Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  Pedro wanted to relive the entire cycle. He wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could draw it out. He knew neck-banging would come again in time. There was no reason to hurry it along.

  Suicide did not have to be sudden.

  The little nigga was eyeballing Pedro closely. It was as if he was trying to fix Pedro’s face in his mind, like he knew him. The little nigga smiled now, pleased as punch. He knew something, or thought he did. He smiled as though he’d caught you jerking off to a photo of your Auntie.

  Pedro didn’t want to know, so he paced out of the living room and into the kitchen. These lights, also muted, were just enough for the small band of card players. They were grouped around a threelegged table. A dumbed stereo speaker held up the remaining corner. The Plata induced card play was sloppy and slow.

  The group glanced his way as Pedro entered the kitchen. He stopped by the sink. He ran the tap and, with cupped hands, splashed cool water on his face.

  “I know you,” Pedro heard from the table.

  “Doubt it,” Pedro replied, drying his face and neck with paper towels.

  “Sure I do,” the card player insisted. “You were with the preacher in the park.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Pedro told him. He discarded the paper towels in an over-flowing trash bin.

  “Yeah,” the card player insisted, “what was her name?” he asked, directed at Pedro.

  “No idea,” Pedro replied and left quickly the kitchen.

  Pedro went outside to the dealer’s backyard where it was dark and quiet. He sat on a swing in the overgrown yard and welcomed the hum. It was a continuous near-orgasmic state. He closed his eyes to greet it head on; to keep the cloak of dewylipped kisses tight around him. He shivered with pleasure and scratched lightly at ghostly itches. Angels moaned softly in his breast and butterflies flitted as his neuro-receptors fired a tympani of enchantment. He smiled to himself, sunshine and God’s love pulsed delightfully behind his eyelids.

  Pedro rocked slowly, back and forth, building motion shelter for his high. Bouncing smoothly and happily within a bubble of bliss, Pedro was unaware he had company.

  She placed a hand on his thigh. She massaged it and Pedro’s bubble was punctured by the interruption, joy leaking out. He reluctantly opened his eyes, saw his visitor.

  “Hi, handsome,” she cooed, “wanna date?”

  Pedro thought about it, decided he was ready for that. He asked her price and she gave it. It was, not surprisingly, part cash and part Plata; if he was holding. He had more than enough dope and money to cover it.

  She wanted to get blasted first and tapped one of her nostrils. Pedro cut her out two nice lines from his stash, right on the seat of the bench. She bent right to it. He rose to his feet and thumbed out three twenties and a tiny foil. She pinched her nose shut and held her head back.

  “How much is in there?” she asked, indicating the foil.

  “Oh, I’d say about a quarter tee, give or take,” Pedro replied, feeling himself go hard.

  “A fourth of a teener,” she replied, seizing the cash and the dope and stuffing it down her pants and up her snatch quicker than you can say: whatthe-fuck. “That’s not very much.”

  “Yeah,” Pedro agreed, “but you’re not very pretty.”

  “Used to be….” she mumbled, Pedro undoing her blouse. She smiled up at him, revealing teeth darkly stained at the gum line, “Hows about one more, daddy?”

  Pedro was cool with it and laid her out another line. She sucked up the third line and her pupils blew. She was spacey and mumbling. Pedro beginning to think his generosity just cost him, but he was hard and ready.

  He thought she best pull it together lickety-split, and get to gobbling dick. Otherwise, Pedro would have no problem with dog-fucking her drooling, slack face if the bitch couldn’t comply. It was up to her.

  He positioned himself in front of her as she settled back on the bench. She rubbed dregs of Plata on her receding gums as she squinted up at him. She weaved and giggled drunkenly as she recalled where she saw him, the proper church boy.

  “Did you ever fuck her?” she asked, reaching for his belt buckle.

  “Fuck who?” Pedro asked. He brushed tendrils of greasy hair from her used to be very pretty face.

  “Aw, you know,” she continued, struggling with the loops. “The little pastor girl, Emmaus, or something like that.” She closed one eye and tugged at the belt. “What’s her name?”

