Headlights blinded us. The van arrived. A sense of fear – uncertainty – hit all of us. The Gangster Pope was here to collect.
The door slid open, and those beefy goons dressed as priests stepped out. They wore shades even though it was nighttime, and stood around, looking here and there. One of them reached into the van, took the Gangster Pope by the hand, and helped him out. A breeze kicked up, and the Gangster Pope shot his hand up and held down his tall, white hat.
“Have you got His Majesty’s money?” he smiled.
“I do,” I said.
“Good! The Master shall be pleased. Have you ever met your boss?”
“You never introduced.”
He mumbled something sly to his buffoons; they all laughed. I frowned. I wanted out of there. Come on, old man. Hurry on with it. Take your money and get!
The Pope looked at me – tilted his head, gave a weird, creepy expression, like he was looking at a cute kitten.
“He's told me many things about you,” he said. “Been talking a lot about you.”
“Me??? Why?”
“He takes interest in his employees every now and then. He wanted me to tell you that he thinks you're special. Great things are in your future.”
“Like what? A promotion?”
The Pope smiled.
“You could say that.”
“Tell him I say thanks, but I'm not interested. I'm done. I quit.”
The Pope shook his head.
“You make me sad.”
I handed him the money bag. He opened it and stuck his head inside, sniffing. He jumped back, as if something stink attacked him. His goons ran up. “Boss! Boss!” they said. “What's wrong?”
The Gangster Pope looked in the bag.
“Hmmm....” he went, raising an eyebrow.
I started to worry.
“I trust you'll find it's all there,” I said. “Now, if you'll excuse us, we should be heading off to our families and lovers.”
“Of course!” The Pope nodded and stepped to the side. “By all means.”
My coworkers and I huddled together and walked past the Pope and his bodyguard priests.
“Oh! And one last thing,” the Gangster Pope said. “Quitters never win.”
I don't know what got into me, but I blurted out, “RUN!” and everyone screamed and took off. The priests pulled out their guns and started shooting at us, sending people twisting to the grass. It all happened in slow motion. Tony got shot in the skull and his head blew up. I didn't even know that was possible. A bullet tore through my leg like a tiny sun and sent me flying through the air and hitting the ground in a wrong way, cracking my spine. I tried crawling away, but bodies kept falling in front of me.
Some of my coworkers made it back into the UFO and started it up, hovering above me, making everything all windy. The Pope laughed out loud and said, “Rocket launcher!” Except he said it like, “Rowket lawn-cha!”
A nun in white walked out of the van, carrying a rocket launcher. She had a cigar in her mouth. She grunted, put the launcher on her shoulder, and fired a rocket. I think I screeched, “Noooooo!” but I don't remember. The UFO exploded into a fireball and crashed into the woods. Deer and owls and rabbits rushed out, screaming, bewildered. It was raining money. The Pope and his goons walked around, picking it all up, even searching my dead friends, taking whatever was in their wallets and purses.
His goons got out axes and chopped up the bodies and threw the parts in coolers. The Gangster Pope ordered them to hurry up before the cops arrived. I was close enough to see the thugs write on the coolers, “To: Hell....From: Devil Pope”. They fired flaming arrows and burned down the church as that Gangster Pope laughed and clapped his hands and cheered. He stood over me and pulled out a gun that looked like a prop from some old western movie.
“No one steals from Satan and gets away with it.”
I didn't understand it.
“How did you find out???”
“We have our ways.”
A gust of wind blew his white hat away...revealing a set of horns. They were curled. I shut my eyes.
“I didn't see that!”
The Pope grinned and cocked his gun.
“Oh, I know.”
BAM!
….and then I died....
And it was painful at first, what with being shot in the head and all...but then it got real quiet. I was falling. Peaceful. Then darkness. I heard screaming. I smelt various meats. Fires. Cooking. I saw bodies in giant pots – arms waved around – more screaming sounds, shrieking. After a little while, I thought, This must be Hell. Why am I not surprised?
