21
judgEment
richard devin
Upright: Judgement, rebirth, inner calling, absolution
Reversed: Self-doubt, refusal of self-examination
Fortune
“In the end, God will send his only begotten son and he will be the final judgement,” Reverend Ronald John spit out the words through clenched teeth. He squinted his eyes and peered around, taking in each face of the congregants of the small church.
The church had been built in a lot alongside the Erie Canal in what once was the thriving, but now nearly forgotten, town of Egypt in Western New York. Reverend RJ—a moniker he had given himself—had told any who would listen, that the exact location to build the church had come to him in a dream; Moses was leading his people from Egypt, a sure sign to Reverend RJ from God as to where he should build his church and shepherd his congregation—in Egypt.
He found a two-acre plot of land that had been vacant for decades. The site was empty except for the trees that had grown in over the years, the grasses that now filled in every inch, and a few rotted timbers that remained from a wall plotted and staked long ago. Not long after, construction on the church had started by bulldozing the land. A headstone was discovered. It lay buried just a few inches below ground level. The headstone was in the shape of a cross—another sure sign to Reverend RJ that God had his hand in selecting the site of the congregation’s church. After the headstone had been completely excavated, a marker, just below the cross, listed the name of Thomas Ebner. It was the grave of a one-time leading member of the early Mormon Church—which had its genesis in the area. Reverend RJ quickly had the base of the headstone hammered into pieces, obliterating the name and any evidence of a body that may have been buried there. He did, however, preserve the cross that had adorned the top of the marker; evidence of divine intervention. An envelope handed off to the construction crew, containing a sizeable sum of cash, combined with the “dosier of misgivings” Rev RJ had kept on everyone who worked for him, the church or served in local politics, sealed the deal, insuring their silence on the possible burial site. Rev RJ had praised God in the past for giving him the good sense and direction to investigate fully any and all people who might be able to “serve” the Church of the Thirty-Three. A private investigating firm had been hired years ago with the sole purpose of finding and documenting every indiscretion of anyone who could be of benefit to the Church. And Rev RJ used this information to great benefit. Praise the Lord.
And in a surprisingly short time, Reverend RJ’s church was constructed on top of the bulldozed and scattered bones.
Once completed, the small building was decorated with stained-glass windows, some depicting Reverend RJ directing the construction of the church, and others of him leading his flock. The interior of the church had been set up to seat thirty-three congregants, an honor to the age of Christ at his death. Reverend RJ had named the building, The Church of Thirty-Three and referred to his flock as the Thirty-Three of the Third Hour—the Biblically recorded time that Christ was said to have been crucified.
Since its inception, The Thirty-Three of the Third Hour had become an active group of political and social demonstration to all things they considered anti-Christ. Their strong vocal outcry was hosted on every social media outlet and was often carried by local and national news organizations. This had earned the congregation thousands of followers—and millions of dollars. Reverend RJ lived the good life, granted to him, of course, by the grace of Christ. He lived in a grand old mansion high on the hilltop, overlooking the neighboring town of Fairport. RJ drove luxury cars, ate at the best restaurants, and wore the finest clothing. He also played hard and heavy, not on fields of grass or courts of wood and cement, but in the casinos that lined the Las Vegas Strip. There he was known by every casino host as Rev RJ, and was a “whale” in casino lingo.
When Rev RJ was in Vegas, he played big and for a long time. When he won—it was always because of the grace of God. When he lost—it was the Devil’s work trying to take the Church’s money away from those for whom it was intended. It was a logic that worked for him and he could often be heard giving glory to God when the deck turned his way. His eccentric ways were well known to the management of the Strip’s casinos. He would frequently pray and splash the baccarat tables with holy water to chase away the evil from the tiles and tables left behind by unholy gamblers. He asked that only those who accepted Christ be allowed to deal to him. Mormons were not true acceptors of Christ, in the purist sense, along with Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, Hindus and any of the others who found another god—and all were kept at bay. More than a few HR and employment lawsuits had been brought to the casino companies that would allow Rev RJ’s requests to be carried out, but Rev RJ soon discovered that a few very well-placed “heavy tokes” to be shared among the dealers, put an end to any controversy his “requests” might raise.
