Scarecrow Gods

by Weston Ochse

  Six warriors, their nervous breaths slipping through clenched teeth, padded through the grotto. Sweat ran trails through facial camouflage. Hands, slippery from exertion, held rifles at port arms, blue metal barrels pointing the way. As they reached the boundary between nature and man, they stopped and crouched, listening attentively to the last orders before they’d engage the deserving enemy. The leader pointed and three warriors exited the forest edge, sprinted across the road and took up positions on the other side. When every one was in position, they sank and merged with the land. A half an hour later, their target came into view.

  The vehicle traveled slowly, the sole occupants, a man and woman. The man behind the wheel barely watched the road. His angry eyes darted back and forth. His hands gestured wildly.

  Three of the forest shadows laid their shoulders to a great stump and watched as it tumbled down the steep clay bank and onto the road. The woman screamed, her hands jumping to the dash to save herself from becoming one with the glass of the windshield. The man, his forearms quivering with effort, steered left then right, the rear tires biting deep into the asphalt. Blue smoke drifted from the rear of the vehicle as it skidded to a stop, the front fender bare inches from the object blocking their way.

  Unaware of the danger, the man leapt from the vehicle. He paced back and forth several times trying to bleed away the adrenaline that was surely hardening within his legs. Finally, he spun and stared into the forest, bright brown eyes attempting to delve danger from within the earthy mosaic of dappled shadow. He was still looking as the shots took him down.

  Six face-painted, camouflaged warriors rose from the earth. Rifles to their shoulders, they fired, subdued pops followed by blossoms of red upon the man’s chest and the white surface of the vehicle. Six, twelve, eighteen rounds pummeled the man, each volley sending him back, his body undulating with the impacts. With arms thrown out, he fell to his knees and screamed, begging God for a second chance—one in which he would be better, do better, if only.

  If only…

  The warriors descended and continued firing, their volleys staining the man’s chest until the white of his shirt had become a sea of red. Standing over him, they heard a last whine before they targeted his crotch.

  A volley.

  A scream.

  As one they turned and left, jogging in formation back into the forest and through the grotto, returning whence they came.

  * * *

  Paradise Valley, Arizona

  Evil’s Agent.

  Evangelist.

  Unless Billy Bones had been speaking of Jimmy Swaggert, Jerry Fallwell or Billy Graham, he could only have been referring to John the New Baptist. In fact, the more Simon thought about it, the more he was certain that John was Evil’s Agent.

  Even Brother Dominic had had his doubts about the cult leader. Not falling for the populist theory that the man was harmless and only concerned with fulfilling empty lives, the Brother had investigated John extensively. Those investigations were probably the reasons behind his death.

  Damn it all. Was the man, this agent of evil, going to get away with it? Father Roy had already detailed Simon’s inadequacies and, based on past conversations, the old man’s idea of solving problems was to let God sort it out, including the false prophesizing of John the New Baptist.

  Simon shook his head. The entire chain of command concept had been ingrained within him since basic training. Permission was needed to promote free thinking. It was simple, and if followed, worked incredibly well. A chain of command allowed for organization of purpose. Yet in the case of the Alexians, specifically with Father Roy, the mere act of asking was enough to upset them and possibly remove him from their service. It was crazy—like the Boy Who Cried Wolf in reverse.

  Without the authority of the Church, there weren’t too many who’d listen to him, and of those who would, he’d only counted Billy Bones and some of the other Dirty Birds—not a group known for their vigilantism.

  So it was left to Simon to take matters into his own hands. The sign at the church said the services were open to the public. Although Simon was indeed a representative of the Holy Roman Church, that word public still fit him, doubly since he was going there without the approval of the Alexian Brothers. In fact, it was best that they didn’t even know he was there. Simon would slip in and out as if he were just another parishioner starving for redemption, eager for some of John the New Baptist’s special ministry.

  As he pulled the station wagon into one of the last empty slots in the parking lot, Simon wondered what the service would be like. He’d seen several evangelists before and understood their predilection for the fantastic. With flashing lights, vibrating chairs, sound effects and a comprehensive computerized database of parishioners, they were omnipotent demigods hidden behind Hollywood smiles. He remembered one in particular, The Holy Ghost Hit Parade where a silver tongued fox leapt and gyrated as if God or several thousand volts was within him. But then it wasn’t only the religion that sold so well, but the entertainment. Evangelists were real live infomercials for God.

  There was a slight spring in Simon’s step as he approached the main doors to the church. His excitement was undeniable. He was here to see a show and collect evidence. He felt like Sam Spade with religion. As he entered the already crowded church he grinned. This was going to be tremendous fun.

  * * *

  John the New Baptist stood in the center of his church. There’d once been an altar where he now stood, but he’d had it removed. He wanted the people to believe without seeing, a hard thing when a religion had a specific symbology.

  Still, he couldn’t get totally away from it. His long, light blue camel hair robe itched slightly, but was a much needed prop for those who believed that substance required style to exist. He surveyed the full house. They were going to enjoy this sermon. He’d chosen his favorite topic: The Perfect Man.