I landed, gently, on blood, in front of a demon sitting at a desk. It was covered with piles of papers...and blood. Coolers were all over the place. The secretary looked up at me, angered.
“You're late!”
I shrugged.
“I'm sorry.”
The secretary threw me a rag.
“You have a hole in your head. Clean yourself up. You can't see the boss looking like that. You must show respect!”
I said, “Sorry,” again and cleaned myself up. I stuck my finger into that bullet hole in my forehead and pulled out a bit of brain. I found it all very fascinating. The secretary took my hand and walked me toward a giant, stone gate. A sign on it read, “BOSS”. Blood dripped from the letters.
“I can't believe it,” I said. “It's real. It's all real.”
The secretary frowned at me.
“Are you stupid or sumtin'? 'Course it's all real. Don't you read??? Idjiot. Next you'll be telling me Heaven isn't real.”
“It is???”
The secretary sighed.
“Not that it matters to you now – but yes,” the demon said. She knocked on the giant gate, put her hands to her mouth, and yelled out, “Boss! Lolligal is here to see you!”
Demons stood over the gate and played trumpets as the doors opened. The secretary leaned close to me and said, “Here's a tip: Just be honest with him. He hates liars.”
A bright light swallowed me up. I put my hands above my eyes.
It's all real, I thought. Heaven. God. Satan. All real.
I thought of my life...and sighed.
Now here it all comes.
The big swallow.
PHIL
What was happening? Did I realize I was yelling about snakes? That I was killing people? I chased after Fran – all through those woods – screaming at her, threatening her, pleading with her. “Just stop running! Why drag this out any longer? I'm gonna catch you soon enough! Save us both time and just give up!”
I stopped to catch my breath, hands on my knees. That was it. I lost. She was gone. Now what? Go back? No...I had to find her. I had to keep looking. I needed peace. She had to die.
“Where are you!” I yelled. “God, help me! Help me kill this demonnnnn!”
Something exploded above me, lighting up the sky. I saw Fran – standing there – right next to me, against a tree. She was covered in mud, the whites of her eyes staring out at me.
The UFO crashed through the treetops, right toward us.
We ran here and there, ducking the falling pieces of metal and fireballs. The UFO hit the ground, shaking the planet, sending me flying off my feet. I kept thinking, Fran, Fran, Fran, Fran. Getting away!
I almost stumbled into a burning bush. Screams for help. Two people on fire ran out of the UFO, crashed right into the trees, setting them ablaze. A rock hit me in the face. Fran jumped down from a tree and bit me, ripping off a chunk of my neck. I tripped over some animal and landed on my face, right in mud. Fran stood in front of me, holding my butcher's knife above her head. Trees fell all around her. She yelled through the raging fire.
“You filthy bastard! Why didn't you just let me be??? Look what you've done. Look what you've turned me into! Is this your idea of love???”
I spat in her face. She kicked me in the chest.
“Useless!” she said, crying. “Look at you....Pathetic! You have no
money, no future – no car. You're useless to me!”
She walked toward me as she spoke, still holding that blade in the air with both hands. It was getting so noisy with flames, she was literally screaming her words.
“YOU'RE USELESS TO ME!”
I crawled back.
A sharp whizzzzzz sound shot through the air.
Something blasted through Fran's chest. She dropped the knife and looked down at the situation.
It was a spear.
She gripped it...and turned around.
Someone naked ran out of the woods.
Carmen.
She picked up the knife and grinned. She said, “Finally!” and cut Fran's head off in one go. She picked it up and tossed it into the burning UFO.
I stood up, weeping. “I can't believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “It's you. It's really you. You're alive!”
I walked over to hug her. Last I remember, she was looking at me all weird.
I wanted to kiss her. Tell her how sorry I was for all of the confusion – explain that Fran put a curse on me. It was all her fault. She was dead. The wicked witch was dead. Now we could live happily ever after. I saw us together – married, tons of children. We'd grow old together. Die together, in love.
