Murderland

by Garrett Cook

  I was eager to get out that room, that’s for sure. The experience of my stepmother unburdening her soul as the monsters were ready to fill her with their young was too much to take. The pills said she needed to take two of one type and ten of another. I exchange the labels and bring them down. She’s too drunk to figure that the pills she takes ten of are the wrong size, and she takes more than ten of them. Much more by the time I’ve dropped a couple into the bottle of vodka she’s swigging. I sneak upstairs into my room, and it’s lucky that Ted sleeps like a rock, because otherwise he would hear me cry.

  “Good job,” the voice tells me, “you’ve passed your test. I understand that it feels bad. I understand that you don’t want to experience this. Killing feels awful, so I can help you with that. I need your body, but I can make sure you won’t feel like this again. Do you want that, Jeremy?”

  Yes, I tell it. I’m writing this now, because tomorrow things will be too chaotic for me to observe what’s happened. I did at least give her some joy and some consolation in her last moments. I don’t think I could bare killing unless I felt good about my work. I want to be a healer. If I’m a healer, it won’t hurt so much to kill. At least the voice is there to help. I hope it keeps its promise.

  A Visit with the Pastor

  I cannot sleep. The thing I think is sleep is not sleep. I cannot sleep atop the mountain. I have wandered through the wastes, lightning shocked, full of broken toys and I have dodged the stampede of snakes. They are not dreamsnakes. They are snakes. Too long I have been denying that my legs feel themselves climbing the mountain and are starting to ache from climbing it every night. I am prepared to see Lud up here, but he is gone.

  “I am going to get rid of you, Jeremy. You’re too scattered. You forget the mission.” The Voice comes out of nowhere and I know it well. I never dreamed it could follow me here. It manifests as a slithering blob of typewritten letters. It lunges at me, rearing up to its full height that dwarfs my own.

  I am ready to panic, ready to let it eat me because it knows best, but I feel protected all of a sudden. The Mr.400 shades are on my face. The fake teeth are in my mouth. The shirt is on me. Soulmuscles ripple. I rear up to my full height and I feel gigantic. I lay into it with my fists and blood and ink stain them. The inkthing backs off, starting to smear.

  The letters reassemble into one gigantic sentence to the best of the wounded monster’s ability.

  “YOU NEED ME, JEREMY!”

  I cut myself on the sharp corner of the “y”. The hard nothing in the center of the O is almost impenetrable. It is not whitespace or emptiness inside it. There is bone at the center of an O. I lose the size the glasses and fangs have granted me and my body looks tiny and humble. I come at it again, hard as can be. It doesn’t even feel the need to wiggle around anymore. It knows I’m too small, it knows I cannot break through the center of the O.

  Strategies change. The Mr.400 shirt shifts its ink. The shirt now reads “Don’t be afraid.” My fist shreds through the middle of the O and there is blood behind it. I keep on reaching, knowing this must be where it keeps its heart.

  “Squeeze the blood out!” the shirt instructs me in black marker.

  I oblige it. I feel the meat in my hand, ready to be crushed beneath me.

  And my eyes open. My hands are covered in blood and ink. I have not been dreaming. I would let this bother me, but I know who my friends are, so I feel okay. It is five thirty PM. I have been fighting all night and most of the day and Cass is at home, watching TV.

  When I first see it on the TV, it doesn’t make sense to me. It makes sense to Mr. 400. It makes no sense to the Voice. Of all the people that I’d think would be interested in my actions, I’m particularly surprised to hear Pastor Tommy Simmons of the Christian Victim’s Front speaking up on my behalf. As annoying and ignorant as psychopomps and Reap activists can be, their conservative counterparts always manage to be a little more annoying, brainwashing some people, estranging some people and leaving everybody else certain that they don’t want to hear what they have to say. Tommy Simmons is the embodiment of this. Falwell and Robertson spoke out when Jack was on trial, but Falwell and Robertson, didn’t have one edge that Simmons did. Falwell and Robertson hadn’t lost a daughter to the actions of Godless Jack. Simmons’ condemnation of Reap culture and call for new crusades for censorship fell only on deaf ears or those of Right Wing crackpots at first, but with all the psychopomps and all the killing, the Christian Victim’s Front occasionally gets listened to in Washington. Not when they’re asking for Safe Zone regulations to get repealed or things like that, but when they want a new album or videogame or movie deemed obscene. Washington knows that Reap is a force of nature, but they also know that whiny conservatives are one that can be just as strong.