  For so long he’d tried to be perfect. To be the paradigm of what people believed to be masculinity, to be human. The goal had once seemed so difficult, so impossible. Ironically, it wasn’t until John had embraced these very imperfections that he’d realized he’d never be able to achieve his goal.

  It wasn’t about giving up. It wasn’t about not being perfect. It was about being a true person. A true person had faults and with faults came imperfection. That imperfection, the false promise of perfection, it was so hard. So hard!

  But he’d learned. And with that knowledge had come the plan.

  And now, with the freedom allowed by an ignorant world and the confinement of a communal society, his plan would bear fruit.

  “Who here is the perfect man?” His deep voice found the curve of the dome, slid along the sides and embraced the audience.

  “Who here is the perfect woman? Who is the perfect person?”

  Silence.

  He could see it in their eyes, bright with the possibilities he represented. He was the hope for their salvation. He could see it in the way they sat upon the edges of the pews. Each had followed a well-trodden path, one of the multitudes traveling the traditional highway to salvation.

  Money. Sex. Fame. Power. Combinations there- of…

  John remembered doing the same thing as a younger simpler man. But he’d changed. He’d tossed aside his simplicity and walked the earth in search of the answer to the riddle that was his life. Then, when he’d finally become ready for anything life might throw at him, he’d finally realized that there was no recourse but to be human. And to be human, was to be fallible—imperfect. At least that was popular belief. The truth was that it was possible to be perfect and human. They weren’t anachronistic terms and could coexist. John had learned how.

  If he could only…

  “It is written in Isaiah, I will send my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way, a voice of one calling in the desert. Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.”

  He allowed the words to completely fade before he continued.

  “I
have come before. Just as Jesus came, so did I. I am the precursor, the herald of the Messiah. I have come to baptize the world.”

  A few scattered Amens answered him. It was beginning. He could see the look of entrancement in their eyes, the belief. There were others, farmers from the valley, residents of the surrounding towns, even a few soldiers from Sierra Vista who were harder to negotiate. Leaning against the back wall near the door, John spotted an Alexian. Another one of the Catholics had come to ensure the sanctity of their private Christ.

  John closed his eyes and centered himself, concentrating his energy on unlocking the Jalandhara Bandha—the cork that allowed his energies to build and bottle within him. He released the lock and allowed the energy to center around his throat Chakra.

  Vishiddi, he breathed.

  The very word meant purify.

  He felt the energy building. He felt his chakra grow and brighten bright blue. When he’d speak it would be as no other. His words would entrap. They’d bind. For it was the Vishiddi that controlled all speech. It was the Vishiddi that affected all hearing.

  “Now listen my children to an old tale, a tale that speaks of me now and me before.”

  John touched several foreheads in the front row. He could see the increased brightness in their eyes. He could see them sitting up straighter. Even the Alexian was leaning forward.

  “And so John came, baptizing the desert region and preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. The whole countryside and all the people went to him, confessing…”

  A small child, ten years old with blonde hair and blue eyes, sat between mother and father. Reaching down, John plucked the boy from between his parents. The child stared back, doe-eyed, his breath sweet from too much candy.

  “For it was their sins that had brought them low. Greed, lust, avarice, all violations of the communal bond.”

  At that moment an incarnation surfaced, urging him to hurl the child to the ground, begging him to bring up his boot and stomp the child’s head in. John ignored the voice, but couldn’t help but grip the boy hard enough to make him squeal. His own voice cracked as his chakra crumbled under the internal assault of the incarnation. Another incarnation joined the first and John was force to cast a spell. He called for the people to sing as he waged war upon himself.

  * * *

  Chattanooga, Tennessee

  The long leafy vines of Kudzu bordering the small clearing rustled and shook, and six painted figures burst through. The first one spun, letting free an exultant cry, lifting his arms high. The other five plowed into him and all went down in a tangled mass of legs and arms and weapons. Victory cries mixed with curses of pain as the leaves coating the forest floor danced with their wrestling.

  “Whaaahooo!” shouted Doug, the first out of the pile.

  The rest of the boys separated and stood. Wicked grins of accomplishment sliced their faces.

  “We kicked some serious ass. Greg must have thought we was terrorists,” said Clyde.

  “More like a Mafia hit.” Tony picked leaves from his hair with dirty hands.

  “Ain’t no WOPS could carry off that type of mission. We’re talking Special Forces. Army Rangers. Freaking Navy Seals, Dude,” said Eddie.

  Tony paused, stared, then joined in the laughter.

  Several minutes passed before they noticed Bergen standing atop the highest rock. One hand was upon his chest. The other was high in the air. His face was statuesque and serious.

  “What the hell you doing, Gimp?”

  Bergen’s eyebrow twitched, but he ignored the comment.

  “Vini Vidi Vici.”

  “Vinny who? Tony, you know any Vinny? What the hell you saying, man?”

  Danny laughed at Doug’s questions and was about to explain when Bergen held up a hand.

  “I think an appropriate translation would be We Came, We Saw, We Kicked Much Butt,” said Bergen, his voice Harvard proper.

