Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  It was answered on the first ring.

  “B

  e aware,” she said, “for truly no one can serve two masters. Only one will you strictly love. And the other will get nothing but lip service,” she told them. “I’ll lay it straight: it’s God, or money. One or the other, ‘cause you can’t worship both.

  “Money’s an abstract at best,” she taught them, “and is no more than an illusion giving one grip of niggas power over others. My Father gives and he takes away, so what does any of it mean? It is a waste of precious time, believers, nothing but a waste of time.

  “Children, listen: take the gleam of ice from your eyes and remove a shackle from your leg. If you measure success in terms of how much you have, what you possess, you are a slave. No matter how rich the trappings, no matter how you are envied, you are still a slave.” El Cristo lingered a beat. She said: “Slaves you are not meant to be.

  “Riches I do not offer,” she told them. She then brought a fat wad of legal tender from behind her back. She tossed it in the air, over the crowd. The thick stack separated and fluttered down like costly snowflakes.

  Inches above skyward faces the cash, each individual bill, was consumed by a holy fire. It burned white-hot until not even ashes were left to fall upon them. Those in the audience that tried to catch some of the green grabbed nothing but air.

  “Riches I do not offer,” she repeated, “but Life.” A moment more, then: “Life more abundant and everlasting.”

  The crowd was stunned into silence. The Christ sipped at some water. They waited for her to continue, to nourish their souls.

  “This silver, this Plata y’all been messing with maketh thou a slave. It is unholy and not befitting Children of God.” She pointed at the crowd. “If you do Plata you will abuse it and it will own you. It will become your dark god and ye shall obey its commands. No matter where it leads, you will follow. You will become what you most despise and barely notice when it devours your soul.

  “Turn your backs on evil that makes few rich and destroys the rest. Pick up your cross, instead, and follow me,” she told them with force few have seen. “Follow me and ye shall be made whole again. The Holy Spirit will fill to overflowing the hole left behind by this scourge, fill with joy.

  “Those who peddle this death, shall not profit from it. What good to gain the world, but lose thy immortal soul?”

  Clouds formed above El Cristo and the crowd of worshippers, seemingly out of nowhere. The clouds were balling up cumulus, thick, dark and angry.

  “The Father is exceedingly patient and He loves us all,” she promised.

  Electricity scattered the air, tiny wisps fluttered through the crowd. Tongues of Holy Fire went through the chests, piercing the backs of the enraptured as would lasers. Once through, the Spirit left them enthralled in utterly incalculable peace, love and joy. As if they heard the unspeakable name of God.

  No tongues came for Pedro. Marcus nearby got hit with one. It gave Pedro a dull pain in his middle. It was his doubts, he knew, his renewed zeal for Plata. The dark god was calling him, made the Holy Fire pass on by.

  Pedro wanted to resist the tug, but he was weak. He tried to wrench himself from its spell, but could not. When near Immanuel, feeding from her strength, Pedro could resist.

  He’d shoved it back into hidden recesses of his stained grey matter for three long years of El Cristo’s ministry. Ever since Immanuel found and rescued Pedro that first night dying behind the bar, she has kept him clean. She never talked to him about it, but he knew it was her who helped him squash the intense cravings Plata leaves as its calling card. Immanuel gave to Pedro Mother Mary’s cross of gold and a reason to live.

  Immanuel cured scores of Plata addicts. He knew this to be true. Pedro had witnessed plenty of hands on success with even the hardest-core dope fiends. But she never healed Pedro. He just simply stopped using, not even thinking about it until now.

  Pedro’s veins warmed. He felt them getting all itchy and he already knew the exact one he would use first. Most of the bigger veins lacing beneath the skin of his arms had recovered. They were no longer collapsed and ready for duty.

  He closed his eyes, losing himself, and ran the tips of his fingers lightly over old track marks. He palpated the bump that told him blood flowed and Pedro shook with anticipation.

  Plata’s such a whimsical, yet brutal mistress. She will let you taste the sweet high, but never care for you. She is insanely jealous and won’t allow love for another. Even after you fall head over heels for her, she will never love you. And the more you adore her, the more Plata will reward you with misery.

