Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  “Well, I don’t remember saying anything of the sort.”

  “I don’t doubt you believe that,” Dr. Keller says. “Everyone in that church has the same story though, and now that story has spread all over. When you walk outta here—the town won’t be looking at you the same way.” He offers the only consolation he can, telling the pastor, “You may not like it but at least you know now. You can prepare.”

  “Prepare for what exactly?” Father Johnstone asks, clearly new to being a topic of controversy. A quicker succession of the beeps emanate from the heart monitor. He says, “I haven’t done anything wrong, David.”

  Dr. Keller gives a desperate chuckle. “We’ve got a whole town that believes the local preacher just defied Christ in a church,” he says. “What are you going to do? Call them liars? You gonna say you don’t remember any of it and hope things get back to normal?” he asks. “Hell, even the people that weren’t there won’t believe you.”

  Father Johnstone remembers the reading from that Sunday. He can see himself reciting the words and how they sounded in the acoustics of the church. There was a prayer afterward, and the congregation prayed with him, just as they always do. They are his flock. They do what Father Johnstone says, but what followed after the first ten minutes of the sermon is hazy. It’s bits and pieces at best, lacking continuity, and trying to remember is making the pastor’s head hurt again, so he stops. He lets go, and the pain goes with it.

  “I don’t wish to patronize, but maybe you could play the ‘I was just testing you’ card,” Dr. Keller offers. “Either that, or you can say your illness put you in a state of delirium. I’m willing to back that up if you think it’ll help.”

  “And what, pray tell, is my illness?” the pastor asks, giving the bridge of his nose a slight pinch to relieve the pressure.

  Dr. Keller picks up his clipboard from the bedside table, flipping a couple pages. He explains to the pastor, “Over the past three days you’ve been in a coma. No surprise there with all the blood you lost. It happens when circulation is cut off from the brain, and in your case, you had it coming out of every damn hole in your head there.”

  “Right,” Father Johnstone cuts in. “But what was the cause of it? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing,” Dr. Keller says. “On paper, you’re healthy.”

  “How is that possible? You just said that had a Level IV Hemorrhage or whatever, and that I almost died, right?”

  “That’s Class IV, Father,” the doctor corrects him. “And I said on paper you’re healthy. That doesn’t mean you’re okay. I just can’t find anything medically wrong with you.” He displays the clipboard, saying, “I ran tests. The tests are supposed to tell me what the problem is and how it came about, but after three days, I haven’t found any explanation. In fact, I’ve got more questions than when I started.”

  At first, Father Johnstone feared an official diagnosis from Dr. Keller. Men around his age start to fall apart. ‘The machine breaks down,’ as they say, but not knowing the root of the problem, being hospitalized for no specific reason—this is much more alarming for the pastor. It’s fear of the unknown.

  “We could be dealing with something entirely new here,” Dr. Keller says, setting his clipboard back down on the nightstand. “Whatever it is, I just hope that the worst of it has passed.”

  It’s the Devil, Father Johnstone thinks. The Devil courses through his blood now, causing fever and migraines, causing pus-blisters and bleeding episodes. During the day, he torments him with lethargy, and at night: acute restlessness. When he does manage to sleep (with the aid of those ungodly pills), his dreams are infected with lust and violence. He makes the pastor forget, takes control, perverts the Lord’s Word in front of the flock. The Devil is steadily ruining him, on a physical level and by tarnishing his character. Pratt has it all wrong, the pastor thinks. God isn’t punishing him at all. It’s not a test. This unknown affliction that Dr. Keller speaks of is pure evil, and a non-believer would never be able to detect it.

  “There’s one other issue I need to discuss with you,” Dr. Keller says. “It’s about your blood type. Do you happen know what blood type you are, Father?”

  “Shouldn’t you know this?” the pastor asks.

  “Yes,” Dr. Keller nods. “I should. Can you answer the question please?”

