by Tim Kizer
"Sacrifice, Richard, that's the main word," Norris went on. "As a matter of fact, we do just that all our lives. We make sacrifices to achieve important goals. Sometimes our sacrifice is small, sometimes we give up all we have. We are compelled to sacrifice, Richard. That's the way the world is. A long time ago I realized one thing. The Universe—I don't to use the word ‘god’ because it's too narrow. The Universe doesn't care for money and other material wealth. The only thing of absolute value on earth is a human life. And if you want the Universe to like you, you have to sacrifice a human life. Then I realized another important thing: it doesn't have to be your own life. Do you hear me, Richard? I want you to know that I'm not some vile primitive murderer, monster, devil incarnate, or whatever you call me. I'm not a devil incarnate, Richard." Norris grinned, baring his teeth. "You know what movies I like the most?"
"I have no idea."
"I like movies where a ship sinks and her captain goes down with it. The captain sacrifices his life. That's cool, although I don't understand what the hell they do it for. That's really cool. I like it. I love movies like this. What about you? Do you appreciate self-sacrifice?”
“Yes, I do.”
7.
It was like playing cards with a retarded person: you knew the outcome beforehand, you were guaranteed to win. He was dealing with a moron, a nerdy weakling, who had never been in a real fight. Yes, this bastard had murdered nine of his brothers and sisters, but that was nothing but luck. A concurrence of circumstances, which had been the result of them failing to take seriously their obligation to avenge Martin. Martin had been one of his favorites. He had been smart and strong, but sometimes he had lost control of himself and ended up in stupid situations because of that. It was their sacred duty to avenge Martin and the other brothers and sisters Richard had killed. They had sworn to protect each other, yet for several years they’d let Richard get away with murder.
He had no fear since there was nothing to be afraid of. He did not consider Brower dangerous, resourceful, or crafty. He did not believe Brower was a strong opponent.
By the way, who was he, Steven Norris, also known as Marcus, in this story? A hero or a villain? It all depended on the point of view. Well, the answer to a question like this always depended on the point of view. To some people—and their number was rapidly growing—he was a hero, to some, he was an evildoer, and the rest simply didn’t give a shit.
This Richard guy was like a cockroach. You're not afraid of cockroaches; you’re just irritated by them. It takes a lot of effort to exterminate these fuckers, and there's no guarantee that you’ll kill all of them.
CHAPTER 30
1.
NORRIS
He was surprised, he was puzzled, he was stunned. What was happening right now surprised him so much that he was at a loss for words. He had never experienced such astonishment before.
On second thought, yes, he had. A similar sense of amazement had overcome him one spring night many years ago, when he was seven. As he walked from the bathroom back to his room, he suddenly heard strange noises. They were coming from his parents' bedroom. He stopped and asked himself what they could be doing at two o'clock in the morning. Curious, he sneaked up to the door to his parents' bedroom. The door was open a crack. Then he saw it.
His parents were having sex, in a rather elaborate, as he thought then, way. His dad was lying on his back in the middle of the bed. His mother, a homely woman in her mid-thirties, was kneeling on all fours over his father’s legs, her back curved downward, her fat butt stuck up in the air. Paul (that was his birth name) was shocked to notice that she had his dad’s penis in her mouth.
Wendy's head was bobbing up and down, with constant frequency. His father's dick, a long pale rod, which somehow was highly visible in the moonlight flowing into the room, came out of Wendy's mouth and then went back into it, probably reaching her throat. His dad was moaning and groaning, his right hand on the back of Wendy's head. From time to time Wendy licked his scrotum and the tip of his penis.
He already knew a little about sex. He had heard about vaginas, blowjobs, and anal sex, but he had never seen people fucking. When he saw that act of copulation in his parents’ bedroom, it wasn’t what was being done or how it was being done that astonished him. He was astonished by who was doing it. His parents were fucking! His own parents! At the time, he still had respect for the man and the woman who had given him life, and when he thought of sex, he never associated it with his dad and mom.
Steven wondered what his parents would have said if he had entered the bedroom and asked, “What are you doing up there?"