  She’ll take you to the highest peaks, but leave you stranded in the cold when the pleasure wears thin. She’ll whittle down your dope-sick body to nothing but skin, bones and hunger for her. You’ll retain pleasure only in the faded memories of dancing with your beautiful vicious mistress.

  Clouds gathering further, thickened above the Christ as thunder clapped. It assaulted Pedro from his reverie. He nearly jumped out of his skin. His hammering heart tried to clamber up his dry, constricted throat.

  The clouds split open, parted. A single snowwhite dove descended to Immanuel. The divine figure landed and rested upon her head. The dove shone with such brilliance, it was hard to look upon.

  Pedro watched in terror these things. Loud noise, like bullet trains colliding, came from the dark and crackling sky. It was violent thunder, an anomaly, but only thunder to Pedro and some others. For the rest it was none other than the voice of God Almighty.

  Pedro fell to the ground, covered his head. Frightened out of his wits, he crawled beneath the stage and hid. The angry thunder was ferocious and Pedro knew it was God. Like a naked, shameful Adam he hid.

  Thunder rumbled, rolled, split the heavens with its splendid cry. The voice of God:

  “Behold,” said the Lord, “this is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye Her,” and was gone.

  The clouds dissolved and vapors spread, like an invisible hand wiping the sky clean. Those touched by the Holy Spirit shone with radiance. The sun burned away the water-laden air and Immanuel led the joyful throngs in hymns of praise.

  Pedro hiding, heard the noise, but no words penetrated the veil of his fear, still he knew for certain that it was God. He was right there looking down His nose at Pedro. His intense disappointment Pedro could feel. The frightened man closed shut hard his eyes and wished it all away.

  “A

  couple of hours at the restaurant, then she’ll go pray,” Judas spoke into his phone. He separated from the crowd. He couldn’t stand

  their absurd singing. The crowd was beside themselves with stupid glee, because of some unusual weather and loud thunder.

  “Where will she go?” asked Matthias.

  “She wants to go to the chapel at Gethsemane.” “Does she suspect anything?”

  Judas peeked around the corner of Immanuel’s

  tent and saw her on stage. She was clapping her wee hands, grinning like a fool to the heavens. “There’s no way,” he said. “I’ve been exceedingly vigilant.”

  A short pause.

  “You better call me the second she gets to the chapel, understand?”

  Judas removed the phone from his ear, stared at it in utter frustration. Matthias was turning quickly into an irritating little fuck. But Judas recalled what side his bread was buttered on and brought the phone back to his face.

  “Yes,” he said, sweet as pie, “I understand.”

  “Good. We’ll send Pilate to collect her and your responsibility in this matter will be complete.”

  “What will you do with her?” Judas asked, curious.

  Judas surprised himself at the thought of her being assaulted, curious how it made him smile. He wanted to make sure little bitch got what’s coming to her. He hated her that much.

  “What happens to her will no longer be your concern,” Matthias replied, irritated at Judas’ curiosity. “Why do you ask? Are you having doubts?�
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  “No,” Judas replied, “no doubts.”

  “So you are still capable of completing your duty to us?” He asked. “Are you willing to see this through?”

  “Yes,” Judas assured him, “of course. You have nothing to fear, I’ll call when we arrive.”

  “Excellent,” Matthias stated, then disconnected.

  Judas shut off his phone, stepped around to the stage side of the tent. He just happened to glance up and Immanuel did it to him again.

  She stared at him from afar. Judas was taken aback, couldn’t believe it. This time he was sure she heard him. Impossible, Immanuel was too far away to hear him. But Judas couldn’t shake the feeling that he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  P edro came to, beneath the stage, lying in the fetal position. Still curled up, covering his vitals. The sermon over, crowd politely but firmly dispersed. The park was quiet and El Cristo no where to be seen.

  Pedro got unsteadily to his feet, pulled the 9mm, kept it low. He emerged from beneath the stage, looked all around. The sun was still up, but dropping fast toward the horizon. The day was waning. The crowd gone, but Pedro spotted Immanuel’s tent. It had not yet been torn down and packed away.

