Just to See Hell

by Chandler Morrison

  Body and Blood

  Sunday, July 6th, 2045

  St. Dominic Savio Cathedral

  Villa Vida, Ohio

  The boy steps from the minivan onto the hot, coal-black asphalt of the parking lot, feeling the shadow of the enormous church looming over him. He looks up at the towering white steeples and spires that shoot high into the cloudless blue sky, and then down at the masses of people filing into the huge wooden doors propped open and welcoming to the town’s devoted fellowship of devout worshipers.

  He grits his teeth.

  “Mommy,” he says to the overweight woman wriggling her way out of the driver’s seat, “I don’t wanna go.”

  His mother frowns down at him as she slams shut the car door. “Don’t be difficult, young man. Do you want me to tell your father about all your complaining?”

  The young boy, somewhat stout himself and well on his way to adopting the family tradition of obesity, scrunches his face up in a way that makes his round face appear even rounder. “Why doesn’t Daddy have to go?” he bleats. “How come he gets to stay home?”

  The mother takes her child by the arm and leads him, not altogether gently, across the parking lot towards the church doors. “We’ve been through this, Noah,” she snaps, annoyed. The relentless heat of the sun bearing down upon them and steaming up from the blacktop does nothing to improve her mood. Wiping sweat from her wide forehead with a saggy, meaty arm, she says, “Your father is a grownup, a very busy grownup, and he has things to do. Maybe someday when you’re a busy grownup, you can stay home and do busy grownup things, too.”

  It is known to her, but thankfully not yet to her son, that her husband’s “busy grownup things” consist of the heavily gluttonous consumption of cheap, shitty beer while watching his favorite football team lose every single Sunday.

  “How long till I’m a grownup?” Noah asks.

  “A long time.”

  “Like next year when I turn five?”

  “No, much longer than that. And even longer until you’re a busy grownup.”

  This silences the boy for the time being, and he looks as though he’s contemplating this response.

  A smiling deacon garbed gold and white in glittering robes greets them at the door, barring their entry and holding in his hands a large pewter bowl. “Pay your penance, please,” he says with his wide, amiable grin. “For yourself and for your child, as well.”

  With distracted automation, the woman digs two crumpled twenties from her purse and drops them into the bowl.

  “The Lord accepts your humble restitution, and your sins of the past seven days are forgiven. Say ‘hallelujah’, for your Savior Jesus Christ has cleansed your soul.”

  “Hallelujah,” the mother and son utter in unison, the boy knowing he will later be spanked if he does not comply.

  The deacon makes a cross in the air with the middle and index finger of his right hand, and then steps aside to allow them passage.

  When they enter the building, however, Noah says again, “I don’t wanna go, Mommy.” He struggles against her grip as she pulls him through the entry hallway towards the chapel and then adds, “It’s so boring. I never have any fun here.”

  His mother’s grip only tightens. “Keep your voice down,” she hisses, practically dragging him into the chapel and sitting with him at a pew in the back. “I’m a respected member of the community and I don’t want you spoiling that for me.”

  Jezebel is a sinner, perhaps much more so than most of her fellow churchgoers in the flock, but she is also the most regular attendee among them; every Sunday she reports to St. Dominic with religious consistency, and for eighteen years…ever since she’d been six years old…she’s never missed a single mass. Her devotion is unparalleled and unmatched, and she knows it, takes pride in it. And pride, of course, is a sin in and of itself, but she is striding up towards the deacon, pointed heels clicking as she walks, to pay a penance that will absolve even that most recent prideful sin. If she still feels that pride after entering the chapel, as she surely will, it is no great matter because she can take comfort in the knowledge that it too shall be absolved next Sunday. It is a cycle that keeps her soul pure despite her rampant impurities along the way.

  There is a man ahead of her, speaking with the deacon, the latter seeming displeased and agitated. The former is young and wholesome-looking, sporting a neat comb-over rendered shiny and hard with liberal hairspray application. He’s dressed in what is no doubt his Sunday Best…wrinkled beige slacks and a blue, too-large blazer that looks as though it’s fresh off the thrift store rack. His black loafers are scuffed and badly in need of a shining.

  As Jezebel draws nearer, the words being spoken become clearer, and the source of the issue is revealed.

  “…are no exceptions, sir, I do apologize,” the deacon is saying. “It would not do to have impure individuals amongst us in this holy place, and you cannot be purified if you do not pay penance.”

  “Please, just this once,” the young man pleads. “I’m…I’m on very hard times, my rent is overdue and my car just got repossessed. I just want to hear God’s word; I’m lost and need His guidance. I’ll pay double next time, I swear it.”

  “No exceptions,” the deacon repeats sternly. “Your soul is unclean, you must leave this place before you contaminate its holiness.” At that, as if summoned by some invisible angel, two more deacons appear, both broad-shouldered and of burly build, dressed in black robes. They seize the man and drag him across the lawn, their faces cold and expressionless. Onlookers are watching with the quiet, hidden delight that is so typical of humans when observing a dramatic scene such as this one. Some of the old women gasp when the young man is thrown to the curb; he tries to break his fall with his hands, but both of them break viciously at the wrists when they hit the asphalt. He shrieks in pain, and then the darkly dressed deacons proceed to throw rocks at him until he scampers away, sobbing.