“Baby!” I said, “I missed you!”
I ran to her.
CARMEN
The sky blew up. Can you believe it? Another sign! I ran after that fireball....God was helping me find Fran and Phil – leading the way. I was blessed! I found them outside that burning UFO. They were hugging and kissing and rubbing and pinching each other. I ran up to them. Phil saw me and jumped back – LAUGHING at me – laughing and pointing. Before Fran could figure out what he was going on about, I threw my spear through her back.
She turned around...giggling.
The sky flashed with lightning and a bolt struck the ground, leaving behind a huge butcher's knife. I picked it up.
“Finally!”
I cut Fran's head off, but it still laughed!
I threw it into the fire, into the UFO wreckage.
Phil was standing there, crying, hands over his mouth. He shook his fists at me, punched the air, gave a real fit, reminded me of a spoiled baby. “You killed my lover!” He ran toward me, screaming, “I'm gonna kill you!”
I yanked the spear out of Fran's body and ran it into Phil and lifted him off his feet and threw him into the fire – spear included (I didn't need it anymore). He danced around in there, cooking, giggling...kissing Fran's head. Then he just stood there, stiff and dead. I fell to my knees.
“It's all over,” I said. “I am at peace.”
I walked into town, looking for some clothes.
Some ruffians tried to give me static, but I shoved some spears in them. That seemed to shut them up real good. I found some clothing store called Horse's. I threw a rock at the window and climbed in and took this nice, red dress.
Cops showed up and wrestled me to the ground and threw me in jail. They asked me so many questions, I got a nose bleed. I kept responding to them, but they didn't like what they were hearing – said I was acting retarded, that I was crazy, talking gibberish.
Next thing I knew, I was in the nut house. Each morning, they'd put me in a bathtub of cold water and give me shock therapy. My doctor would always drag me into his office and ask what my name was and where I was from; and then he'd show me a few inkblots and demand I tell him what I saw. I was always honest, just like how I was with those cops, but everything I said just angered him. He always shook his head and said into a phone, “All gibberish. Someone call an exorcist.”
He said I wasn't making any sense.
So it was off to the tub with me.
On and on this went: Shock treatment, same questions, inkblots, confusion, sadness, repeat....
One day, they shocked me and all the lights in the place blew out. I yelled at one of the doctors that there was an angry, murderous clown waiting to kill him at his house, but this doctor just slapped me, not believing me, told me to shut up. An hour later, he was on the news, stabbed to death in his home by a disgruntled clown.
I didn't get anymore shock treatments after that whole thing.
Nah.
After that, they just kept me in my room. Stuck tubes up my nose and drove wires through my scalp.
Strrrrange world.
I remember being in bed and hearing music. My nurse was playing guitar. I asked what song she was playing.
“Ah!” she said. “Fernando Sor. 'Study in B minor, Opus 35, No. 22'. Do you like it?”
“It's beautiful,” I said. “When I get out of here...I'm going to learn it.”
Months later, my doctor comes into my padded cell and starts kissing me and touching me. I let him. I missed being liked that way. Made me feel all fuzzy inside. It was nice. Some days, he even made me dinner. He'd sneak me out and take me to his place and make love to me. He'd promise me nice things – how he was going to steal me away one day and make things all better.
“We can live in New York,” he'd always say. “Would you like that?”
He said I was talented, and that I could make us a lot of money. We'd live like royalty!
But no, I wouldn't be in that mental place for long. A miracle happened. Yes, another one. I told you, I was being looked after. God got me out of there. He sent down one of his finest! That Pope waved around a document and ordered my freedom, pushed around a few doctors, made things happen.
I have a job now.
That Pope needed me. He said I was taking over someone's position, you understand....Said the other woman died of old age. Said she was 120! Worked for him for over fifty years. Amazing....
I can see things from faraway. My doctor calls it remote viewing. If the Pope needs to know something about someone, he gives me something to draw on, and I show him where said person is, and what they're doing. It's good being useful. I feel loved.