  “Don’t know any pastors,” he told her and worked the top button of his pants his damn self.

  “The one at the park,” she continued, but stopped when she had the zipper pressed between fingers. “You know; the one you work for.”

  Pedro took a fearful step back. He quickly buttoned and re-buckled the belt. He shoved his hand down the front of her pants, popping the sixty bucks and dope foil out.

  She shouted around a mouthful of marbles as he walked away from her, calling him names. She didn’t even thank Pedro for the lines.

  “I was gonna suck your dick, you limp fuck!” she hurled at his back. “That’s my shit yer taking, you asshole!”

  “Sorry, bitch, not in the mood,” Pedro replied as he reached the back door. “You talk too motherfucking much.”

  Pedro opened the door and went in. He stormed past the card players in the kitchen. Pedro kept his eyes forward, not wanting to reignite any more questions.

  Pedro went back to the living room and searched for a place to sit. He found an unoccupied recliner and sank into it.

  The little nigga sidled up to Pedro and dropped to his haunches beside the chair.

  “You’re Pedro, right?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah, what of it?” replied Pedro.

  “You must be in on it,” he said, “if you’re here.”

  “What’re you talking about?” asked Pedro.

  “Your boss,” he replied. “She was turned over to Herod. Everyone knows. Pilate did it.”

  Pedro hesitated then asked in a lamely squeak: “What boss?” Pedro’s heart began to riff like a double-bass drum.

  “The little shit, the minister, the cute one,” the little nigga told Pedro, “The one from the park.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about!” he yelled. All eyes were on him now. “I don’t know who the fuck she is!” he shouted. “I just came to get high!”

  People squeezed into the living room and those already there came to. They all stared at him. Accusations unspoken and Pedro feared right through the Plata. He was afraid of what they would do to him, for all Plata flows from Herod. He was the big bad drug daddy in these parts and addicts are loyal as hell to the motherfucker holding the key to their high.

  Pedro panicked and went to the front door, closing it behind and making himself quickly absent.

  “I don’t know her!” he declared as he ran away, into the pre-dawn darkness.

  The sun rose before him. Somewhere a rooster crowed from afar. Pedro slowed to a stop as the tears filled his eyes. Pedro clenched his fists and faced the dawn. She told him he would do it and he did. Just as she said he would. He felt like such a coward. He stared at the rising sun as it began to dominate the sky.

  “Immanuel,” Pedro said to no one. “Her name is Immanuel.”

  Pedro shoved his hands in his front pockets and fingered the two grams of shit. He was going home, not to Herod’s compound or to see the disciples. Pedro, instead, was going to go home and get more high.

  Immanuel was on her own.

  I told you so.

  CHAPTER 43

  P ontius Pilate sat with his gloomy head in his good hand and waited for the wine to kick in. His other hand had the three middle fingers amputated and the nubbins healed nicely. Pilate’s ear cartilage was also removed, but there were no more bugs, thank the gods. On that, he was grateful.

  But still, it wasn’t really the pain of physical ailment that troubled Pontius Pilate so. A life-long soldier, he was used to physical pain. This was new and much worse than even witn
essing his own fingers melt and drip flesh from the bones while he screamed in agony and terror. No, this was worse. His heart was sick and he felt his soul dying. He poured himself more wine, emptying the jug, and drank it down. The wine did not help, nothing he tried did.

  Pilate aged from the stress of this past year. Gossip and stories came to him from dozens of sources. Terrible and miraculous things were happening all around. Pilate tried not to pay credence to them, but some rang true. Quickly, the Prelate found that he was unable to deny them at all.

  Pilate saw fantastic things himself, so the supernatural was no longer dismissed. He had witnessed first-hand the dead awaken. He saw the little crook. Barabas still harbored the archer’s arrow erupting from the back of his head.

  Barabas appeared one evening in Pilate’s personal quarters, absolutely uninvited. His shock and curiosity soon turned cold to irritation as the thief pestered the Prelate with inane babble for hours on end. Finally, Pilate had to tell the bugger, rather harshly, to leave. Barabas finally and thankfully did. Pilate breathed a huge sigh of relief. Being dead sure didn’t make Barabas smarter or any more interesting.