*
Rev RJ rose from the bed that the church had built for him. Crafted to his specifics, the frame had been raised three feet from the floor and shaped like an altar. Every night, as he lay his body on the bed, he was offering himself up to God. If he awoke the next morning, it was because of God’s desire for him to continue with his ministry. If he died during his sleep, it was God calling him home. Either way, he would be satisfied.
This particular morning he awoke filled with the calling of God. The night before had been filled with dreams of gold coins stacked high in an ancient temple. Dreams of this kind were always a sure sign to him of God’s desire that the Church would be receiving a blessing of cash. He showered, dressed, and without packing a stitch of clothing or personal items, headed to the airport. He was on the next flight out to Las Vegas.
The night of gambling had been one blessed by God—as Rev RJ knew it would be. He had stayed on the casino floor until early the next morning. The dice had rolled. The cards had flopped, and the pill had fallen into his number on the roulette wheel more often than statistically they should have. God was definitely on the side of the Church of the Thirty-Three of the Third Hour that night. Rev RJ had more than tripled the Church’s “donation” to him, and he was walking out with a sum that neared one million dollars.
The usual entourage of gawkers and casino security, that generally accompanied him when he strolled around a property, were absent. He had dismissed the security detail long ago, and being so early in the morning, not many other players were on the casino floor. So he felt comfortable making his way to his suite on his own.
He inserted his key card into the VIP elevator. The doors closed with a puff of air pushed into the interior cabin, and with a slight jerk, the elevator headed up. The grand ornate double doors to his suite were only a few feet from the elevator. RJ took the several steps necessary to reach them, held out the key card, and waved it in front of the nameplate of the suite. The RJ Suite was literally built by funds from the Church of the Thirty-Three of the Third Hour, “donated” by Rev RJ in the Church’s honor—at the tables. The usual click and hum that accompanied the unlocking of the door didn’t occur. RJ waved the key card again. Nothing. “Fuck!” He kicked the door, then turned back toward the elevator. RJ hit the Lobby button harder than he needed to. The button lit up, followed by the door closing with the familiar sound of air being pushed in. He leaned back into the corner of the gold and walnut wood cabin. Exhaustion swept over him. He closed his eyes and sighed, allowing the comforting feel of sleep to envelop him.
*
RJ jerked awake to the sound of water rushing through pipes. He tried to raise an arm. It wouldn’t budge. He tried the other arm. It strained against the thick metal band wrapped tightly around it. The daze of sleep vanished. RJ realized he wasn’t in his suite—in the bed fitted with the finest of linens and the best mattress money could buy—but was instead, suspended, pulled tightly by his arms and legs. His eyes were covered by a soft fabric that allowed only the smallest ray of light to reach his sight—as though he was viewing a scene from an o
ld movie; hazy, blurred edges of images, shot through layers of cheesecloth. A neon haze hung above him, cut only slightly by spindles of light from the rising-or-setting sun. He couldn’t tell which.
A hiss from below gnawed at him and he stretched the muscles in his neck, turning his head to the side. He caught sight of still, clear, clean water below him. A pool? He pondered his own question, then tried to turn his head in the other direction: the same vision of clear, clean water.
“Your baptism is about to begin.”
The sound of a voice so close to him shocked him, and he lurched at it, pulling hard against the restraints that cut and tore into his skin. He clamped his teeth together at the pain. “Who are you?” He managed through clenched teeth. What are you doing to me? Let me out of this.”
“So many questions from someone who cannot make demands.” The voice had a hint of laughter to it.
“I will pay you anything you ask.”
“But I have asked nothing of you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Let us say that I am your entry into the gates of Heaven.”
RJ jerked his body against the restraints, tearing again at the skin of his wrists. “Get me out of here. Do you know who I am?
“How would I not? I have known who you are for a very long time. I personally selected you.”
“Selected me for what?” RJ felt the creep of terror make its way through his body.