  With this minor disturbance resolved, Jezebel struts smilingly up to the deacon, whom she knows a trifle more intimately than she should. She sees the lust in his eyes as she approaches, and she once again is filled with sinful pride, this time in the knowledge of her desirability. But she produces her penance from a purse otherwise filled with makeup and condoms, and as she drops the bill into the bowl, she feels the weight of that sin, and all the other sins of the past week, lift off her. She is clean and now within her place of worship, so everything has been righted. Her slate is clean, and she is a good person.

  She takes a seat in the back, smoothing her somewhat immodestly short skirt and crossing her long, tan legs, winking at the man at the end of the row.

  And so the cycle continues.

  Old Gladys is what you’d call a “bible-thumper”, or perhaps a bit more graphically, a “Jesus-humper”. This latter is actually a trifle more fitting, for she wears a gold band around her left ring finger and tells people that she’s “married to Christ”. Some lonely nights she masturbates with a now-slimy and -stinking Jesus figurine.

  She is the kind of woman who, at church, raises high her outstretched arms as though she were holding hands with God Himself, and she sings as loud as she can in a dire effort to drown out the voices around her. She is always the first to arrive and the last to leave so she can get in her necessary amount of prayer time within the great holy chapel. When the priest and his altar boys perform the initial steps of the Eucharistic ceremony, she whispers to herself in Latin and closes her eyes, imagining herself right there next to Christ on His crucifixion day, perhaps washing His feet with the very soap with which she washes herself, or giving Him water out of the bejeweled golden chalice from which she drinks inexpensive merlot on Wednesday nights.

  Today, just as every other Sunday, she sits in the front row. She is down on her knees, praying in Hebrew loudly enough for the family seated next to her to hear, all of them rolling their eyes and whispering about her, just as everyone in Villa Vida whispers about her. The teenagers of the town have been
known to call her “the Godfucker”.

  She knows they talk about her, and is bothered not. She knows that when Judgment Day comes…and she is sure that it is truly just around the corner…she will be Saved and the talkers and the eye-rollers will be damned to suffer the famines and plagues and all the other related tribulations.

  She thinks then they will not roll their eyes. She thinks then they will not talk quite so much.

  According to local record, St. Dominic Savio Cathedral is the largest and oldest church in Mudhoney County, but through all of its countless renovations and restorations, one would not know it and would likely doubt it if told so.

  The exterior is built from materials that seem impervious to the elements, remaining pristine and untarnished by any possible force of nature. It is rumored that nameless servants climb up its angled rooftops and towers to scrub them clean of bird shit, as no such fecal matter has ever been noted by the townsfolk. Others, Old Gladys the Godfucker among them, claim that the Holy Spirit has conjured a protective bubble around the monstrous establishment.

  Once inside, the churchgoer is greeted with a vast expanse of glossy marble and polished cedar, lined with 200 rows of plush pews, divided in the center by a wide walkway leading up to the altar. The seats are cushioned with soft red velvet, and the backs are fitted with squares of clear, form-molding jelly to provide maximum comfort. The floor is fashioned of aforementioned marble, and the walkway is carpeted with an embroidered rug colored a deep shade of violet. Worthy of mention is the fact that this rug never dirties, no matter how many filthy shoes tread upon it. Rumors surround this phenomenon, as well, none of which are quite interesting enough to describe here in detail.

  Particularly eye-catching are the fourteen pillars, seven on each far side of the chapel, all painted to depict a respective Station of the Cross. The artist behind each of these breathtaking masterworks has remained unknown, for they have been in place for as long as any of the oldest townspeople can recall. Ridiculous whisperings of ancient, long-dead European painters are abound, each more exceedingly unbelievable than the last. When questioned of their origin, those associated with the cathedral merely smile and shrug, saying things like, “I suppose it will always remain a mystery. Perhaps simply ’twas God who put them there.”

  Lastly, positioned up front is no mere pulpit of traditional structure, but instead something more resembling a high, raised stage as would be found in a theater or auditorium. Front and center of this stage lays the altar, tall and etched with ornate biblical carvings so intricate they could have been carved by elves of Tolkien lore. Farther back and slightly to the right of the altar is a huge wooden cross, sized and modeled as to resemble the infamous capital-C Cross as closely as possible, even spattered and streaked with dark crimson coloring for added effect. Paper doves hang overhead, held aloft by cords so fine thus rendered invisible.

  None of this stage is beheld, however, by the flock of churchgoers currently seated below, for it is obscured by gold-tasseled purple curtains that, as dictated by custom, remain closed until the start of the mass.

  In the priest’s quarters below the chapel, a timid young altar boy sits naked on the floor and watches Father Benway prepare for mass. The boy is cold and shivering, and there is a spot of blood on the carpet beneath him.

  The priest stands in the lavish bathroom, door partially ajar, staring at his aging and forlorn reflection with wounded wonderment. A neat line of cocaine…the sixth in the last hour…lies patiently waiting on the edge of the sink. He gingerly touches the wrinkled and softening flesh of his face, runs a tentative hand through his ever-thinning white hair.

