by D W Bell
“That is some evil stuff, and brother that’s saying a mouthful for me. It tends to have unpleasant side effects as it leaves the system. Terrible dreams, moral dilemmas, poisonous realizations about past acts, all that sort of thing. Unpleasant stuff for any mind, and doubly so for a soft-hearted fellow like you.” Looking around for somewhere to set his empty glass, Boudreaux shrugged and placed it on John’s encapsulated chest.
With a wink he said, “Someone will see to that. But, as I was saying, being the benevolent being that you know me to be, I’ve ordered enough juice to pacify a pachyderm. You won’t feel or remember a thing until you wake at our destination, fresh as a daisy. We all set, doc?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll take good care of him and prep him for travel.” The nondescript man in scrubs began to busy himself with arranging the needed tools as Boudreaux turned to leave the surgical suite.
“Splendid. I leave you in good hands, John. We will speak again when you dry out, then the real fun begins. Sweet dreams. Goodnight, John-boy” Boudreaux chuckled at his own joke as he stepped through the portal to take his leave.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder after Boudreaux, waiting for the hiss of the suite’s seals reengaging, the doctor stepped close to John and feigned checking and administering the much needed IV. “You still with us, Mr. Smith?” Partly covered eyes fluttered open accompanied by a grunt of assent.
“Good. That’s good. I’ve got some bad news for you. You will not be receiving the prescribed chemicals to sleep through the evil parts of your withdrawals. You will be facing it all stone-cold sober, and, due to the nature of the drugs we use, you will most likely be wide awake for the entire 48 hours of this course of treatment.” The bandaged and incapacitated form shifted in shock, only able to grunt to convey a sort of shocked and confused terror.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. There’s nothing for it I’m afraid. You will understand later, but your next step isn’t to serve Boudreaux. It is to join those of us working against him. Charlie chose to put you on this path and gave his life to do so. Perhaps before he intended because of your girlfriend’s little show, but what’s done is done.”
“You must face your demons and your transgressions and survive or you will be of no use to us. All will be made clear in time, but for now you must suffer for your sins. If you survive these next trials, your new master will carry you forward into the fight to stop this sacrilege once and for all. We can only hope he sees in you what Charlie did and recognizes the opportunity. May God have mercy on your soul.”
“Wait! Wait!” Sputtered from tortured vocal chords, the pleading words from bleeding lips went unheeded as the doctor left the suite and turned out the lights, plunging John into his own private hell.
Entr’acte:
“Here beginneth the lesson.”
Chapter 22
“Sir?” After a quiet knock she hovered in the open portal of the bedchamber like a ghostly erotic dream, the soft light from the outer room caressing her silhouette and revealing the pleasing curves of her body through her alluringly translucent negligee.
“Hmm?” He sighed with only mild perturbance to acknowledge her presence, but the vexation was dispelled as her perfumed scent crept into his nostrils from her position on the precipice. She was already fresh and ready to satisfy should his needs arise again.
Of course, for him it was never truly about need or satiation, it was merely about consumption as a testament to his power. He even favored her with a carnal smile as he carefully set aside the tattered old book he had been reading on the bed and devoured her flesh with his eyes, “What may I do for you, Miss Lily?”
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you would want to see this.” She flitted quickly across the chamber to the media center like some demon-chased gossamer-winged fairy, negligee opening and trailing behind to reveal her naked flesh, but haste and urgency robbed her movements of their usual sensual poetry. The large screen sprang to life and displayed the newscast in progress that she had been monitoring in the other room:
“…more details as they become available, but what we know now, what we think we know now, what the police and on the scene witnesses are telling us, is that a rival gang or some sort of paramilitary group has swept through this primarily minority neighborhood leaving death and destruction in their wake.”
Sitting up in bed, the now genuinely annoyed Boudreaux retrieved the legal pad and pen from his nightstand and began jotting down notes. “Lilith, be a dear and fix us a drink, won’t you?” Sensing his building displeasure, she scurried away to do his bidding.
“We go now live to our man on the scene, Jason Gutierrez. Jason? What’s going on out there?”
