Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  Judas brought money up to his face. He used it to gently massage clean-shaven cheeks, chin, forehead and skull, the back of his neck. He sighed deep and catching, inhaling in two big bursts. His face pale, slightly pink from little gangbanger drained twelve hours earlier. His lips healed from the seizure.

  Judas placed money in the box, returned it to its hidey-hole. He strolled through the tiny, furnished one bedroom efficiency apartment. It was on the third floor of a converted house. He turned off the lights. He locked the door and trotted to the two decades old sedan waiting at the curb in front. He felt nervous, twitchy, but ready.

  “God helps those who help themselves,” he muttered as he started the engine, “If indeed there is a God.”

  CHAPTER 10

  P

  ilate needed the Pharisees. He needed to salvage his business. He needed permission to go after Herod, get his money and his dope back. Pilate awoke hard and slow in the late afternoon, eyes shaded by dark peeps. The shabby curtains were closed, his clothing still bloody and full of filthy debris. He pushed open the trapdoor, made his way up the stairs from the root cellar of his second lair. No bed down there, just hard packed earth and pitch black darkness to sleep in.

  This lair’s a basement apartment with only two windows at eye level. Pilate could see through closed curtains the shadows of legs passing by. He dropped the trapdoor into place, straightened the rug tacked to it. He stood and stretched. Pissed all off and confused from dreams of the past, his past.

  Thoughts plagued him again. These thoughts were of slaughtering whores, images of being shot at and decapitated. Pilate tossed ruined clothes on the floor, kicked them out of the way into a corner. A quick shower, donned a fresh outfit, then he went to the window unit air conditioner, turned it on. The apartment had not been used, or even visited in so long the air smelled musty and close.

  What did these thoughts and images mean? He wondered as the coolness poured out of the humming unit, touched his face. He knew not. Pilate never considered seriously religion, reincarnation, any of that. He didn’t know what they meant.

  The thing he knew for sure, the tiny savior infected him with scenes of lives lived. He had no choice but to assume these very real seeming lives were his own. And that they would not stop. They came, these visions, without warning and their frequency was bothersome.

  Still standing in front of the cool canned breeze kissing his face, Pilate opened the curtain a touch, peered out. A crowd was forming. He could hear people’s indistinct muttering. He sniffed at the air through the glass, heard flies buzzing. Some bebe kids throwing rocks.

  Pilate heard the stones strike an object solid and soft, yet yielding. He could smell Juan’s faded essence. Pilate could smell death.

  The crowd parted enough to see. Pilate let his head slump forward, smacking the cool glass. He put hands to the window. The vampire wasn’t hungry but fangs surfaced. He squeezed shut his eyes against the horror outside. The image forever engraved on his retinas. Pilate did not care this lair was also compromised. He now will have to go to ground, use emergency shelter. He just kept his eyes closed, saw his friend.

  “Aw damn, nigga,” he murmured softly, Pilate’s uncased talons chalking down the glass blackboard, “what they do to you?”

  J udas’ darkly tinted sedan made good time in pretraffic hours of early afternoon. He exited The Harbor, passed the state line, and motored swiftly through Big City’s SouthSide. He drove past the baseball stadium and infamously looming housing projects. He distanced himself from the empty-eyed junkies, penny ante hustlas and the mentally dangerous as fast as the neglected, pot-holed streets would allow. There are some places even vampires

  avoid. Unless, of course, you’s a motherfucker craved that kind of drama. Judas most certainly did not. Not unless there were piles of money to be had.

  Judas peered through dark sunglasses at the disgusting festival enacted outside. More human flotsam, he thought.

  Normally Judas avoided this shit like the plague, but an audience with the Pharisees; almost unheard of. Besides, these wrecked excuses for people might very well be his future customers. The thought made Judas grin, but he sure as hell didn’t slow down.

  The rational side of Judas couldn’t help but wonder why the Pharisees needed him to bring Immanuel over. He told Matthias that it was something only he could do, direct access to the Christ and all, but that was horseshit. Judas knew they had scads of minions to do their bidding. If they really wanted to, they could send the law to scoop her up. Maybe, he thought, the Pharisees wanted to distance themselves from the actual abduction, keep their hands clean.