My doctor is with me, too. He watches over me. Makes sure I get my medication. He bought me a classical guitar, and I've been playing it ever since. It relaxes me. Makes me sane. I have to remember to thank that nurse for telling me about that song. It's all I ever play. It's my medicine. Sometimes the Pope parks the van out by a stream and I sit and play for everyone. They all enjoy it. They all smile and clap. It's wonderful....And I don't need anything else. Just that song. I don't need anyone else. Just that song. I am in love with it.
“Fernando Sor. 'Study in B minor, Opus 35, No. 22'.”
The End
Ghost City
IS IT A GHOST PORTAL?
By Sister Janice Raterraw
(Reprinted with permission from The Hawaii Trumpet; issue 3.)
A mysterious portal opened in the clouds over Honolulu recently. Many witnesses are claiming to see ghosts flying out from it. Highly respected, intellectual individuals, such as Father Wham Smith, owner of Kimo Church in Makaha, said the following:
Guests wanting to see the portal must call two months in advance to be on the waiting list. Please, no flash photography and no babies. The constant crying appears to aggravate the ghosts. And remember: “No shoes, no shirt, no entry.”
(Remainder of article eaten and unreadable.)
CHAPTER ONE
CURRENTLY AT GHOST CITY
….And then I held my breath and shoved my fist into the woman's stomach and gripped intestine. When I gave it a good yank, all her mess came out in glittering shades of red this and red that. I shut my mouth and eyes...warm splatter all over my face. A terrible thought struck me: If a cannibal's blood got into my face-holes, will I wake up one day craving human flesh...like this girl...like all those people...like a cannibal? Eating human meat? The idea was sickening.
The white woman grabbed my neck and squeezed, so I pulled out more guts. My hands had a hard time yanking. Very difficult. Like holding on to greased rope. I think the cannibal woman was British. She kept yelling, “I'll eat ya! Yes! You better kill me! Ahhh!” She was yelling through the pain. Then h
er eyes rolled back white, and she fell on me and pinned me to the grass. Again with the warmth – this time all over my belly, some liquid running down into my pants and around my back.
When she fell, her forehead CONKED against mine and left a big bump. Her mouth was over my mouth, and I could smell her stink, dead-meat breath. Jesus, her tongue touched mine. I was surprised; I wasn't turned on. If I may be honest, I felt guilty.
I was lonely.
I needed company.
After that fight, I tried not killing. I tried making new friends.
One time, I was walking through downtown, and a little boy – I don't know, age 15 – jumped off a bus and tackled me to the ground. I pressed my feet on his belly and kicked out and sent him flying – crashing – through a store window. He ran back out and jabbed his finger at me. He was weeping. Glass was all up in his face.
“Gimme back my knife!” he begged.
I looked down and saw his blade's handle sticking out from my shoulder. I pulled it out and made a deal with him. I would give his knife back, but only if he agreed to sit down and chat with me about religion and movies and books and current events. But he had to be real about it – no fake interest in what I had to say. The boy cocked his head and looked at me weird. He said, “You crazy or sumtin'?” I took offense and threw the knife at him, thinking that he'd grab it and run off. But naw.
He just stood there like a cat in headlights, and the knife hit his forehead.
He went down, wiggling like a fish...froze with his hands clawed in the air...and, well...just stayed that way. I assumed he was dead.
I was horrified...saddened. To make myself feel better, I dragged him to Kaka'ako Park and dug a shallow grave on one of those green hills overlooking the ocean and dead ships. That park – all the tourists used to go there to take their wedding pictures. I looked at my aching hands, then said a little prayer.
“Oh yay, oh yay,” I went. “Please God, accept this poor, murdered soul into your flock and/or herd. Let this young, dead boy ride on the back of your holy lion. Father...please forgive me for killing one of your own. Damn. I'm sorry. He tried to eat me out! I am ashamed...so shamed. Please forgive and forget. Master, please! Stop damning me! I don't wanna go to Hell – that hot, hot place!”
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