“Thanks, Tom. It’s literally like a warzone down here. It’s quiet now, but just hours ago this delightfully ethnic enclave roared with gunfire and explosions as the children of this community innocently slept. You can still see some of the homes and small businesses burning behind me as fire crews and other first responders work valiantly to save the lives and property of these poor people.”
“Jason? Have the authorities made any statements on who may be responsible, or what triggered this tragic event?”
“No, Tom. No official word as yet from police or City Hall, but I can tell you this neighborhood is known as a haven for gang and drug activity, which is a real shame because the residents here are just good, hardworking citizens trying to make a life for themselves and their families. Real salt of the earth people, the backbone and foundation of the Los Angeles economy. The gangs here are a real blight on the community that the police have not been able to contain.”
“So at this time the feeling is that this mass shooting was perpetrated by local gangs?”
“Normally, Tom, that would be the case. You and I have reported sad occurrences of gang violence from these very streets far too often before, but I’ve spoken to a few eyewitnesses, who for their own safety and protection do not wish to be seen on camera, who say the perpetrators, seemingly a large group of men, were not from around here, appearing to be Caucasian, and were dressed in black, tactical, military-style uniforms with hoods and military-grade, high-powered machine guns.”
“Jason, has there been any estimate of the death toll of this terrible massacre?”
“No official numbers yet, Tom, but it certainly is a gruesome scene as early estimates are already predicting hundreds of dead men, women, and children, many murdered in their beds as their loving homes burned down around them. Just looking around, the streets and sidewalks are littered with empty gun clips and bullet parts. Whoever committed this mass shooting did so with indiscriminate military precision leaving only death and destruction in their…”
A touch of the remote muted the yellow journalism as Boudreaux chuckled to himself with amused chagrin, “Indiscriminate military precision.” Lily delivered his drink, her gown still open and revealing all, but she was just an afterthought now, a thing performing its duty, engrossed as he was in the now silent images on the screen. With an annoyed sigh he sipped his drink and muttered to himself; lost in thought. “Tut-tut, Reverend. Sloppy. Sloppy and cheap!”
“May I get you anything else, sir?” She hovered pensively at his bedside, practically standing at attention in her near nudity, forgotten but ready to serve.
Her voice snapped him back to this world from the void, and his eyes were coal black as they met with hers before flashing back to a more lifelike light, “I believe that will be all for the evening, thank you, my dear, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to have a bit of a come to Jesus meeting with our dear friend, the reverend.”
“It appears the old codger has wandered off the reservation.” He was always extra polite and playful when something terrible was about to go down. “Please schedule a meeting with the directors and facilitators in the morning. Have them put together a platoon-strength pool of operators for a special project of mine. No Redshirts, I want all top-tier assets.” Nodding sharply, Lily
turned to do his bidding, but was frozen in place as his voice reached out like an evil claw snatching at the hem of her negligee. “Oh, and Lilith?”
“Yes, sir?” Held in the venomous old serpent’s hypnotic sway she awaited his command.
“Tell the boys to bias asset selection for a mix of racial ethnicity and religious background to the exclusion of white Christians. A little affirmative action never hurt anyone, I suppose. If we don’t have enough in the stables they can backfill with the white trash, but only if we are in danger of deploying under strength. I want the United Colors of Benetton feel on this one. Now scoot.” With a playful slap to the ass, he sent her on her way to perform his commands, and with a smug smile he returned to his old, dusty book.
Chapter 23
It had been glorious. Truly a glory to God; Old Testament retribution to make sinners yearn for the New Testament love they should have never forsaken. A reminder that He is wrathful, in His mercy. Wrathful in His dealings with those who mercilessly persecute and corrupt His people.
The pastor had been literally ecstatic all evening as he waited for situation reports to come in from his unit commanders, his Knights of the Cross, feeling truly close to God for the first time since his childhood as he reveled in his role as the Lord’s vessel of divine justice. Striking the first blow for Jesus in the long-awaited war for the world.