Would they have kicked him out? Would they have yelled at him? Would his father have slapped him in the face, so hard his ears would ring for the next three days?
What if he had suggested that he join them? That would have been fun! Of course the head of his penis wouldn't have reached Wendy's throat, but no one could have said that his tool was microscopically small. Sadly, he wouldn't have been able to ejaculate.
Was that the time when his idols began to fall from their pedestals? The first to go were his parents, who turned out to be just ordinary animals driven by crude instincts. His mother didn’t mind taking in her mouth a dirty, stinky cock oozing semen. The most disgusting thing was that she enjoyed it. Yes, his parents failed at being good idols, and he fired them. He had no difficulty discarding the other gods and idols that society pushed on him. Every time he heard about the necessity of loving God, he saw in his mind’s eye his parents’ bed and his mother sucking his father's dick. He saw a fat pale rod sticking out from his dad’s crotch, unusual and strange, which had looked like a special effect to him at the time.
He had been astounded back then, and he was astounded now.
Why did it happen? Where did he make a mistake?
This is how it went down...
2.
Norris walked up to the wall, which was covered with weapons.
"You will say it’s brutal. All these sacrifices. Death. Rivers of blood. I don’t understand why people make such a big deal out of death." Norris lifted a long dagger off the hangers and turned it around in front of his face. "In the fourteen years of our existence, we’ve sacrificed about a thousand people, and I assume you feel sorry for them. You felt sorry for that bitch Martin and Zoe were working on. You believed her life was precious, didn’t you? It would have been a tragedy if she’d perished.” Norris’s lips curved in a crooked smile. “Meanwhile... Maybe you heard of it. There was a terrible earthquake in China back in the seventies. Almost seven hundred thousand people died. Can you imagine that? Seven hundred thousand deaths. One minute they’re alive, they’re watching TV, eating, riding their bicycles, and the next minute they’re dead. Mother Nature murdered seven hundred thousand people like it’s nothing. What I’m trying to say here is, there's nothing awful about death. I mean it, Richard. It's as routine as the wind."
He unsheathed the dagger, touched its blade with his left thumb. "Speaking of China. Do you think the death of, say, five hundred people would be as big a tragedy to China, with its population of 1.3 billion, as it would to America? I’d venture to say they’d be happy about it.” Norris grinned. “They’re obsessed with population control in China, in case you didn’t know."
He slipped the dagger back into the sheath and cast an inquiring look at Richard, waiting for his answer.
"I've never been to China," Richard said.
Norris hung the dagger on the wall and took the longest sword.
"I love swords,” he said. “It's an honest weapon. It doesn't need bullets or gunpowder. It only requires a strong mind. Yes.” He nodded meditatively. “So. You've never been to China, but you probably watch the news on TV. As far as I know, fatal cataclysms are not rare in China. Floods, tornados, industrial disasters, and so forth. Hundreds of people die, and I doubt they declare national mourning every time. Everything is relative, Richard. It’s all a matter of perception. Here’s my advice: never rus
h to shed tears. You might be the only one doing it."
He started stroking the blade of the sword with his left hand.
"Or let's take Cambodia,” he went on. “In the mid-seventies, there were about seven million people living in this country. The Red Khmers led by Pol Pot killed one third of them, that’s almost two and a half million people. Just think about it, Richard. Two and a half million human beings. And the shocking part is that Pol Pot was never punished for these terrible crimes. A third of the nation was slaughtered, and the guy got away. You must understand one thing: a person’s attitude toward homicide depends on that person’s way of thinking. To some, two million dead bodies is a nightmare, an unspeakable tragedy; and to some, it’s a political necessity. An interesting fact of history. Two million dead bodies.
"I talk about it because I love talking about it. I could talk about it for hours." Both his hands on the handle, Norris started drawing elaborate curves in the air with the sword, admiring its lusterless blade. "It’s all about perspective, Richard. You need to remove your mental blinders." Norris touched his forehead with his right forefinger. "The people we sacrificed would have died anyway—by natural causes, in an accident, or by suicide. We gave them an opportunity to have a meaningful death."
