“You mean you’ve seen this before?”
“Yes,” she nods.
“Then what’s stopping you?” the pastor asks. Unlike most people, Madeline hasn’t been in Pratt for very long. She’s not a lifer, the ‘born here, die here’ type, as Sheriff Morgan or Dr. Keller would say. All things considered, she has no real obligation to the town. She doesn’t owe these people anything. “What makes this time any different?”
“Because I have something I didn’t have before…something that makes me believe we stand a fighting chance.”
“That stuff?” Father Johnstone nods towards the bucket, the curse fluid.
“No, silly,” Madeline turns around, campfire smile and eyes just as warm. She puts her forefinger to the pastor’s chest, touching him gently. “You,” she says. “This time I’ve got you.”
Las Vegas, NV
Sasha didn’t make it.
Although we did fornicate to the point of climax, she made it clear that it was against her will—on both verbal and physical levels. She screamed the agreed-upon safe-word at me numerous times before reverting to the traditional protests of “no” and “stop” and “don’t.” Sasha did everything within her power to suspend vaginal penetration upon seeing the progression of my affliction, however, she was easily overtaken. A well-placed blow to the temple reduced her to a state of unconsciousness, allowing me to finish with relative quiet. My orgasm, however, was weak, accompanied by a displeasing sting that subdued all joy. It’s been years since I’ve experienced orgasm at full capacity, not long after being exiled from my home, to be exact.
“You’re going to help me, Father Latimer,” I say.
I’ve changed my name again. I’ve changed locations again, moving from the Bellagio to the Four Seasons where I’ve booked three suites, the first of which is strictly a living space. Its only usage is for eating, sleeping, and relaxation. There is a device on the outer patio referred to as a ‘hot tub’ that I find extremely therapeutic. I’ll often spend many hours there, marinating in several gallons of Holy water and the various wooden crucifixes that float on the surface. The intent is it serves as a heal tank of sorts.
“And yet, the infection worsens,” I explain to the priest, citing the numerous ways I’ve applied the powers of Christ and His ability to heal all ailments, whether they be through tribute or prayer or ordainment. “My sickness spreads, Father,” I say. “Despite the Lord being involved.”
The priest shakes his head. Blood leaks down from his mouth to his chin, dripping in faint slaps against his robes. “You don’t…that’s not how it works,” he struggles.
“Then explain it to me,” I say.
The second suite is for storage and study. Multiple editions and versions of the Bible fill the living room, some of them used for forging tools while others are simply read. Herbs, plants, and spores fill the kitchen cabinets. For the most part, these are procured at the food and ingredient outlets known as ‘grocery stores.’ Organs—both human and animal—are preserved in glass jars and kept in the refrigerator. Sometimes I experiment, like with that of Desiree’s infected vaginal cavity. The labia was carefully extracted with a sharp knife, seasoned with garlic and onion powder, marinated, then dehydrated using an electric oven. The flesh achieved a jerky-like texture that could be used for sustenance or an ingredient to a larger compound. My ability to fashion compounds was compromised some time ago.
The priest says, “You’re taking it…much too literally.” Blood continues to leak from the corner of his mouth, the gash in his lip. I sample it, attempting to discern the difference between his blood and that of a normal non-Divine individual. There isn’t any from what I can tell. “And you have no…real faith,” he says through labored breaths. “You’re damned.”
Father Latimer and I are in the third suite, the one in which practical application is exercised: fornication of both the traditional and faith-based varieties, human sacrifice, extended periods of worship, harvesting, theoretical application, and, if necessary, torture. I’ve had the priest bound to a hotel chair for many hours, taking samples of blood, hair, urine, perspiration, fingernails, and so on. If I ask him a question and don’t receive the desired response, I either break a bone or deliver a blow to the face. This is why Father Latimer’s ability to communicate has been encumbered: he keeps lying, which forces me to keep hitting him.
He claims I’m ‘damned.’ I break another bone in his hand.
He says I’ve misunderstood the message of Christ. I tenderize his face.