  In spite of my status as possibly the killingest psychopomp in history, Tommy Simmons is speaking up on my behalf on the news. I’m fairly certain I should be mad about this because everything Tommy Simmons sides with, the people who I am trying to reach, the people who I am trying to civilize, will disagree with and despise. I almost think this is some kind of Right Wing stunt to reduce my popularity. Sounds paranoid, but it doesn’t sound far fetched.

  “This Mr.400 figure is a refreshing change from all those lunatics out there. Finally, we the victims and the seeker of justice have our own avenger, somebody who might be able to represent our perspectives and help rid the world of all of these dangerous, hateful individuals out there,” Simmons begins, “and that, that’s a good thing. That’s one of the best things that have happened to society for some time.”

  A rail thin black woman with a long face wearing a hideously conservative pants suit laughs. “Pastor Simmons, you can’t be serious! You’re basically telling America that it is your honest belief that two wrongs make a right. Don’t you think that calling Mr.400 a positive force for change tells people that killing is okay, as long as it’s for what YOU believe? This self-righteous vigilante…”

  “Is the only hope we have for change in this Reap dominated culture? My only regret is that it took him so long to come out, that he had to wait for things to be such a mess to surface!”

  The angry thin black woman shakes her head in mocking disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I especially can’t believe that I’m hearing this from a member of the clergy. What kind of a message does it send to people that the clergy condones violence by serial killers against serial killers? This is just another arrogant, close-minded moral crusade. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised!”

  “Close-minded moral crusade! How dare you accuse me of…”

  Cass comes home and sits down on the bed, immediately interested. An obnoxious Reap analyst is arguing with a conservative religious wacko. You’d have to pay her not to watch this. Her eyes look wide as dinner plates, like they want to crawl of their sockets to get closer to the circus on the TV. This expression is alarmingly common, but on this occasion, I think mine want to do the same.

  “Mr.400 is a monster! He turns Reap and the moral majority alike against themselves!” says the enraged Reap pundit, “He is a sickness that could infect us all with its confused perceptions of right and wrong, a sickness that could…”

  “They’re talking about us!” Cass squeals with delight, “I can never get over that!”

  “Miss, I don’t think you should talk to me about sickness and moral confusion from your position,” Simmons argues calmly, folding his hands. It makes me sort of like him. He makes her look incredibly stupid. The fuming pundit can’t even come up with something to say other than huffing and monosyllables that are squelched before they turn into words.

  “Shit,” says Cass, “I wish you hadn’t quit your job. We could have Tivo’ed all of this stuff.”

  I shrug. “Seeing it once is enough for me.”

  The pundit gets her bearings and tries to launch head on into an argument. “If you’re concerned with victim’s rights, what about the families of the four hundred people this man�
��s killed, huh? Are you going to support one murderer when you think all the rest are going to hell? I think that’s a little hypocritical of you, don’t you?”

  I begin to eagerly await each of his responses, which is odd because before this broadcast I would change the channel or leave the room every time I saw the man’s fat, arrogant face. But it doesn’t seem like such a transgression for him to have a fat, arrogant face. It might be because I have the fat, arrogant face of Walter Hausmann to compare it with. Compared to the fat, arrogant face Walter Hausmann wears the fat arrogance on his is charming and even useful. Especially compared to the nervous, thin, angry face of the woman who is yelling at him, trying idly to stifle his counter moves. He is patient. He waits for her to wait for him. I can see how he got to be the leader that he is. Dammit, I’m admiring this man. I shouldn’t be admiring anybody like him. Especially when he admires me, and quite likely for the wrong reason.