Norris chopped off an imaginary opponent's head and then cut the body in two.
"Yes, I admit that my doctrine is a little eclectic,” he went on. “The reason is simple: competition. If you want people to follow you, you have to give them something sexy and convenient. Sexy and convenient, my friend."
"Are you some sort of Satanists?"
"Satanists?" Norris chuckled. "People love labels. They stick them on everything and everyone. What people don’t realize is that labels are an instrument of brainwashing. The powers that be use labels to protect the status quo. They used to call Christianity a cult when it was founded, you must have heard about that. It took Christianity three hundred years to become mainstream. Three hundred years.” Norris paused. “We're not Satanists. I don't care about Satan or God. They’re both obsolete." Norris eased onto a chair and rested the tip of the sword on the floor. "Speaking of cults. You know who I find ridiculous? The Amish. They’re forbidden to use electricity, drive cars, watch TV. What kind of life is this? Recruiting for them must be a pain in the ass."
Norris looked at Harry and Nick, who were sitting on the marble bench. Then he began to laugh, and his henchmen laughed after him.
"They’re real idiots," Norris said. "You can’t use electricity? It simply makes no sense! Stupid morons. If it were up to me, I’d ban them so they wouldn’t be able to put this garbage into other people's heads."
3.
RICHARD
Many years ago, when he was in high school and college, he had often pondered over an entertaining theory according to which the entire world might be just a dream. He had been fascinated by the possibility that everything around him—people, buildings, roads, cars, animals—was a figment of his imagination; that he was the only living creature in the universe.
It was an amazing theory, though philosophers must have found a way to disprove it.
All of this could be just a dream. There was no Norris, no Mary, no temple, and no sword.
4.
Norris looked surreal with the sword, whose polished blade glinted in the lamplight.
"I have an idea," Norris said cheerfully. "We'll play knights. I haven't held a sword in a long time."
He winked to Richard, lifted the sword up, and, growling loudly, rushed at him, madness burning in his eyes. Having realized that Norris was not going to stop, Richard dashed to the wall, grabbed one of the swords that hung there with both hands—this sword was a little shorter than Norris's—and found to his horror that the hooks gripped it tighter than he had expected. Richard broke into a cold sweat at the thought that the sword might have been welded to the hooks so it couldn’t be taken off the wall. He turned back and saw a smiling Norris right in front of him.
"Oh, it appears you’re trying to resist," Norris said. "That's interesting. But I hope you understand that Harry and Nick won’t let you kill me."
"I want to buy some time," Richard replied, his face red, his nostrils flaring, his heart ready to jump out of his chest.
"Come on, take it."
Richard grasped the sword, pulled it off the hooks, and wheeled around to face Norris.
"A good start is half the battle," Norris said. Then, with a scream, he brought his sword down on Richard. Miraculously, Richard managed to block Norris’s blade with his. Their swords hit each other, clanging, spilling a sheaf of sparks on Richard. A stifled shriek escaped him.
"Wonderful!" Norris exclaimed.
His sword cut the air and struck Richard's again; the clatter of metal on metal rang through the room. A flash of pain shot through Richard's hands, his arms shivered, and he felt that he was about to drop his weapon. He couldn't wait to toss the damn thing on the floor, massage his aching palms, and give his body a rest. Richard gritted his teeth, got a comfortable hold of his blade, and barely managed to deflect another sword blow, which was aimed at his stomach.
"Superb!" Norris shouted.
Damn, sword fights looked much better in movies. They looked cool and elegant. Well, it was clear to Richard now that real-life sword fights were far from elegant.
In those movies about medieval times, knights swung their blades like they were tennis rackets. Apparently, that was bullshit: the fucking sword weighed a ton.
Perhaps this was the heaviest sword in the world.
Or maybe I’m in worse shape than I thought.
Richard stopped Norris's blade about one foot from his forehead; another wave of cold sweat came over him. He roared, squeezed the handle tighter, and swung his sword forward toward Norris's chest. Norris sprang aside and struck Richard's sword so hard that it almost flew from Richard’s hand.