  Reports of similar sightings from across Judea came flooding in to Pilate almost daily: the dead arising, spirits becoming manifest, mass suicides and murder. And then there was the Christ. Yes, Pontius Pilate thought of him as the Christ. Not his Christ, but he did recognize that there was more to him than met his eyes. He thought about the Rabbi daily, almost non-stop. Nothing could remove the crucified man from the forefront of his thoughts. Pilate feared he may be going mad.

  Pilate reached for the wine jug and remembered it empty. He shouted for servants to bring more. Jesus of Nazareth, he thought. Pilate heaved the empty vessel and it shattered against the wall. He needed more wine, or else he would never be able to sleep.

  Pilate drank himself unconscious most nights. He couldn’t shake the carpenter’s face. It was right there whenever he closed his eyes. It haunted him. The eyes accused him. The Nazarene’s eyes knew Pilate had realized the Truth. Pilate had chosen to walk the easy path, the one paved with good intentions which still led to destruction. Pontius Pilate, and no other, allowed the torture and murder of a holy man.

  Pilate yelled for wine again.

  Pilate sat up bedside and cradled his alcohol addled head. The heavy jug was placed there on the table before him, beading cool condensate. The servant remained silent beside it.

  “Took you long enough,” Pilate scolded and grabbed for the wine. He tipped up the jug and saw him from the corner of his eye, standing impassive beside the table. The dropped jug hit the fur beneath Pilate’s bare feet and spewed contents everywhere.

  It was the glorified body of Christ, Jesus of Nazareth. The Messiah was right here in this very room.

  He stood before a quaking Pilate, his robe pure white and radiant. He raised his hands and showed Pilate the scars in the center of his wrists, beneath the big bone. The nails bit him as he hung from the cross.

  “Know that I am He,” said Jesus Christ.

  Pilate blubbered and breathed in painful gasps. Jesus stood before him and the Roman was immobile with fear. It clenched his heart like a miser. The manifestations of Pilate’s fear were the only sounds heard. Time seemed to slow for Pilate, almost stop. The moment before the presence of the Risen felt an eternity. All that he saw was brightened and sharpened in detailed clarity.

  The moment was meant to be remembered, the curtain drawn back. The Truth bathed in harsh light.

  The Christ placed his hands upon Pontius Pilate. He felt the heat acutely and he couldn’t catch his breath. The radiant light issuing forth from the Christ bothered Pilate’s eyes. He watched in horror as his amputated fingers grew back and then split at the tips.

  Jesus released him. Pilate fell to his hands and knees and uncontrollably voided all bodily wastes, violently retching until he was dry.

  “You washed your hands of me,” Jesus accused him. Pilate’s hands began to burn. The talons sprung instant from torn finger tips and shred flesh, but the burning pain persisted. “Your soul shall now be cursed,” the Christ judged, “with eternal earthbound life.”

  Pontius Pilate cried out in agony and despair. He knew what was coming. Pilate was cursed with earthly damnation. He rejected the Blood of Christ, so shall he now survive, instead, on the blood of man.

  Until he remembers, Pontius Pilate cannot change his fate.

  A vampire was he.

  Pontius Pilate came to with a start. He looked all around. Jesus of Nazareth was gone. Pilate heard dark laughter faintly and fading.

  A servant entered the room behind Pilate. She was trying to be as quiet as a mouse. So quiet as to make no discernable noise, but he knew it was his servant. He even knew which one she was.

  Pontius Pilate could now smell her blood as if it was bread rising. The vampire thought she smelled delicious. The servant tip-toed closer.

  Drool slopped down Pilate’s chin and his night vision sharpened. The torches that sconced the walls became as the midday sun. He closed his eyes and could still see the brightness from behind closed lids.

  Pilate heard her heart speed along now, the heady scent enrapturing. She was right behind him. She reached her hand out to him and he opened his yellowing eyes.

  The fangs dropped and he turned to her. Vampire speed and the servant fell beneath him. He went for the strongest scent: the blood closest to the skin. He pierced her neck with his fangs and fed on her until nothing was left of the fruit save the peel. He dropped her empty and dry to the floor.