I ask Father Latimer why the Lord hasn’t delivered him from me if, in fact, he truly is one of His chosen servants. “Why don’t you make this easy and tell me what I want to know?” I ask. “Why do my methods continue to fail?”
I’ve told Father Latimer about all of it: the Christian lingerie and pious role-play. He knows about the vigil candles and gallons of Holy water I’ve procured for the sake of healing, sterilization, and prevention of disease. I’ve explained how pages of The Good Book were stapled into the whore Sasha and her skin was coated in Divine wax. Her eyes were covered in the leather and boarding of the Bible.
“Nothing works,” I tell him. “I remain sick and those around me become sick themselves.”
“The Lord…” Father Latimer says, “…He’d never condone…this…these whores.”
“But I’m saving them,” I counter. “I’m giving them the Lord’s protection.”
He shakes his head, spits blood. “They must accept Him… themselves. In their hearts. They must have…faith.” Father Latimer spits again, waiting for another blow to the face, another broken bone or cut of the flesh. The intangibles, the ability to feel the priest’s emotions, they indicate he believes his own answer. He’s not lying, or at least he doesn’t believe himself to be, so I decide to switch tactics.
According to their rules, Father Latimer is not allowed to indulge in what are known as ‘impure thoughts,’ which mostly refer to the act of fornication/sexual fantasy, however, this may also apply to violence, jealously, or greed. As a representative of God, he must adhere to the Divine path, never wandering in a spiritual, physical, or mental sense. To compromise that might further my education, and so I turn on the device known as the ‘television’ and access the hotel’s on-demand service. Menu items consist of various pornographic films—movies featuring actors and actresses that are documented during the act of fornication. Admittedly, this is one of my favorite aspects of the modern world.
I tell Father Latimer, “If you climax, I’ll allow you to leave. I won’t hurt you anymore.”
The priest weighs his morality against his personal safety, remembering the vows he took under the Lord God. I can feel this. I can feel him reaching out to his deity and requesting permission to indulge. A compromise. Verbally, however, he says nothing.
“I’m going to assist you,” I tell him.
The video plays. I fast-forward through the opening titles until I arrive at the first scene: a tan, platinum-blonde female receiving oral sex from her male counterpart. Her vaginal cavity is spread wide, glistening, and enlarged to the size of a dinner plate by the high-defin-ition viewing device. She is performing oral sex upon another male who is standing over her. She moans convincingly, as do the male actors onscreen.
“Climax,” I say. “Do what I ask and make peace with your God after.”
My hands unfasten the black trousers of Father Latimer. Much to my delight, his genitalia has already begun to flush with blood. He’s becoming firm, despite himself, and then I apply a liquid referred to as ‘lubricant’ to facilitate the current endeavor. In my hand, the organ becomes highly slick as if covered in animal fat.
Father Latimer says, “Stop…please.” Blood flushes in his cheeks, as if to indicate a level of embarrassment or bashfulness. Intangibly-speaking though, I can sense his enjoyment. The pleasure of sensation that he’s denied himself for years—possibly even decades. He begins to forget his vows and his God, instead, focusing on the bl
onde female being doubly penetrated: vaginally and orally. She moans, begs to be penetrated harder. I massage the priest firmly, stimulating the prostate and the cluster of nerves on the underside of the penis just beneath the head with my thumb. The process is a short one due to his low tolerance for indulgence. It literally takes less than three minutes before Father Latimer climaxes in a thick burst of chunky seminal fluid, which I immediately collect and store for later. I also taste some. Like his blood, this fluid too bears no discernable difference from that of the common man.
Father Latimer sighs. He breathes deeply, clearing his throat, and the shame begins to swell in his spirit. Indulgence replaced by regret; I can feel this, too. “You’re damned,” he says. “A monster.”
The Cooking Station
Madeline cooks.
She turns the knob on the oven to 350 degrees, preheating it while she removes various ingredients from the cupboards. Side by side, she starts lining up canisters containing flour, sugar, and baking powder. The canisters are wooden and well worn, almost antique-looking, not unlike the majority of the things in Madeline’s home. Father Johnstone can only spot two or three declarations of youth in the form of fashion magazines, flavored lip gloss, and a few junk-food wrappers discarded to the coffee table. Other than that, this is still very much the home Josephine Paige resided in, right up until her death.