Raising his sword, Richard thought to himself that he had never fought with a sword or even a foil. He wished he had listened to his dad, who had suggested that he sign up for fencing lessons when he was in middle school.
The clangor of metal against metal. The swords swishing through the air.
He would sign up after he got out of here.
So you’re still hoping you’ll leave this place alive, mister?
Norris's sword whizzed right in front of his face, a tiny whirlwind touched his hot forehead, cooling it. Richard put his right foot backward and was shocked to discover that there was nothing to step on. He clumsily waved his arms about, his fingers unclenched and the sword flew away, spinning. A second later Richard fell into the well.
The water was very cold. Richard's heart skipped a few beats, stunned by the sharp change in temperature. Richard froze for a long moment, unable even to blink, as though he had seen Medusa and turned to stone.
"Here I am!" Norris announced. He placed his foot on the curb of the well, bent forward, and tried to pierce Richard's head with his sword. Richard closed his eyes and submerged.
Desperately thrashing his arms and legs, he went five feet under water. He opened his eyes, stretched his hands forward, and touched the wall in front of him as he rotated his legs to prevent himself from sinking deeper. The wall felt rough; there was no mold on it, which was not surprising since the water appeared to be clean and pure. Richard was willing to bet that Norris's brothers and sisters regularly checked the water in the well for fungi and other undesirable organisms.
Richard wanted to breathe.
He looked up. Norris was not in sight. All he could see was the walls of the well and the ceiling. Richard quickly swam up to the surface, took two deep breaths, and pushed his hair out of his eyes.
"All right, get out of there," he heard Norris's voice. "I don't want you to die too soon."
A groan escaped Richard. Gritting his teeth, he hurriedly climbed out of the well and then started shaking water off his head and arms. His wet clothes were heavy and cold, his entire body broke out in goos
eflesh.
"This is a real man’s weapon." Norris sheathed the sword and then glanced at his watch. "They’re late."
The doorbell rang. Norris turned to Nick and gave him a nod. Nick silently left the room.
"Not too late," Norris said. He took off his jacket, undid the top two buttons of his shirt. "You know who it is? Our brothers and sisters. Twenty six people, and one of them is your wife. They came here to participate in the sacrifice. It's important that they know that justice always triumphs. It really does." Norris winked at Richard. "Twenty six men and women. I think you should be proud of the attention you’re getting from us."
5.
MARY
About ten years ago, she had come across an entertaining book, whose title she had forgotten. She found it in the bathroom of her friend’s apartment. The book explored, among others, the idea that crime was an unprofitable enterprise and that every criminal sooner or later would be punished one way or another. The author mentioned the case of a member of a gang that had robbed a bank for several million dollars. When this man calculated his hourly income (he divided the amount of his share of the loot by the time he’d spent preparing the robbery plus the thirty years he’d done for it), he came up with a ridiculously low figure, something around one and a half dollars per hour. It was a great illustration that the crime didn't pay.
That book made Mary reconsider her life strategy. She was a realist. And she was capable of critical thinking. Yes, she loved easy money, and she would take other people's property if she could get away with it, but at the same time she hated the idea of going to prison for stealing a paltry two thousand dollars. Just think about it: some jerk who had defrauded people out of a million dollars by selling worthless stocks could get a one-year sentence, and she could spend six years behind bars for stealing two grand. That was unfair.
The best way to steal was to steal big. How does one do that? One option was to become the boss of a crime organization. Or, if you were smart enough, you could engage in illegal and semi-illegal financial machinations. Becoming a crime boss was out of the question. One had to work too long and too hard to attain this position. Besides, gangsters’ life expectancy was short. The absolute majority of these people were dead by fifty, thanks to either their competitors or the police, and she had no desire to die young. As for the second option, neither Bob nor she had enough brains or resources to pull off million-dollar frauds. They were well-versed in the intricacies of selling fake weed, but they had no idea how to cheat a bank. Thus, Bob and she were doomed to be small-time swindlers.