  “Well?” she asks petulantly.

  “I’m just getting over the fact that you try to talk to me about sickness and then you try to talk to me about hypocrisy. Pardon my taking my time, but I’m trying to find a more polite response than to simply laugh at you. That would be positively rude and I am not a rude man. I will simply say that Mr.400 is welcome to come see me at Tommy Simmons Ministries and discuss his ideology and how he intends to change the world for the better. I consider this man a kindred spirit, perhaps his methods are questionable, but his intent is quite admirable. Mr.400, you’re welcome to give me a call and arrange an appointment.”

  Cass giggles into her hands. She looks like we’re about to go and prank call a chemistry teacher from high school. “We’ve got to call this guy.”

  I must admit that there is in fact something about calling Pastor Tommy Simmons that makes me want to giggle into my hands. Yet, there’s something else that makes it look like a fantastic idea. This man has chosen to be the voice of the victim, and whether he drives me nuts or not, it is a voice that needs to be heard. He seems coherent and he seems rational, at least in regards to the Mr.400 issue. So, talking to him might not hurt. It might be a chance to get the moral minority on my side, maybe get some kind of support or funding for my activities. The church could legitimize me more than anything, in spite of the antagonism it might get from some of the Reapkids that I may want to enlist to my cause. It feels to me more than a lark after I think it over.

  So, I call him. An upbeat young lady with a Southern accent answers the phone. “Hello. Tommy Simmons Ministries. What can I do for you today?”

  “This is Mr.400.”

  The girl’s voice gets far less upbeat when I tell her. “You’re about the seventh Mr.400 I’ve gotten today.”

  “I can assure you. This is the real one. Pencil me in for an appointment today. If I’m not the real one, I won’t show up. If I am, I will. It only stands to reason.”

  “Can’t argue with that kind of reasoning,” the secretary replies, “I’ll see you at seven if you’re the real thing.”

  “Then you’ll see me at seven.”

  “Good day and God bless.”

  I’m anxious for the next hour. Cass got home at five, so it’s not long before the seven o’ clock appointment. I’m pretty certain she in fact didn’t write me in and that I’ll be coming as a surprise. Well, if I have to come as a surprise, it will be even more effective. I’m used to coming as a surprise after all. I sure as Hell came as a surprise to all of the angry Reap pundits and all of those kids at le Couteau. Six forty rolls round and I head to Tommy Simmons Ministries.

  The look on the secretary’s face is priceless. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Yes, in fact you can. I’m Mr.400 here for my seven o’ clock.”

  “Mister what?”

  I point down at my shirt. She gets the gist quite quickly. “One moment, please.”

  She dashes down the hall until she reaches Simmons’ office door, which she pounds on with all of her might.

  “Pastor Simmons, Pastor Simmons!” she screams.

  His door opens and she’s invited in. I hear nothing after that. I don’t have to wait very long for the secretary to return. She tries hard to look composed, but she doesn’t manage it, not even remotely.

  “Pastor Simmons is ready to see you now,” she says.

  “Good,” I reply, “after all, I did make the appointment.” Mr.400 adds something for dramatic effect:

  “And nobody keeps the lightning from god waiting.”

  She has nothing to say. I feel somewhat jittery about meeting the Pastor, but the secretary’s discomfort eases it. It’s always good to see somebody in a more uncomfortable situation than you are in. If it weren’t for that secretary I would not be able to walk into Pastor Simmons’ office and sit down. The crucifixes everywhere, the inspirational calendars, the thank you cards from the children of Reap victims and the combination of Hallmark and Inquisition Christianity in the décor are enough to make anybody flee in terror, but the horrified secretary makes it easy to claim my seat. I wait for Simmons to extend his hand before I introduce myself.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.400,” he says, offering a firm handshake, “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Pastor Simmons,” I reply, “I was very impressed by your display of courage on BLD Reap news. I had to come down immediately. It thrills me that I have any defenders in the press.”