  It was one of the few times that Father Johnstone willingly let himself be penetrated by a needle: years ago, the pastor recalls, for the Pratt blood drive. Dr. Keller solicited the church under the pretense that the flock would likely be more receptive to the idea, what with their moral obligations to their fellow man. All donors were given a vanilla crème cookie and juice, provided by Mrs. Keller, and the doctor and pastor hosted a post-drive BBQ on the church grounds. The doctor paid a small fortune at the butcher’s, and the two men spent the afternoon talking all things medicine and God, grilling burgers and hot dogs. They even shared a six-pack of domestic, which hit a little harder than normal because of their respective blood donations. This was how Father Johnstone became acquainted with Dr. David Keller, and it taught the pastor two distinct things: that believing in the Lord and His Word isn’t necessary in order to do good, and that the pastor’s blood type is AB positive. He distinctly remembers the technician telling him that it’s the rarest type there is.

  “Maybe about 1% of people have it,” she said.

  Father Johnstone conveys this information to the doctor, mentioning the blood drive and technician to put the knowledge into context. Dr. Keller says, “Right, and there was also the time you snagged your arm on the nail in your basement. Remember that?” he asks. “I took some blood to make sure you hadn’t become infected.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” the pastor says.

  “AB positive again,” Dr. Keller reveals, and then he slips his hand inside his lab coat, pulling out a piece of paper that’s folded into quarters. He looks at it for a moment, frowning. “These are the results from when you came in last week…and there’s an irregularity.”

  “I thought you said I was healthy,” the pastor says.

  “Right,” Dr. Keller says, unfolding the results and giving them a quick scan. “No viruses or anything that would indicate you’re sick. The blood itself is fine.”

  “Well, what’s the problem then?”

  “The blood isn’t AB positive.”

  “So you’re saying my blood type isn’t the same anymore?” Father Johnstone asks.

  Dr. Keller nods. “Correct.”

  “Is that a rare occurrence?”

  “It’s an impossible occurrence,” the doctor says. “Blood types don’t change. It doesn’t happen.”

  The Devil, Father Johnstone thinks. The Devil is in the blood, changing things, mutating his system. “Could there be an error?” Father Johnstone ventures, but he already knows he’s grasping at straws with this. Dr. Keller is a thorough man.

  “No. I quadruple-checked. You’re an O negative now,” he says. “You’ve gone from universal recipient to a universal donor. Not exactly the worst thing in the world, but still…it’s disconcerting.”

  But what Dr. Keller really wants to say is that it’s a medical miracle, and although he’s never believed in the so-called ‘act of God,’ he can’t deny that a man’s blood type changing may fall into that category. At the very least, Father Johnstone is living proof that scientific law has been broken, and it’s a contradiction that won’t be taken lightly should it become public knowledge.

  “You can’t tell anyone about this,” Dr. Keller says, but his concern is uncalled for. Father Johnstone has no inclination to share the news with anyone, member of the flock or no. As bad as the rumors are going around Pratt, a medical impossibility would only add fuel to the fire.

  “I think I’ve got enough on my plate right now,” the pastor says.

  “Glad we can agree on that.” The doctor folds the test results back into quarters, stowing them in his lab coat. “It’s possible you could be discharged tomorrow, bu
t I hope you don’t mind if I reach out to you for any additional tests I might want to run. As far as I can tell, you’re healthy, but there’s still plenty to figure out.”

  “That’s fine, David. Of course,” the pastor says. “Whatever I can do to help.”

  “Good.” Dr. Keller nods, resuming a standing position and pushing the stool towards the wall. He retrieves his clipboard from the bedside table, looking upon the pastor and seeing little hope in his eyes. Evening is almost upon them, and Dr. Keller realizes that whether he likes it or not, his profession as Pratt’s chief medical expert has transcended into new territory. Father Johnstone is more than just a patient; both men know this. Both men fear the situation they’ve found themselves in. They don’t even need to verbalize it. Like Mrs. Deebs, the pastor must persevere and return to business as usual, no matter how much of an interruption the Devil may pose. He’ll pray for good health, that the Lord remove this evil from his blood. He’ll pray for a renewed relationship with the flock and dreamless sleep, and then Father Johnstone remembers how he’s been in a hospital for the past three days. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night, screaming, drenched in sweat with the occasional nosebleed to plug, but he was always in the confines of his own home. Now he’s been in a hospital for three full days, seemingly under close observation by Dr. Keller and his staff.