He took it as a providential blessing that his congregation bestowed appellation of The White Lion of the Lord, inspired as it was by his immaculate, mane-like coif of silvered hair and authoritative, roaring sermons, seemed all the more fitting now as a nom de guerre. It was infinitely more appropriate than a codename based on that probably pagan Crassus as suggested by Boudreaux. It just goes to show if one wants things done right, one must do them himself.
It was a war that would still be churning long after he was dead, as had been foretold by Boudreaux, but the pastor was pleased to play his part, and had even foregone his usual bacon, eggs, and biscuits for a lighter breakfast of fresh fruit, cottage cheese, and wholegrain toast to celebrate the recent victory, an initial gesture towards his personal pledge to become and remain fighting fit to perform his duty to the Lord for as long as he was blessed with His charge.
The meal was bleak and unsatisfying, but such was the cost of war he told himself. As was retrofitting his palatial country retreat to accommodate, train, and hide his army of modern crusaders, but he mused the lion did feel secure surrounded by his newfound pride.
“Reverend?” A forkful of cottage cheese splatted to his plate as a suddenly palsied hand lost control of the utensil with a muted clatter. She had suddenly materialized in the entrance to his breakfast nook, stepped casually but efficiently to the perfectly precise spot to present herself, and favored him with a courteous, businesslike smile. They made quite a pair gazing at one another across the breakfast table; she in a tasteful but sexy blouse and perfectly pressed skirt, he in a rumpled robe and worn novelty slippers depicting the stigmata.
Mouth suddenly dry with panic and surprise he barely managed to croak past the half-eaten curds in his teeth, “Lilith?!”
“Mr. Boudreaux will see you now. If you would be so kind as to follow me.” She about-faced with parade ground precision and began to leave the room. Such was the power of her suggestion that he had no choice but to rise, despite his dread, and follow. The king of the jungle being led by the nose, within the sanctity and security of his own lair, probably to slaughter.
―
Boudreaux sat with his finely shod hooves propped up next to an errant clove cigarette, smoldering precariously on the ledge of the desk, and casually pored over some document or other, sipping intently at the whiskey resting in his free hand. Just another day at the office. The two that entered stood quietly so as not to disturb him.
They stood, deliberately ignored, until it became uncomfortable. The reverend’s back stiffened in fear at the sudden creak of his desk chair as Boudreaux sat upright, perhaps making to rise and address them. But the fiendishly enigmatic man only reached to take a drag from his aromatic smoke and return it to its perilous position hanging off the edge of oblivion before returning his feet to their position disgracing and desecrating the preacher’s desk. Boudreaux steepled his fingers across his midsection and gazed at the ceiling, blatantly oblivious to the lesser beings in the room.
Lilith gave a soft, polite ahem to catch her employer’s attention, “Mr. Boudreaux. Please allow me to present your nine o’clock. The Reverend. Crassus.” The neck stretched languidly until the black, dead eyes captured the pastor in their hypnotic gaze, the rest of the body uncoiled as it rose from reclined rest into upright sitting. The old serpent was most horrifying in his stillness, sinisterly statuesque, with the trepidation of his impending strike and strangle filling the room.
“Reverend, you’ve been a very naughty boy. Sit.” With a gesture Boudreaux directed the ridiculously robed old man to shuffle over and seat himself in one of the tiny, uncomfortable chairs that the man of God had chosen specifically to exert dominance over his underlings. In a frigid, sepulchral tone Boudreaux dispensed the niceties, “May I offer you a drink?”
Still enthralled, the decrepit old evangelist plummeted into the hard-backed chair as his knees gave out. After a dry, cottage-cheese mouthed grunt as his bottom hit the uncomfortable seat he managed to croak, “I’m… “
“Of course you are, old sport!” Boudreaux’s eyes were all laughter and warm sparkle now, but his mock smile was only wide enough to hide his fangs. “Lilith, pour our dear reverend a slug of whiskey to calm his nerves. I believe what he prefers is perched on that bar cart over there. And another for me, dear, if you will.” Both men stared at each other in uncomfortable quiet as they awaited the ritual libations, but truly only the minister was discomfited by the tension as Boudreaux hummed happily to himself.