  Pedro still frightened, but not pining over dope. For the moment, he felt guilty over leaving his post. She was gone and he’d sworn an oath to protect her. He still wanted no harm to come to her if he could at all help it.

  Pedro moved fast and low toward the tent. He was hoping against hope she’s still inside. He had no clue as to how he will explain his absence to her, but for now, all he wanted was for her to be safe. He’d left her unprotected and would have to deal with the repercussions later.

  Marcus was not at the entrance to Immanuel’s tent. No other disciples spelling him, either.

  With trepidation ballooning, Pedro crept to the flap and peered inside.

  The Christ was there, sans disciples, but not alone.

  A sharp gasp from Pedro as his jaw dropped. It’s in there with her. He didn’t know how it was possible, but it was in there with his Lord, maybe a dozen steps away.

  It made him almost drop the gun.

  1492, anno Domini All alone in the midst of a nameless sea, the vampire bobbed up and down with the swells. His wretched heart burning oxygen as it pounded his breast. Tiny wavelets collided with the boy’s face, sea-salt stinging his eyes. It was dark, but yellow eyes were sharp and piercing. When he blinked away the sting, he discerned waves from the moving silhouettes encircling him.

  The boy hunkered down behind a stand of barrels. He watched Captain Columbus get welcomed aboard the immense sailing ship.

  He morosely drained a large tabby cat. He had to get aboard that ship. The boy was frightened and past caring where the sailing vessel was bound. He didn’t care because the local populace searched for him, even at this very moment. The boy glanced cautiously behind him, convinced they would fall upon him each and every time he turned to look.

  The boy came to the sea, figuring to stow away on a ship. He’d live off shipboard rats and maybe a sailor, or two. If a deckhand was foolish enough to be topside on a dark and stormy night, that is. He could get away with that, the boy was sure. Sailors fell overboard every voyage. Everyone knew that.

  The boy put the deflated cat gently, quietly down. He stuffed the animal between two crates. He looked about, scanning for danger. No one near where he hid, nobody paying him any mind. The gangplank was empty. Nothing to be heard but sounds of toasts recited in the Captain’s honor.

  The vampire boy rose and, after another quick peek, darted aboard the ship. No one saw a thing. The moving silhouettes began tightening their concentric circles, criss-crossing themselves around the boy. Trail of blood spread out, away from him. The blood attracted unwanted attention from ocean predators.

  The boy was afraid. The vampire had never heard of sharks. The boy tried staying hidden during the brightness and heat of day. He only ventured out when night fell, feasting on rats by the dozens. An occasional cat or kitten helped to tide him over. Cats were kept aboard to keep the rats in check.

  The vampire boy did a better job.

  One night, after many uneventful weeks at sea (were they going to the ends of the Earth?) he glanced from his plump warm rodent, heard a sound. That’s when he saw the lone sailor.

  The sailor stood by the edge, right hand full of penis. The uniformed lad pleasured himself, calm sea keeping deck level. The vampire watched him, sprouting long fangs. He looked from side to side and, silent as blood flows through veins, fell upon the sailor.

  The vampire grabbed lusty golden curls and pulled him down in one fluid movement. The sailor hit the deck hard. The boy crushed his trachea with a downward hammer-fist.

  His prey incapacitated but still alive, the vampire dropped to both knees, drank deeply the sailor’s neck.

  Pleasant fire rippled throughout the boy’s body. He got caught in the moment. He focused solely on the luscious human blood, lost sight of his surroundings. He failed to notice other dangerous animals approaching.

  The vampire lost consciousness. He didn’t even know he’d been hit.

  The boy’s head still hurt, broken skull fragments tangled his hair. When he probed the injury, the boy could trace convoluted bendings of brain. The blood trickled, cooled into the sea surrounding him on all sides. The sharks circled.