  Pilate vacated the building flush and ready. He entered the darkened city of Jerusalem, still hungry. With the greed of a spoiled child let loose among the honey hives, the newborn vampire wanted more.

  He hunted from the dark corners; the inky spaces.

  The night was his ally.

  It swallowed Pontius Pilate whole.

  * * *

  Pilate awoke and opened his eyes. He was numb and long past feeling any physical pain. He remembered the torture and Herod’s maniacal laughter. They used railway ties in his wrists and one through his crossed ankles. Pilate was naked and he wanted to die, but his mind was clear. He knew who he was. He looked to his right and saw the Christ.

  She smiled at him, Pilate couldn’t believe it. She was here with him. The two of them were in this together. The wrists of Immanuel freely bled.

  “I know you,” Pilate told her. “You are Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You are the Christ,” he testified.

  “Truly,” she agreed, “And you are Pontius Pilate.”

  She was nude. They had stripped the Christ and made her nude. They hung her from a tree and tortured her like a criminal. The sorrow Pilate felt for Immanuel knew no limit; it had no bottom. The vampire wished God would change His mind about all of this. He wished God would have Mother wash it all away. Nothing deserved to live.

  Pilate ached to help Immanuel, but he was bound and nailed. He was impotent and useless; he could not even save himself. His frustration was agony.

  Pilate turned back to her: “I know who I am,” he stated. “I am nothing but garbage, that’s who I am. I turned my back on you. I knew you were innocent and I washed my hands of it.”

  She nodded, “Go on,” she said, “my child.” “I brought you here,” he continued. “I knew they wanted you dead and I brought you here. I delivered you unto them so I could save my drug dealing business. All for the love of money, and the power that goes with it.”

  “Yes, you did,” agreed the Christ.

  “You are innocent and I helped them do this to you,” Pilate told her. He began to cry. “I am ashamed of what I’ve done.” Pilate was weeping now, the bloody saline spilling, trying to hide his nakedness. “You gave me so many lives,” he cried, “So many chances!”

  Salome and Tacitus entered the Throne Room then, with Ovid following meekly behind. The three stopped beside the throne, no closer. Salome
had Herod’s bloody vampire teeth all strung about her neck. She sat upon the throne, claiming it thusly. Her two men stood either side and watched.

  “I’ve sinned Lord, and have the blood of countless innocents staining my hands,” he confessed to Immanuel. “More than I can ever atone for. I deserve punishment,” he said, “I deserve damnation.”

  Salome ordered Ovid to get his machete. It was time to end this madness. The albino went around the corner to pry it from the wall.

  “I know I deserve no mercy from you,” Pilate cried out, trying to move closer to her. The distance between them remained. A few scant feet that was a gulf, he felt. He wished he could make the Savior understand how horrified he was at himself. How disgusted it made him. Mostly, he wished he could touch her one last time, to hold her and beg her for forgiveness.

  Ovid was tugging on it. He made a satisfied grunt when he pulled it free from the wall. He strapped it on.

  Immanuel was looking at Pilate lovingly. He was the prodigal son and had been away for a very long time. Pilate, she knew, felt different. He felt he deserved punishment. How many has he had to kill so that he may live? Too many to count, he felt. It was a debt too high for him to pay.

  He believed his fate ended with a one-way hand stamp to Hell and Pilate accepted it. An image of the Diabolous, two thousand years before, licking his ear and encouraging the washing of his hands was born whole in his mind: the dark fading laughter. Hell was where he deserved to do his Time. Eternity, he felt, might just be long enough to make amends.

  “Roman,” she said, hearing clearly his thoughts and fears, “Look at me and heareth these words: all have sinned and fallen short of the Glory of God.”

  Pilate shook his head. No. The damage was done and there’s no going Home. Not for him.

  Salome nodded at Ovid. He turned his dumb face toward the wall.

  “The Father has sent me to wash away the sins of the world,” Immanuel told Pilate.

  “But the wages of sin is Death,” from Pilate.