Lilith set the drinks on the desk, both in front of Boudreaux, and bent shotgun-style over his shoulder favoring the reverend with full view of her naked breasts barely contained within the half-buttoned blouse, giving it to him with both barrels. “Will there be anything else?” The carnal promise in her sultry voice struck the old man like a full load of double-aught buck, but he forced himself to look away from the red-haired temptress as Boudreaux chuckled at his flaccid desire.
“Play nice, Lilith. You’ll give the old coot a heart attack.” With a nod Boudreaux directed the seductress to place the proffered glass of spirits in front of the reverend. “That will be all. Leave us.”
“Yes, sir.” All business once again, she smoothed an errant lock of hair that had fallen bewitchingly across her face while she had performed her duties and exited the office, quietly closing the doors behind her.
His mesmerized stupor broken by the subdued click of his own office door latch, securing his own office door, now his own prison, the visibly shaking reverend downed his whiskey in one and addressed the man seated at his desk in halting, tremulous tones, “Are you going to kill me, Boudreaux?”
“Nonsense, my dear reverend!” The exuberance in his voice bordered on the maniacal, “Kill you? Don’t be ridiculous!” Boudreaux smiled his devil’s smile and sipped his drink, “Is that what’s got you so jumpy? Bad form, pastor. Ours is merely a professional disagreement, which I am here to remedy in good faith.”
“In good faith?” Even the still fearful pastor was taken aback by Boudreaux’s choice of words, snorting incredulously. Shaking his head in bewilderment and disbelief, he hoisted the now empty glass to his lips, and, feeling foolish and feebleminded, looked longingly at the bar cart to steel himself for the guessed at unknown that was to come. Trying but failing to affect a resigned but unafraid smirk, the doomed pastor gestured towards the cart to recharge his spent tumbler, “May I?”
“Where are my manners, of course! Please, help yourself. Far be it from me to deny a man comfort in his own home.” Boudreaux beamed his cryptic smile at the shambling old fool and waited for him to resume his emasculated posit
ion, relishing the start he elicits from the frightened man by quickly reaching into his breast pocket, as if for a gun, and producing a golden case, “Cigarette?”
The startled reverend waved off the offer, gulped half of the bucket of bourbon he had just poured himself for courage, and tried to muster some phony toughness like the cinema cowboys of his youth, but his tear-shining eyes belied his ill-fitting machismo, “I suppose you have my blindfold for the firing squad in there as well?”
The pastor nearly sloshed the remainder of the liquor all over his robe as he jolted with a panicked sob when Boudreaux slammed his palm onto the desk surface and roared, “Snap out of it!” He gave the whimpering man, now clutching the tumbler with both hands, a moment to recover before switching to his most condescendingly reassuring tone.
“You disappoint me, reverend. You of all people should understand I am a man of my word. As I alluded, I find killing one such as you a menial chore and frankly beneath me. So you are safe, sir. For the nonce.” Boudreaux gave the reverend an exaggerated wink with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Now, tell me about this cute little troupe of wannabe cub scouts you’re den mothering.” His jovial tone instantly evaporated in an intense heat-flash of hellish rage, leaving only a chilling, ghastly, deadpan voice creeping up from the abyss, “What… in the unholy fuck… were you thinking, my dear, dear reverend.”
He had plucked the cigarette from its cliff’s edge, inhaled it to the filter, and forcefully tamped out the cherry against the reverend’s leather-clad desk in time with his words, flicking the burnt-out butt into the wastebasket without ever taking his penetrating gaze from the pastor.
Sheepishly, as a man condemned, the reverend told the God’s honest truth. He had set out to find good, strong, Christian men, and, within various supremacist groups, white nationalist organizations, and Creator church congregations, he had found them in spades. Some of the redneck militia-types even had paramilitary training. The reverend’s crusade spoke to their very souls, modern day knighthoods bestowed by the White Lion of God, tasked with purging the blight from their once great nation, soon to be great again.