  “Do you think I look old?” he calls to the altar boy.

  The boy is unsure of the correct answer. He does think the priest looks old…ancient, actually…but certainly such a response would once again bring about the dreaded dog collar. To say he looks young, however, wouldn’t be believable, and a lie could mean the collar, as well.

  He needn’t have worried, because before he can reply, the priest answers his own question and says, “I suppose I do, don’t I? Not terribly, but old all the same. It pains me to know that my days are growing shorter. I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones, and it is painful.”

  “I think you will live a very long time,” the boy says dutifully.

  Father Benway chuckles and bends over the sink to snort the line of blow with a ten dollar bill from last Sunday’s collection plate. “Go now, boy,” he says, sniffing loudly and rubbing his nose. “Dress yourself and go help the other children prepare the Eucharist.”

  * * *

  “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Thus speaks Father Benway from the altar, and his flock answers, “And more so with you.” Their tone is dry, deadpan, and disinterested. It is little more than a monotonous drone floating over their heads and echoing off the high walls of the chapel.

  Benway, however, does not notice this. He is, as ever, enthralled by the mass of people before him over whom he has dominance. They are beneath him, and they know it so they answer to him and do not question a word he says. He is their connection to God, and only he can lead them into the Promised Land. He knows all of this, and he is high on it.

  “Have mercy on us, O Lord,” he continues.

  “For we are worthless worms undeserving of your love.”

  “Show us, O Lord, your mercy.”

  “And grant us your salvation from our miserable, meaningless lives.”

  “And now, a reading from the Holy Gospel according to Peter.” Benway clears his throat and looks over his flock, numb teeth grinding, weary old heart palpitating in the excitement of it all. The collection plate is being passed around, and this titillates him further. He launches into his reading with fervent gusto. “Two Peter, Chapter Two, Verse One…‘But there were false prophets also among the people, even as there shall be false teachers among you, who privily shall bring in damnable heresies, even denying the Lord that bought them, and bring upon themselves swift destruction.’”

  He clears his throat again, can’t feel his mouth, feels like his words aren’t coming out right, second-guessing himself but quickly dismissing doubt in contented favor of aloof confidence.

  “This verse,” he continues, “is critical and substantial to our very existence as Christians. When we come here each Sunday, we must remember something when we receive Eucharist; we must remember that it is not just about the conversion of human flesh to holy flesh, it is not just about re-creating the suffering of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, but it is also about the punishment of the false prophets among us. Be they members of non-Christian churches or mere naysaying laypersons, they must be brought to justice. So today, when you consume this sacrifice, remember this…remember what our Lord asks of us: to bring swift destruction upon the false teachers among us.” His face is flushed with the exertion caused by the deliverance of such a powerful sermon. His palms are sweating, and these palms he lifts above his head, a signal for his flock to rise, and they do.

  * * *

  Backstage, two of the eldest altar boys are standing in the shadows, passing a bottle of the priest’s wine back and forth, both of them already a good ways towards drunk. Taking a large swig and handing the bottle to his companion, one of them says, “Haven’t heard from Davie and the others yet…think we should go check on ’em?”

  Wincing and coughing from the large gulp he has just downed, the other boy shakes his head. “No, I think they’re all right. Simon told me the Eucharist is a feisty one this week, but they’ve got Paul with them so I’m sure they’ll get everything squared away.” He shakes the bottle, tips it over, and watches with a frown as a sole drop of the mahogany-colored liquid drips from its neck. “Empty,” he says with sour disappointment.

  “Shit,” says the other boy. “I didn’t mean for us to drink the whole thing. What if old Benway notices it’s missing?”

  The boy with the empty bottle
scoffs. “That senile old loon wouldn’t notice if his fuckin cock was missing.”

  The other stifles a laugh. “It probably is…have you heard about those priests who are going, like, full-on celibacy and cutting their schlongs off ‘in the name of the Lord’? I think they’re calling them ‘Castros for Catholicism’, or some shit.”

  “That’s fucked-up. My parents keep pushing me to look into priesthood, but if that starts becoming the norm, you can count me outta that shit. Celibacy would be bad enough, but if I can’t even get in a good wank every now and again, what’s the point?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, we’re gonna be on soon, so let’s go get our knives. Just try to walk straight; it wouldn’t look real good if we were stumbling all over the place out there.”

  “And now,” says Benway, “this week’s sacrifice comes to us from the Mudhoney County Mosque of Mohammed. Pray, brethren, that this sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father.”

  “May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of His name, for our good, and the good of all His holy Church.”

  “Lift up your hearts,” he says.

  “We lift these evil black organs up to the Lord.”

  “Let us give thanks to the Lord, our God.”

  “It is right and just.”

  “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest. Damned is he who comes in the name of any who is not our Lord. Hosanna in the highest.” This all comes out in a too-quick, almost jumbled manner, but no one seems to notice. Benway takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he is the holiest man in this room, in this whole goddamn town, and that garbling his words every now and again due to a little too much coke is perfectly excusable. With another deep breath, he says steadily, “Let the sacrifice come forth.”