“I still say this is going to bite us in the ass,” Madeline says, measuring and combining ingredients into a large mixing bowl. She stirs them with a wooden spoon until they’re dispersed evenly, then adds ¼ cup of milk. “At the very least we should have kept the gun.”
“We did the right thing,” Father Johnstone says. “Try to have faith in that.”
Madeline adds ¾ cup of warm coffee, a tablespoon of Kahlua, stirring again. She says, “Oh no, don’t you play the F-card on me. You didn’t even know how to pray right until today.” Madeline stirs, whipping the spoon through the mixture to get the lumps out. She adds butter and sugar, reminding him, “If sheriff creepy man comes back, there’s not going to be much I can do to stop him. Despite what you’ve seen so far, I’m not bulletproof.”
He should be passing through the fields by now, the pastor thinks. Sheriff Morgan will drive through those thick golden pastures, blurring by them for what seems like forever. First, on the ashy gravel back roads, but he’ll eventually reach the smooth track of the interstate. Miles and miles of blacktop and wheat and nothing much beyond that. Gas stations and farm houses can be found every few miles, a truck stop restaurant here and there. Sheriff Morgan’s exile from Pratt was not willing, but rather, instructed.
“You’ll get in your car and drive west,” Madeline told him. “When the car runs out of gas, you are to get out and keep walking. You’ll walk until you can’t walk anymore.”
According to the pastor, this was the best way to remove the sheriff from the equation without killing him or cuffing him to a radiator. It seemed fair, a high road compared to the many low avenues he could have taken, especially when considering all the threats made against himself and Madeline. He even gave Shelby back as a sign of good will, but not before doing his due diligence as a man of the cloth.
“I forgive you and will pray for your safety,” he said. “Remember that when you come back. Remember that I’m not your enemy.”
This was an olive branch. An opportunity for two pillars to mend the fence, so to speak, but Sheriff Morgan wasn’t having it. His acrimony towards the pastor remained as consistent as ever. That much was made clear.
“Shelby and me…we’ll be back real soon, preacher,” he said, the grin coming back, yellow teeth overlapping like a basket of French fries. The sheriff said, “Gonna make you watch while I stick ol’ Shelby up Maddy Paige’s cunt. Maybe even fire off a round or two. Wouldn’t be the first gal Shelby poked. You just wait,” he said. “Only a matter of time.”
In the kitchen, Madeline adds eggs to the bowl, beating them in with a whisk and staring the pastor down while she churns. She shakes her head, clearly vexed about adding another loose end to an ever-growing litany of loose ends. Pratt knows too much for its own good. Secrets are getting out, and it’s so much worse than the rumors of a pastor gone rogue. If they knew even half of what Father Johnstone did, their reactions would far exceed the casual vandalism his home has suffered thus far. As Mrs. Tiller said, the town doesn’t react well to change or abnormality. What they don’t know is that it’s already here, hiding in plain sight at their renowned diner and mingling at social events. Madeline Paige has been here for months, sharing her desserts and hosting late-night wine tastings on her front porch, infiltrating the town.
Madeline says, “Would you be a doll and hand me that black book over there on the middle shelf?” She points at it with the whisk, ticking left-to-right as it drips, counting to herself. “Seventh one over towards the middle there—yep, your finger is on it.”
Father Johnstone removes the volume. The spine and cover are all black, frayed at the corners, unlabeled. He places it on the kitchen counter in front of Madeline’s cooking station, rotating it on its back.
“Book of Shadows?” the pastor guesses. To even say these words makes him feel silly.
