil to be purified of his diabolical ways.
A martyr once chastised: You are the children of your father the devil, and you want to follow your father’s desires. From the very beginning he was a murderer John 8:44. You snakes and children of snakes! How do you expect to escape from being condemned to hell? And so I tell you that I will send you prophets and wise men and teachers; you will kill some of them, crucify others, and whip others in the synagogues and chase them from town to town. As a result, the punishment for the murder of all innocent people will fall on you. Matthew 23.
My father, the snake, I simply followed him in his erroneous ways. Now I can see, and the truth is that we are the sinners. He is like the murderer in the beginning. Our suffering began with him and it’s going to end with him. I’m ending this, today. His hands are fucked. I’ve made damned sure he’ll never punch another person, or perform surgery.
“A son must obey his father! Stop this right now! Respect your father and mother is the first commandment –” warbles in torment and suffering.
Blah blah fucking blah. In a bored tone I rebuke, “And ye fathers, do not provoke your children to anger …” I complete the quote from Ephesians 6:4. Amazing how he always omits that part of the scripture.
He’s got the shakes now, shuddering with shock, but his jaw clenches with the kind of resolve I itch to shatter. I hold the flame in one spot for it to cook him alive, to provoke a reaction, to remind him that for once in my life he is not in control, just to coerce him to the edge of that resilient pride. “Show me father. PROVE TO ME that you are god! I need you to prove it!”
He shouts in garbled agony, “You live! That’s your proof!”
“The only hell I’ve ever known is YOU. A skilled doctor kept me alive, you thick asshole! I never died! You tried to murder me! Where’s the fucking love in that!?”
“It’s mercy! How dare you harm your father? How dare you curse your god!”
“I am cut from your cloth, I am doing my duty as the angel of Vengeance!” I bellow, taking the flame to his already mutilated palm. When it hits the open wound, he slumps a little more, quaking so much I am sure he is having a revelation and about to begin talking in tongues.
The whole damn sham is just a door for possession. A logical mind doesn’t see talking in tongues as miraculous, no, it’s a billboard to get the fuck out of dodge because the residing spirit has evacuated the basement. When you open up to receive the Holy Spirit, how do you know the right spirit walked in? People are retarded. What part of 10% of the fallen angels remained here as disembodied spirits do they not understand? Book of Jubilees. They do things they don’t comprehend and call it holy. Fuckwits, the whole lot of them. This is a cult, and there’s no good in it when your god commands murder and sacrifice, your newborns or tithing.
His skin is bathed in sweat, glistening his ripped physique. What the fuck is he taking to be so cut? He has secrets, this old man. He never ages. He never deteriorates. It’s a little creepy how good ole dad seems to get stronger with age, not weaker.
I’m staring at the strength on display, smeared with black ink, and now blisters erupting with puss and blood. His skin is inflamed, and though my father hollers and screams, he’s not breaking.
It seems pain is a familiar friend to my father, just as he made sure that pain kept me company when I lay broken in bed as a child, listening to mother’s screams for help. Except he robbed me of that intel. Apparently she was raising me as a heathen, and that meant she got the blunt end of his fists as regularly as sunset.
I’m getting bored. This isn’t half as satisfying as I needed it to be. I’m the goddamn angel of vengeance and I can’t break a god. That would make me a half baked angel. Today I earn these wings fair and square. Time to step up the game.
With coarse disregard for suffering I rub the finely powdered salt into his hands, then into his roided back disfigured with the love and cleansing of fire. “I purify you with salt, as per the covenant you commanded.”
Daddy screams in excruciating hardship. Isn’t it amusing how the mighty can dish out retribution, yet are so wholly unprepared for it when the tables are turned.
I rush through the branding of his tattoos on his back and legs with fire, muttering, “I am cleansing you with the spirit of judgment and the spirit of burning.” Isaiah 4:4. “Each man’s work will become evident because it is to be revealed with fire, and the work will be tested with fire.” 1 Corinthians 3:13.
My father robs me of every satisfaction. I have never measured up, been good enough, or congratulated on doing a good job. There are no accolades or praise for me. Why the fuck am I even still trying to get some kind of response from him? Even in suffering he will deny me. His name should’ve been Peter.
His bowels have loosened. This is one of the reasons I stripped him.
It’s time. I need this man to break. For me. For Seth. For Evelyn. For all of us. I gesture for Jude to bring Peter over. This is going to piss Alpha off. It’s going to humiliate him. I will exact my vengeance.
Jude physically pulls PJ to a stand, who has watched this all unfold with big eyes and a fair amount
of jaw chattering. He’s got bloodied lips from his own gnawing. Pathetic.
“Pull down his jeans,” I order Jude.
Jude arches an eyebrow at me, questioning my sanity.
“Just do it,” I command through clenched teeth. I’m not going to enjoy this, but I have to do this for what he did to Shauna and Polina. It’s vengeance, which is just the biblical term for revenge. I am the angel of revenge and my appetite for destruction must be sated.
Peter has his jeans around his ankles, and I yank him from my wingman. “Jude, you can look away if you need to. I won’t judge you for that.” I give him a friendly wink, then position Peter behind my father who is still secured to the table. He’s as spread as any good whore, and now it’s time for the last thing I had in my playbook to break good old dad.
Holding the blowtorch soldering iron to Peter-John’s ear, I hiss, “Do him, and do him like he’s a dirty angel. If dirty angels have to suffer, then so do foul gods.”
Well that gets Alpha’s attention, now he’s struggling against the binds and yelling up a curse-storm of expletives.
Ignoring the patriarch, I tell Peter (John), “Stroke it, son, and think of raping someone sweet and tender. Get wood, or I’ll sever it right off your body with this flame.”
It’s painful to watch. Pete is stroking his dick like it’s got venom in it, with a hand quivering so bad that it’s juddering around like a dildo with dying batteries. It’s like watching seizures of the phallus.
After what feels like an eternity the traitor who intended to plant bullets in me finally has a stonker. “Bury it deep, swiftly now. And tell him you love him, you little cunt. You love my father, don’t you Peter?” He nods. “Show him how much you love him, Pete. Love him like a dirty angel. Love him with your divine seed, so the two of you become one flesh. Become one with your god, arsehole.”
Jude’s stayed to watch and he lifts his hands together, one holding the whip my father had hidden under the desk, the other his Glock. Under threat of death Peter edges the tip of his weeping cock closer to the stench of my father’s bowel accident. There’s plenty of lube there, as unpleasant as it is.