  “I assure you, Mr.400, your crusade does not go unappreciated, especially by good, God fearing Americans.”

  I was pretty damn certain that my crusade would be alienating good, God-fearing Americans. I guess the conservatives have to make more allowances in an America where killing is perfectly legal. Tommy Simmons has been a bundle of surprises today, which is a pity because I was hoping to be the bundle of surprises. The secretary was shocked to see me, but he seems as cool and collected as he was on the talk show.

  “I’m glad that at least some people think I’m doing the right thing, as difficult as it might be. It took awhile for me to come to terms with the fact that this was the right thing. It seemed like such an awful thing to need to do. As awful as the thing I was doing before, I suppose.”

  Pastor Simmons forces a smile. “Killing is not always killing. Some people are already as good as dead, already in the hands of the Devil. God does not always take his own vengeance, so we need to do it for him. I couldn’t bring myself to kill them, but I think it might just wash the blood from your hands. We are in the midst of a holy war, Mr.400, and if we do not fight it, then the infidels will win. Makes me sound like one of those Islamic fundamentalists we used to worry about so much before we nuked ‘em, but it’s true. I’m glad to see somebody out there standing up for some kind of sanity. It’s a shame you have to do this on your own.”

  “I’m not on my own,” I tell him, “there’s a man called General Lud, a homeless man in Westborough, Connecticut who helped me with the Le Couteau raid. Thanks to him, I actually have allies. Thanks to him this crusade is possible. I hope I’ll say the same of you someday, pastor.”

  “We are likeminded individuals,” Mr.400 adds.

  “Well, Mr.400, you have one more. While Tommy Simmons Ministries can’t provide you with money or weapons, we’ll keep on getting the good word out.”

  This time I’m the one who forces a smile. “That’s what you do, after all.”

  “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. 400,” he says and his secretary walks me out to the car. The evening is a blur. Food, small talk, then sleep. Too much to think about, too much to process to take any of the rest of the day in.

  In the morning, I’m awakened from dreams of struggling against the inkblob (who covers its heart with sharp jagged letters instead of round ones now) by the sound of crying. Cass is very upset about something. I jump from sleep to see what has happened. I could never have expected anything like this. I could never have expected Simmons had taped his conversation with me. I could never have expected the consequences of Simmo
ns taping the conversation could be so dire. Godless Jack is on the TV, surrounded by everybody who’d received a Bundy nomination in the past three years. He wears a coat made of sewn together human faces. Each of them is twisted into a mocking smile. For a second, I see eyes in them, glaring at me. He leans against a pole. General Lud’s severed head, mounted on it looks at me too as if to say “you fucked up. You killed me.”

  “This is a message for Mr.400. My culture of violence will not die so easily, but your friend has, and so will anybody else I associate with you. This is a warning to you, Tommy Simmons, although your interview was of great assistance to me. Vexilia Regis Prodeunt Inferni. From Canto thirty-four of Dante’s Inferno. The banners of the king of Hell go forth.”

  ODILON REDON

  Book 3- Godless

  “Then all thy bones shall say pridefully, “who is like unto me? Have I not been too strong for my adversaries? Have I not delivered MYSELF for mine own brain and body?”

  -Anton Szandor LaVey “The Satanic Bible”

  Big Empty

  “What does it mean?” the outlaw hissed as he backed the priest into the lectern. His partner behind him was ready to cut off the priest if he tried to run.

  “I-I don’t know,” the old man stammered, “Please, I know they say you’re death, but you’re just a man. Listen to your heart, spare an old man who knows nothing.”

  He was not surprised to hear the hammer pull back on his partner’s gun or to know it was pointed at the back of his head. He was not surprised at all. He knew more than well enough than to trust a man who called himself Faustus.