  Judas pondered this as he drove past the Mafioso mansion. Making his way to the LakeShore where the Pharisees awaited.

  C

  aiaphas and Annas were related by marriage. They were lovers as well. Caiaphas was a widower. He wed the only daughter of Annas, took her father’s last name of Pharisee. Unfortunately, the girl child died.

  She died when the two of them ritualistically sacrificed her, ate her charred flesh. This was mandated by the Diabolous they worshipped. The devil further commanded their flesh should join, becoming one.

  The Diabolous promised, in some future day, an audience. These two would be permitted unto the very presence of the Mighty One. This was many years before, when the comet came. The vision shared came recently:

  Silent, the stalking butler led the pair of male crones down the long passageway. It was tubular. It throbbed and contracted. The smell, menace and fear. It was pink and gray, aligned with throbbing veins, giant nerve endings. It was a living thing and it both hated and loved them. The fear of the Pharisees was a melon. They bit into it whole and unyielding. They were quite the thrilled little queers.

  The Diabolous drew them into his chamber and unto his mighty presence. Blue cold surrounded their god. Blue, painful, raw and cold and they felt power in abundance. It was a silo filled and alive. It was pain, pleasure and power in abundance. It surged forth, this power and bathed them in it. It snaked in through the pores of their skin. It radiated in and around their hearts, lungs, all of the vital organs. The power surfed through blood vessels, into the heart. Then it extended itself outward until every single solitary red blood cell knew this power existed, dominated. They felt terror and triumph.

  They fell to their knees, so delicious. It was the raw edge of a blissful sore, tickled and teased. It felt like the bull of a cock being hammered into the base of their skulls. They wept, these men of power. All their money, drugs and petty ambitions mattered not to the Mighty One.

  As the two drew nigh, the Diabolous considered them. He fed off their fear, but doubled dark joy back unto them. It was an enabling symbiosis, webs of pretty deceit, desire and delightful dependence.

  They shall be both slave of the evil they were embracing and master. Truncheon gifted to them for dominion over the lesser creatures; humans in

  Pilate 79 cluded. And bells for their servitude to the malevolent spirit they now owed their eternal essence to. Bells fettered to them so they can, for all time, be found. So the Angel of Iniquity can summon them, know what evil deeds they be stirring.

  Annas and Caiaphas would have surrendered their very lives to the Diabolous, had he hinted so.

  He had the two old men look upon him. They saw the human male the devil portrayed. The god bent to them, euphoria enveloping them. His lustrous blonde hair waved around him like a malignant halo. His dark as secrets eyes fixed on them. He went to one knee, weight cracking the floor. He beheld them and they then knew, as if it was always there, around the corners of their minds. They saw his designs, what he meant to do, what they must do to serve him.

  They begged to do his bidding. They implored like greedy children to give unto them the reward they desire. The merest taste of his awesome power they pleaded for themselves. To seize a drop of the Mighty One’s influence, so they would never be without him. Then they would be whole.

  The Diabolous bestowed upon them
a smile. He agreed with their barter and sealed their deal with a kiss. They will find this Judas and have him bring that little Christ to task.

  They squealed with delight like naughty, naughty schoolgirls.

  And thus it was so.

  Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee awoke from this vision. They were tempted to think it was nothing but a wonderful, vibrant delusion and thus was false. But when they noticed the outsized cracked dent in the hardwood floor, they wept with unabashed joy.

  “Judas,” Annas said. He was breathless, smiling and excitedly gazing at the floor. Caiaphas nodded his agreement.

  “Along with Pilate,” he added, recalling the desires of his lord, “and Herod’s filthy cross.”

  The two old men held hands and smiled sweetly at each other. Not yet noticing in their jubilant state, sores erupting all over their bodies.

  CHAPTER 13

  J udas arrived at the LakeShore hi-rise on time. He gave his name to the guard and waited. Feigning patience, he was removed from the sedan and most thoroughly searched.