Madeline stops stirring. She scoffs, shaking her head. “We really need to get you up to speed on things.” She sets down the mixing bowl with the whisk still in it, handle-deep in cake batter. Madeline licks her fingers, cleaning them of batter and random dustings of flour. “Let’s clear up some rumors right away.” She opens the book, and Father Johnstone can hear the leather of the spine creak on itself. Her fingers slide one page over the other, too thick and durable to be run-of-the-mill paper. They’re sepia-toned and stained, covered in symbols, pictographs, and measurements. Most of it, Father Johnstone notices, isn’t written in English, and the handwriting seems to vary from page to page.
“First of all, there’s no end-all be-all master spell book the same way there’s no one Bible,” Madeline says. “We’re just as fragmented as you guys are.”
“What do you mean by that? Fragmented?” he asks.
“Christians,” she says, adding another egg to the bowl and whisking again. “Catholics, Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans and Presbyterians. Protestants. Everyone has their book and their beliefs, and everyone thinks they have it right.” Madeline swipes her finger through the bowl, bringing it to her mouth and sucking the batter off. “Everyone has their own translation that they’re certain is the master key to their faith.”
“And you’re saying—what?” the pastor asks. “Everyone has it wrong?” He can’t help but suspect that Madeline is, in fact, calling his own faith into question. He’s heard this argument before; it doesn’t wash. Not being universally right doesn’t mean everyone is automatically false. “That’s fool’s logic,” he says.
“No, I’m merely stating that the more options there are the more people tend to disagree. That’s all, Johnstone.” Madeline checks the book again, adding another pinch of sugar and two shakes of cinnamon. She whisks those into the batter, adding, “It’s not an issue of correct or incorrect. It’s what feels right, not what is right. A lot of bullshit could have been avoided if people were more accepting of other beliefs.”
The Thirty Years’ War and The Crusades. Protestants killing Catholics. Christians killing Islamics. Every soldier armed themselves believing they were either killing in God’s name or were about to join Him in the afterlife. Gallons of bloodshed, all in the name of thy Lord and Savior. Father Johnstone has perused these scourges of history many times, however, this isn’t what Madeline is referring to. Not exactly.
“It’s a little bit better now. People are more tolerant, even if that tolerance is with a sense of reluctance.” Madeline adds what smells like espresso powder into the mixture. She churns the whisk through it again, five times clockwise, three times counter-clockwise. “That courtesy isn’t extended to people like me. It’s why it’s best to stay under the radar…act normal. Otherwise, people pani
c and that’s when the torches and pitchforks come out.” She turns the page with her free hand, checking her instructions, which appear to be in Latin if the pastor isn’t mistaken. “When an established belief meets a conflicting idea, it can be the makings of a perfect storm. I’ve seen it happen before and it’s not pretty.”
As the Good Book says, all power comes from either God or Satan. Father Johnstone has always subscribed to this, and by extension, the flock. All flocks. They’ve been instructed to believe that someone like Madeline is to be rejected, feared, and destroyed. Despite her good intentions, she acts not in the Lord’s name, and therefore, in the name of evil. She’s categorized as a threat by technicality, but more so by what she can do that others can’t. Aversion to the strange and abnormal existed way before the town of Pratt and its residents.
Father Johnstone can recall a passage, one that’s as concise as it is disdainful from the book of Exodus: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
For all intents and purposes, Madeline Paige is fighting a span of bad press that goes back many centuries. Ages of slander, rumor, and gossipmongering. She can’t escape it, no matter where she goes.
“I’ve been to a lot of places…traveled the world,” Madeline says. “And if it’s one thing that’s consistent, it’s that people are severely lacking in empathy. It’s not that they don’t understand—they just don’t want to.”
When Father Johnstone had his bleeding episode at the Pratt bake-off, none of the flock reached out. They didn’t investigate or ask questions about his condition. Nobody wanted the real story, probably because they were terrified of what they’d find. It was so much easier for them to make the assumption that he was tainted and damned, that he was a harbinger of disease. And he can’t really fault them for that. For a time, he himself believed to have the Devil in his blood. But perhaps this was his own fault, he thinks. Perhaps if he had trained Pratt to understand evil as opposed to fearing it, everyone would have been better off. A little more empathetic. As Madeline so eloquently put it, he could have avoided a lot of bullshit.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 17