  “Did anything happen, David?” he asks. “While I was under…did I do or say anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing much. Occasional flinch here and there,” he says. “That’s normal. It’s rare that a coma patient will speak, but you did.”

  Madeline, the pastor thinks, waiting on the other side just as she said she’d be. It’s always Madeline.

  “Tell me Father,” Dr. Keller says, “who or what is Pollux?”

  Las Vegas, NV

  The disease passes to Desiree.

  I’m notified of this when she arrives at my door two weeks after our initial encounter, accompanied by two dark-skinned males. Large men. In Las Vegas, they are technically referred to as ‘muscle,’ not to be mistaken with a bundle of fibrous tissue or mollusk meat. Their intention is to inflict physical harm, and potentially extort a sum of money out of me. I know this before I even open the door. Sensing intentions—the intangibles—is something I’ve managed to hone over the years.

  Upon entering the suite, the two men take me by the shoulders as Desiree scolds me, asking, “What did I tell you, huh? I told you you better not give me anything I don’t want. I fucking said that, didn’t I?”

  I smell her anger, her disease. I smell treated cow hide and fumes of the marijuana plant fuming off of the two men’s jackets. They grip the fabric on my shoulders to hold me in place, keep me from running. They’re disgusted for reasons I haven’t deciphered just yet—not because of the disease. Something else.

  Desiree draws a finger to just under her left eye, indicating the swollen area. It’s plum-colored. “See this?” she asks. “This is what you get when your boss finds out you’re not fit to work. He’s sick, too. We’re on four different kinds of antibiotics because of you.”

  I’m familiar with what she’s referring to: Ciprofloxacin, Ofloxacin, and Nalidixic acid. Silly components cooked up by silly little men in white lab coats who think they understand the human body. Their methods are inferior. I could cure Desiree but lack the inclination and the required materials to do so.

  “And don’t even get me started on your little fetish. You’re fucked, man,” she says.

  “Dirty motherfucker,” one of the muscle whispers. He shakes his head, judges me.

  This is the source of the muscle’s repulsion: the Christian lingerie and biblical stimulation. Perhaps the Holy water, too. Desiree masturbated with the cross, then I fornicated with her, climaxing deep inside her vaginal cavity. I instructed her to squat down on the bed and push out the seminal fluid, excrete it upon the front cover of the Christian text. An abundant puddle of foggy white was produced. Desiree was then asked to lap at the wet leather as an homage to God and Christ and the Holy spirit, licking it clean until only the glisten of her saliva remained. The longest end of the crucifix was then inserted into her, so far the hips of the Savior were buried in her cavity. Three minutes of silent prayer was observed, allowing the wood to soak the remaining fluids and enzymes. I have since carved the idol symbol down to a stake-like point.

  “You hear me?” Desiree asks. “You’re fucking sick, man. No wonder you have to pay for it.”

  The muscle holds me in place, but they do so in a way where they try to make as little physical contact as possible, as if to touch me would infect them somehow. It’s obvious the whore disclosed the details of our encounter, if only to make her lapse in judgment excusable by comparison. This is when Desiree reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, which are crusted in a decorative plastic known as ‘rhinestones.’ She pulls out a straight razor, unfolding it and displaying the blade. Reflected on the steel are myself and the muscle, stretched out and distorted due to the curve of the object. I start to get excited. The sting at the tip of the urethra dims and I feel myself growing thick, hard.

  “I can either cut your cock off or slit your throat,” Desiree says. “It’s up to you.”

  The whore’s usage of the word ‘cock’ reminds me of back home, the coop where the hens would lay eggs while others were harvested for materials. Feathers were used to stuff pillows. Poultry was either cooked on a spit over a wood fire or baked; gizzards would be floured, seasoned, and deep-fried in animal fat (a delicacy). Other organs and spare parts had their usages, too: the feet, the beak, and the wattles.