  Cold water revived the vampire. He stared into the eyes of the Captain. Columbus stared back, quizzically. The Captain had hands clasped behind him. He rocked back and forth on his heels. He had a cross hung on a chain around his neck. The jewelry was a gift from the Queen. The cross danced a little with the rocking motion. The vampire tried to look away, but too late. The hands of the vampire began to burn.

  “What manner of creature is this?” he asked. “It’s a devil, Captain,” a crewman stated, “Nosferatu, a blood drinker.”

  “He certainly looks a devil,” he agreed.

  The Captain bent at the waist, got a closer peek at the vampire. He’d never seen one before.

  The boy stared back, frightened, in pain. Columbus noted eyes, teeth and talons the boy used to scratch his own palms. Grunting, he shredded them to a bloody pulp, still scratching.

  The Captain gave the boy a fleeting glimpse, then to the dead sailor and back again. His eyes rested on the vampire as the Captain stood straight.

  “What shall we do with him, Captain?” was asked.

  “Give him back to the devil whence he came,” without hesitation. “Throw the imp over the side.”

  The sailors snatched up the half-conscious boy, heaved him overboard. He landed with a painful splash in the icy water.

  When the boy came to, the ship was shrinking into the distance. He was alone, treading water. His hands no longer bothered him, but the pain in the back of his head was searing, unrelieved. Two dorsal fins split the ocean surface.

  Being hit by a running shark propelled the boy forward, into waiting jaws of another one. That shark tore away most of the boy’s left arm, a good chunk of rib cage. The boy didn’t have time to scream before frenzied sharks latched onto him. Their powerful jaws pulled him beneath the waves. More sharks converged on the scene and the boy was eaten.

  All the while the night sky was silent. It watched without protest.

  * * * Pedro came to the edge of the tent-flap, peered inside. He almost dropped the 9mm in astonished disbelief, but managed to tighten up.

  “Fuckme,” he whispered. El Cristo was there, sitting on a folding metal chair. A huge snake coiled all around her. Immanuel’s head was being swallowed by the same serpent Pedro saw in his vision.

  Pedro’s heart did a pounding flutter-flip. Dizzy now, he blinked at the sight of his Savior being swallowed whole. He came wading in before his rational side talked him out of it. With 9mm raised, he marched swiftly toward the chair. The snake sighted, Pedro double squeezed the trigger. He’s gonna blow that motherfucker apart!

  Michael became visible. He
stood there, majestically, between Pedro and the snake. The slugs hit the angel, dropped harmlessly to the floor. The shock snapped Pedro back like a stuntman blown through a stage wall. He landed on his ass. Michael came and hovered. Pedro pointed the gun at the celestial being out of instinct. Michael covered the gun with his hand. He gently pushed the weapon lower until it pointed down.

  “Who the fuck you supposed to be?” Pedro asked the angel.

  “I am Immanuel’s guardian,” Michael told him.

  “Then get that snake off her,” Pedro said, made to rise. Michael placed a firm hand, Pedro fell back.

  “This has been decided,” Michael explained, “long ago.”

  “Decided?” Pedro asked, incredulous, “There is a snake on her head!”

  Michael smiled. Pedro tried to rise again. The angel, none too gently this time, knocked Pedro down with the slightest flick of his wrist.

  “Stay,” Michael ordered. Pedro stayed, the angel stared.

  “What can I do?” asked Pedro.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sworn to protect her!” shouted Pedro.

  Michael shook his head slowly in the negative. “Not on this day,” he told Pedro.

  Pedro sat and watched, blocked from helping by an archangel, his Lord and Savior being consumed by a giant viper. And there was not a thing he could do about it.

  The Diabolous stood beside Immanuel on a snowy mountaintop. Together, they gazed into the far distance. The devil showed to her the world and everything in it.

  “All you see before you,” he stated, gesturing grandly at all the Earth offered. All its extremes, its naughty diversions, “All shall be yours,” he told her, “If you would only fall to your knees and worship me.”

  “No,” she told him, “I am the Son of God.” “If you are truly of the Father,” dared the devil, “hurl yourself from this mountain. For it is written not one hair on your head shall be harmed.”