A small chuckle escaped from the voice. “I am here to help you meet the God that you worship.”
RJ breathed in deeply, in an attempt to keep control of his emotions. “What the fuck are you saying?” He yanked at the straps wrapped around his arms and felt them cut deeper still into his skin. This time he screamed as the sharp metal edges tore the skin from his muscles. He twisted in agony. “Why are you doing this?”
“To fulfill your life’s desire. So you can meet the God you have pledged your life to.”
The voice had moved. It was now closer. RJ strained to catch a glimpse of the man through the gauze covering his eyes. “What do you want? Money? I’ve got plenty. I can get it for you; it’s in the safe in my room. Just let me free and I’ll take you there.”
The voice laughed a guttural sound, ending in a hiss. “Oh, I’ve already been there, and I have all that I need.” He laughed again.
A rumbling moved in below and around RJ. It caused him to sway, as a deep bass sound vibrated through the cables attached to the metal bands wrapped around his arms and legs. He could feel it deep within his bones. Then, as the rumbling grew ever more intense, his eyes could no longer focus, and even the slim view he had through the gauze became a blur.
The voice laughed again, the same guttural sound followed by a hiss, but this time it was distant, no longer by his side.
“Where are you, fucker? Where?” RJ screamed the words. “Help me!” he yelled. “Someone help me. Hel—” His words were cut short, as a blast of water shot up from the nozzle of the fountain below. The jet of water flowed with such force that it burrowed right through RJ’s spine, piercing the skin, filling RJ’s internal cavity with water, bloating him. He screamed out in pain and terror as the shell of his body could no longer contain the liquid. His body swelled as every centimeter of space between his muscles and bones, and veins and organs filled with water. He opened his mouth to scream again, but could not take a breath; his lungs had no room to expand.
The opening notes to Viva Las Vegas were the last sounds he heard as his eardrums burst from the growing pressure on his internal organs that could no longer be contained. His body followed: tendons tore from bones, bones ripped from the sinew holding them together. RJ’s body exploded, filling the jets of water from the grand casino fountain that adorned the Strip with a bright crimson.
Fool
“I am Judgment.” He leaned into the face of the terrified man looking him directly in the eyes.
The young man struggled to free his arms. “Let me go, you fucker.”
He had the twenty-something man on his back, pinned down onto the hot pavement. The scorching rays of the Las Vegas summer sun had penetrated the black asphalt, sealing in the 120-degree heat. The twenty-something’s thin T-shirt offered little protection.
The young man, weak from the effects of alcohol, copious amounts of drugs, and lack of sleep, could feel the heat from the pavement penetrating the thin tee. His skin started to burn.
“I smell the sweet scent of burning death,” Judgment said, just inches from the pale skin of the man’s face.
The young man pulled one hand free from Judgment’s grip. He pushed his had down on the asphalt, and tried to right himself. He screamed in agony as the super-heated asphalt burned through the palm of his hand, searing lines into his flesh like a steak on a grill. He struggled through the pain, attempting to lift himself. The skin on his back now seared into the fabric of his shirt, tore away. “Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Judgment smiled, tilted his head to the side. “You may choose.”
“Let me go!” the young man screamed.
“But that is what I intend. Simply answer this question.” Judgment eased his grip on the young man’s arm, releasing it. “Fool or Fortune?”
The young man immediately lurched up. He screamed out as the hot Vegas air hit the raw skin of his back.
“You see? There, you chose.” A quiet chuckle escaped from Judgement’s throat.
The young man got to his feet. Dizziness engulfed him and he nearly collapsed. Nausea overwhelmed him. He bent over and heaved bile and the last of the alcohol downed from the night before. His vision faded in and out, from bright light to blackness. He stumbled forward.
“You chose the Fool and acted accordingly.” Judgment smiled.
With vision blurring, his equilibrium spinning, and muscles failing, the young man reached out to Judgment in a primordial effort to stabilize himself.
“Again, you had a choice to make, and you chose the Fool.”