  Desiree steps close, placing the edge of the blade against my neck and dragging it down. It’s her very poor attempt at trying to instill fear in me. She says, “No begging? You’re not gonna try to buy your way out of this?”

  “I could.” I tilt my head as if to consider it. “I choose not to.”

  She smiles. Desiree curls her lips—not with joy—but out of anger. This is not the response she was hoping for, and therefore, she will not do me the great favor of ending my life swiftly. Cutting the carotid artery (which stems from the brachiocephalic trunk) would prove mortally compromising, and therefore, lacks the sufficient amount of suffering I’m expected to endure.

  “We’ll see how much you like this town when you’re a dickless freak.” Desiree unbuttons my pants and draws the metallic pull-tab downward, separating the teeth of the zipper. Her hands graze my genitalia, prompting her to look me in the eye, look down again. “You’re hard?” She looks at the muscle on either side of me, shocked. “This guy is fucking hard right now!”

  In response, their disgust swells a little bit more. Tips of the muscle’s fingers pull away from my shoulders, compromising their grip. I patiently wait for Desiree to remove me, pull me out and examine. Her fingers—now chewed, chipped, and unkempt—excavate a slab of meat, covered in sores. Skin glistens where pustule patches bloomed, popped, and became infected, resembling that of a vermilion pickle. Oils in Desiree’s fingers soak into the wounds, sting. A sharp constant pain. When the penis flops over the waistband, opaque fluid squirts onto Desiree’s wrist. She recoils, dropping the blade on marble floors and wiping the skin dry against her shirt. Scrubbing vigorously.

  “Oh God, that’s so fucking gross.” Her nostrils flex once, twice, picking up the smell in the air. Infection cuts through residual marijuana fumes and the lilac body spray the whore wears on her neck, wrists, and chest. The muscle peers down and notices the weeping wounds and areas crusted in yellow scab, relinquishing their grip just a little bit more. Gag reflex chugs over my left shoulder, an opportune moment to unleash my own attack.

  Unlike Desiree, I am quite handy with a blade.

  I spend the next many hours showing them.

  The Release

  Father Johnstone is nude upon a bed. It’s a bed he’s been in many times recently: silk sheets in a garish shade of crimson. Pillows bulge at the headboard like they�
�ve never been used before, lacking that canyon years of sleep would impress upon them. The island is smooth, fenced off by pale candles at various stages of melt. They provide just enough light to see every fold and ripple of the fabric, but beyond the fringe of fire is black. Infinite nothing. The pastor subconsciously draws in his legs to cover himself, looking to random points of the void for a way out. Then he notices Madeline Paige lounging behind him, draped in the silk bedding. She gives the pastor a reassuring smile and tells him to not be afraid. Madeline says, “You’ll be fine here.”

  This is how the dream starts.

  It’s what Father Johnstone feels he can’t divulge, even to someone like Dr. Keller who maintains that he’ll never judge, never repeat any of the information he’s given. He simply wants to know if one variant corresponds with the other for medical reasons.

  “I leave things like rumors and speculation to folks with too much time on their hands,” he said this morning at the hospital. “So if there’s something you want to tell me, you can be sure it won’t be repeated.”

  The content of these dreams, these ‘night terrors,’ as Dr. Keller refers to them—Father Johnstone is certain they aren’t the root cause of his recent health problems, least of all a changing blood type. Dreams are in the mind, and so they must be dealt with through prayer and a consummate devotion to the Lord. As certain members of the flock turn to God to extinguish their impure thoughts and fantasies of violence, so too must the pastor, despite any pain or anguish that may follow. He’s accepted the fact that another migraine or bleeding episode is a possibility, or perhaps another coma. The path to purity may land him in the Pratt Medical Ward again, but a man with the Devil in his blood cannot shepherd the flock, cannot be expected to lead as the Lord intends. He must begin the cleansing process, even though the mere mention of her name heats the pastor’s blood.