  He whisked up a private elevator to the penthouse floor. He was searched once again. The guards were polite, but no nonsense. When finally led into the foyer of the penthouse, Judas marveled how quiet the place was.

  The servant beckoned Judas to follow. He led Judas to a nearby room, deposited him without a word.

  Judas clasped hands behind his back and wandered about the windowless room. There were couches, plush chairs, rare-looking floor rugs and artwork galore. It made you want to send a picture to some home decorating magazine. He could care less. Judas would not have spent the standard of living the Pharisees displayed in this room. He assumed the rest of the penthouse was as luxuriously appointed. Judas would have taken this pretentious opulence and converted it to stacks of legal tender, hide it in a hole. That was treasure.

  He kept these thoughts at bay for fear the Pharisees might read them on his face. Judas was a realist: he needed the Pharisees, not the other way around. He was going to be their boy and knew it. If he could for a mere strapling who thought she was the Messiah, he could do this for them. There’s a great deal of money doing this for them.

  Judas did the math in his head, smiling at all those zeros.

  A wall slid away, right next to Judas. It scared the shit out of him. It was so sudden. Tips of talons pushed through, shock causing fangs to drop. Caiaiphas stepped from the dark passageway. The wall slid back into place. Judas willed himself a calm demeanor.

  “Welcome,” the Pharisee said. Judas grateful the old man did not insist on shaking hands. The pain in his fingertips subsided.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Judas replied. His fangs back up in gums. Fingertips stopped hurting as the threat passed. It was then Judas realized how old the human appeared to be, how horrible his countenance.

  Caiaphas looked like a decrepit leper. Huge blotches and running sores were all over face and hands. That was all Judas could see. The rest was covered, wrists to neck to toes, with a purple silk robe. The man looked ancient and diseased, but not really infirm. He’s old as sin, but walked upright with purpose. The material of the robe darkened with the juice of weeping sores.

  “Please,” he said in a surprisingly strong, resonant voice,” sit down. Let us discuss why you are here.”

  “Thank you,” Judas replied, took a seat nearby.

  “I would offer you refreshment,” Caiaphas continued. He intercommed a servant for hot tea, “however, I know trappings irritate you. You feel they are but a waste of time and you abhor having your time wasted.”

  Judas began to reply, thought better of it. Why should I be surprised? Judas thought. They probably know everything.

  Caiaphas spoke low to the servant. He took a tentative sip of tea, smiled. He came to a sofa opposite and sat, watching Judas. He stayed silent a moment.

  “So, in the spirit of brevity, let’s get right to it,” he began, “you want your own shop, yes?” he said and sipped, “A crew of runners, protection from the police, distribution of product through us, etc. yes?”

  “Yes,” Judas replied. They did know. “That’s what I want.”

  “Of course, of course,” Caiaphas said, nodding, nodding. He waited. A puddle of bright yellow pus gathered the creases of his decaying nose. When Judas said nothing more, he added: “And in exchange, you can do what for me?”

  Judas glanced down at his feet. A sharp torrent of phantom pain ripped through his belly. Tiny beads of pinkish sweat popped out all over his forehead. Caiaphas considered him, said nothing. Judas looked up and straight into the old man’s rheumy eyes.

  “I can bring you the Christ,” Judas replied.

  “Yes,” he said and sipped some more of his tea, oblivious to the drop-drop of serous fluid. It fell from the point of his chin, settled in the saucer groove. “I want this Christ. I need you to deliver her unto Pilate. You know of him, yes?” Judas nodded. “Good. I want this Christ delivered to Pilate late tomorrow. You will keep Matthias informed as to the where and the when. You must keep your phone on and near you at all times. When you are called, you must respond instantly. Can you do this without second thoughts or remorse?”

  “Yes, of course,” Judas said, “that won’t be a problem. I am motivated and ready.”

  “Excellent,” Caiaphas replied, “and your compensation,” He removed a baggie of rocks and powder from between his feet, beneath the sofa. He tossed it at Judas. He stooped, greedy eyes glowing yellow, dangerous teeth sliding down.