He grabbed onto the arms of the man, steadying himself for a few seconds, then fell to his knees as the last of his consciousness faded.
“Now you have chosen Fortune. He is the father of your foolishness.” Judgment placed his hand on top of the young man’s head. “May good Fortune be with you soon,” he said as he stepped back, letting go of the young man’s head.
The unconscious young man fell face first onto the asphalt. Immediately, the skin on his face and arms began to burn, bubble and blister.
Judgment watched for several minutes while the young man, literally, cooked. He gazed curiously as the skin swelled, browned and popped. The scent of the burning body smelled of steak grilling on a backyard barbeque, Judgment smiled as he remembered a scene from his youth, and a happier time with his parents, and barbeques now all but forgotten. The young man’s horrific screams snapped Judgment back to the moment. “I now leave you to your fate... and fortune.” He glanced up to the sky, checking the position of the sun. “Ahh.” He let the sigh linger. “I see we have plenty of time left for you to thoroughly cook.”
He turned and calmly strolled through the derelict neighborhood, in the direction of the Strip, where bright lights and tortured souls beckoned.
Judgement
The lights slowly faded, casting the entire showroom into blackness. Seconds later, a deep baritone voice boomed from the sound system, “Ladies and Gentleman, welcome. The final curtain is upon us. From the cast and crew of Jericho, we thank you for attending the final performance of Jericho—with the greatest magician in the world—Shylaine!”
All eyes focused on the stage where a single spotlight cast a circular pool onto the black surface of the stage. The theater was nearly silent, only scattered coughs and clearing of throats from several patrons in the packed house interrupted the silence. The circle of light, dead-center stage, glowed a brilliant white. Then, swiftly and dramatically, shifted from blue to purple to a deep red, then went completely black as an explosion of sound reverberated throu
ghout the showroom. Screams erupted from many as a second explosion echoed, shaking the walls of the showroom.
Next, blinding white light from ten follow-spots ballyhooing around the walls, ceiling and seats of the showroom, came together fifty feet above the heads of the audience. Another blast of sound and light emanated from the center of the overhead beams... and Shylaine appeared. The orchestra kicked in with a brass and timpani filled ovation as the audience shouted and cheered their approval.
Shylaine waved, flinging her arms wide, as though she were embracing the entire audience. Then she smiled and leapt from the invisible platform. Screams erupted and several people directly below her jumped from their seats, afraid that she was about to fall on them. The showroom went black. More screams followed, combined this time with shouts of concern. Before the audience had settled and the shouts had quieted, a spotlight beamed to the center of the stage where Shylaine stood, arms wide and high above her head. Thunderous applause, cheers and nervous laughter filled the showroom.
Shylaine bowed graciously several times, accepting the audience’s applause—and milking it a bit. She walked to a microphone and pulled it from a stand at the side of the stage. “As you can see, we don’t save the best for last here,” Shylaine announced to more applause and shouts of approval. “This is a sad and also glorious night for me and for all the wonderful, caring and supportive people that have made this show possible. I’m thrilled that you all could be here with us, on this last night, our final performance.”
The orchestra kicked in this time with an ethereal melody reminiscent of a Cirque du Soleil show with shades of Enya thrown in. The soft, almost non-descript melody, with haunting shades of vocals, rose and fell while Shylaine moved quickly, as though she were gliding on skates, across the stage. She cupped her hands low to the stage floor, and, with some effort, raised them above her head, then glided away to another part of the stage to perform the same ritual. Fog floated in from the wings of the stage and the ceiling of the theater, filling the floor of the stage, and overflowing into the audience. The oversized blades of the fans slowly spun, blowing the fog in thick billowy clouds around the stage and showroom. Gradually—with the orchestra pushing out a deep rhythmic bass—the showroom rumbled. A wall of rock and mud rose from the floor of the stage. The wall filled the entire length of the stage. Shylaine continued her gesturing to the wall, beckoning it up higher and higher until it towered over her, three times her height of five-feet-four-inches. She swung her arms in a wide arc, indicating to the wall to stop. It did, and the orchestra went silent.
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 41