  “Yeah!” they shouted in unison.

  From under the Playboy magazines, Tony pulled out a plastic bag. “I’ve been stealing these for just this sort of occasion.” He opened the top revealing eleven beer cans, all different brands. They were warm and they were flat, but to the boys they were perfect. “So what do you think? Who wants one?”

  Every boy warrior including Bergen fell in line to receive their alcoholic blessing. After all, it was the way of the soldier.

  * * *

  South of Paradise Valley, Arizona

  Near The Mexican Border

  War raged within his brain. A nuclear whirlwind of conflicting angers murdered his selves, explosion after explosion after explosion. The world dissolved into a molasses puddle of original elements. No longer were there trees or flowers or creatures of the earth. No longer did man exist. Even the desert, with its hidden life, ran mercuric as a war raged within his brain.

  John held the hunting knife up to his face and turned it sideways. He admired the broad blade—one edge razor sharp, the other serrated. Maybe he’d snatch up a couple dozen of his followers and turn them inside out. Maybe he’d paint the desert red with their blood and finger-paint the alphabets of the world for posterity.

  Breathing deeply, he tried to calm himself. He knew he was being irrational, but he felt so helpless. With all of his knowledge and abilities and control, he’d almost lost it right in the middle of the sermon. Even with his years and his training, his mind was still as rebellious as ever, as if the voices had simply been biding their time, whispering in the dark dirty corners until the precise moment where their screams of condemnation would have the most impact.

  He’d been speaking of the perfect man, how positively perfect for them to appear at that moment. And in front of an entire assembly, nonetheless. If they’d only known his thoughts for those small few seconds.

  The things he’d wanted to do to that poor boy.

  Pah!

  With the serrated edge of the knife he ripped down, bringing the blade across his thigh, the line of deep red partnering the other two he’d made only moments before. He screamed, equal parts pain of the body and pain of the soul. Flies that had been feeding on the earlier incisions buzzed skyward as his body shook. John allowed his grip to relax around the knife. He slumped forward and wept.

  John the New Baptist sat upon the apex of two great nations, straddling the old and the new, the rich and the poor, his tears creating muddy trails upon his sand-covered cheeks. This was a place of power. He could feel the lingering magic of Cochise and Geronimo. Both warriors, they’d prayed at this nexus, taking their power from the land to use against the interloping white man.

  John stared at the dozen arms of the immense Saguaro before him and reflected on its dichotomy. Through his synchretic sensitivities, he recognized Kali in plant form, multi-armed and all powerful. He saw Jesus—Father, Son and Holy Ghost all crucified upon the thorns of natural selection. Life lived in the forms of insects and arachnids and bats within the tree—life amidst the promise of death, a shrine to the Druids who’d never contemplated this particular form of tree.

  He allowed the spirit of the land to take him. He poured himself into the sand. Like an Arab mullah, he keened, his voice merging with the twisting Sonoran winds.

  He’d been seventeen when social services had removed him from his home. They’d called it a place unfit for a child. After an investigation, they finally believed what everyone had been saying in the first place.

  Believed that his parents loved to dance naked, wear horns and sacrifice…things.

  His family was replaced by therapists. When he was twenty, his therapist had hypnotized him and the first of his personalities presented itself. Like a dam breaking, first one, then five, then a dozen.

  Satan Worshipers is what the psychologists had called his parents. They said his mother was a murderer of small children. They said his father was a molester of young girls. They said they were cannibals and liked their meat tenderized with Louisville Sluggers and four-irons. Phrases like Cr
imes Against Humanity and Devil Spawn became commonplace when discussions of family arose.

  Through it all, he’d managed to suppress the terror of his childhood. Then when the personalities came, they explained it to him. They described how during the forgotten times they had been his protectors. He told them he didn’t remember. He told them it didn’t happen. They told him he’d never have to, that’s why they were there. It had been their job to protect him, to cloud and destroy painful memories. Like the mystery of the three dozen dime-sized scars upon his back, or the scar that looked like a set of human teethmarks along the inside of his left thigh. The voices said they knew how those happened, but they’d never tell. They said he didn’t want to know. They said it was for his own good.

  But the voices scared him. He wanted to get away from their constant conversations. He argued, he begged. When they refused, he told them to go to Hell. They said they’d already been there. He told the voices that they weren’t real. They insisted they were, and to prove it, they took control.

  At first the voices had been friendly, speaking to him in his dreams, sometimes surfacing to protect him like the time he was in jail and the tall thin man had tried to make him a wife. Margaret had stepped forward as his champion. Big, busty Margaret, unwilling to take shit from any man, much less one with a tiny pecker. Yes, Margaret had been a friend.

  And Little Ernie. John had been shoplifting. Not stealing to be cool like all the other kids seemed to be doing—no, this hadn’t been a pleasure trip. He’d been starving and needed food to survive. Still, the law didn’t care about the reason and neither did the little Romanian behind the counter. Little Ernie would have none of it. He took control and beat the man with a salami log until he lay huddled and weeping on the floor.