  “How much is this?” Judas asked, calculating, scheming, enraptured.

  “Thirty,” the Pharisee replied, “Thirty uncut grams to start your shop. Sell it. If all goes as should, pay us one thousand dollars per gram for thirty grams each and every month.” He smiled thinly.

  “Thank you,” Judas replied breathlessly, “I won’t let you down.”

  “Then we are in business, my friend.” He stood.

  Judas followed suit, rose in one quick fluid movement, almost faster than the human eye. Judas realized he gave himself away. The Pharisee nodded once and Judas knew being a vampire mattered not. Now all the vampires work for the Pharisees.

  “Keep the Plata until after completing your duty,” Caiaphas told Judas. He escorted him to the door where the quiet servant waited. “Matthias will guide you as to the logistics of running your own shop, yes?”

  “Yes,” he replied, Plata slipping inside pocket. “I understand.”

  Caiaphas patted a sticky hand on Judas’ cheek. The rancid smell assaulted him, but he dared not move. He might risk offense. Judas wanted to leave the penthouse with all his body parts intact.

  Judas went downstairs. When he was safely ensconced in his car, Judas took a handful of wetwipes and scrubbed his cheek raw.

  In it now, he thought, up to his neck. He scrubbed his cheek some more. And with his cheek stinging, Judas drove home, dreaming of zeroes.

  The wall slid open, Annas stepped out. He came to Caiaphas and they embraced. Annas’ garment’s the same style as Caiaphas, but scarlet in color. His leprosy also darkened the scarlet of his robe.

  “Judas will comply with the Master’s wishes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Caiaphas replied. “What about Pilate? Can we acquire his services?”

  “Matthias is speaking to him right now, he’s not happy.”

  “No? What’s he upset about?”

  “It seems our Herod was overzealous with his young comrade,” Annas said.

  “I see,” Caiaphas said and thought, “That should make him motivated to do our bidding, yes?”

  “Yes,” Annas agreed. “He will be coming here tonight.”

  “Excellent,” said Caiaphas. Cocking his head, he smiled at the ancient oozing in his arms. “You look pretty tonight,” Caiaphas told him. Annas smiled and blushed with pleasure. His rotten teeth blasted fetid mist. Things were crawling in that mouth; white, knobby and alive things. Annas closed his eyes.

  Caiaphas leaned in to his father-in-law, ki
ssed him deeply and most foul. He pulled away. They held hands and stepped lightly from the room. Caiaphas chewed and chewed while his lover giggled.

  CHAPTER 14

  P ilate disconnected, stared at the phone. He needed to see the Pharisees and- snap- they call him. He put the phone away and continued driving, thinking. Juan’s head in a box in the same seat his girl was in the day before. Juan died thinking Mary was dead. They put his head on a pike and stuck it in the ground.

  Pilate came to the edge of the pier and stopped. It was empty of people. He got out, took the box from the passenger seat. He filled the box with fistsized stones. He curled duct tape around the box, walked it out to the water’s edge. Pilate sighed, dropped the heavy box over the railing. He watched it quickly disappear beneath the filmy surface of the polluted lake. Bloody tears followed.

  “I’m sorry,” he told his friend. He went back to his car, started it up. He turned it around and pointed the car’s nose toward Big City. The Pharisees were waiting for him.

  1610, anno Domini The vampire was absolutely alone. He lay upon the sacred bloodstained rock, watched the morning sun rise. His last sacrificed long consumed, he had nothing left to eat.

  He re-tore the partially healed scar on the underside of his wrist and drank again. The act made him feel dizzy and confused.

  He glanced upward at the sun darting its rays through leafy branches. The sun will heat up the sacred boulder later in the day, but for now it was in shadow. The shadows cast can look like different shapes to his imagination. Now these shadows of two crossed lines made his hands burn.

  He rose and stumbled into the cool of the ocean. He rubbed them in the sea until the sensation dissipated. He turned to the horizon. The vampire looked past the sharply jutting outcropping of jumbled rocks. They split the ocean from his island home, where he was king of nothing.