The Assassination of Satan

by Curtis Houck

  The Assassination of Satan

  Copyright 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the author at the following address: curtishouck2@gmail.com

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  THE OJO

  About, I don’t know, maybe a month or two before my junior year in high school, I chopped off my pigtails, dyed my hair blue, and replaced my pastel jumper with a mini-skirt.

  What can I say?

  I tried to meet my new stepfather halfway. Thing is the scythe painted on the wall in dripping scarlet strokes sort of creeped me out, and despite the scent of rosemary permeating our clay bungalow, part of me wondered if that was hamburger in the spaghetti and not, you know, human flesh.

  Still, judge not, lest ye be judged, right?

  “Querida, would you like to say grace?”

  “Sure, Mom,” I said. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy—”

  A gasp, followed by a high-pitch squawk and the clatter of silverware greeted my intonation. So not the response I hoped for.

  My mother exhaled a deep breath, and poured herself a glass of wine before brushing aside a lock of thinning salt-and-pepper hair to expose her prune-like face, complete with these drooping brown bags underneath her eyes. “Please respect Allen’s rules.”

  “Come now, Maria. I’m sure she meant no disrespect.” With his violet-tinted glasses, grey ponytail, and tie-dye shirt, my stepfather resembled an overweight hippie. But stroking the head of that albino raven perched on his shoulder pretty much gave away his true intentions. I swear the bird’s beady pink eyes, rolling around in its sockets like some evil spirit possessed it, penetrated the recesses of my mind, uncovering my deepest secrets. “She brings up a good point, though. We need to discuss my…lifestyle.”

  I exhaled a deep breath of my own. Like mother, like daughter. Ugh. “Look, Allen, this whole Satanic thing is evil. There’s not exactly anything to discuss.”

  “At least he’s around.” My brother, decked out in a flannel hoodie, baggy cargo shorts, and leather boots laced up to his knees, ran his fingers through his long, greasy hair, and then continued in this creepy baritone, a fitting voice for his new ambition in life—to become the lead singer of a death metal band. Yep, see you later, engineering scholarship. “Unlike Dad.”

  “Fine. Sorry, Allen. You’ve been good to us. I just can’t accept that Satan’s path is the right path. Not yet, anyway. Now, will you please pass the breadsticks?”

  An awkward silence fell over the dinner table, yet Allen went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “No hard feelings, Querida. Old programming can’t be changed overnight. But we must give thanks to Lucifer before we eat. Eddie, care to do the honors?”

  “Absolutely.” Again, my brother ran his fingers through his hair before continuing in that unnerving voice. “Our Creator who art in hell, sacred is thy eternal name. Bringer of daily indulgences, thy infernal kingdom awaits your will on Earth as it is in hell. Deliver us from ignorance, and lead us toward Armageddon. For thine is the glory, the power, and the empire forever and ever. Hail Satan!”

  Yeah, why would I ever think God’s path was wrong?

  I mean, seriously, how could Armageddon be a good thing? Fire demons would be whipping the children building sandcastles across the street. And the sparkling aquamarine waves the surfers rode would be waves of smoldering lava if Armageddon started. The groves of palm trees would be reduced to nothing more than radioactive ash, and the sky would always be dark, thick columns of smoke filtering out the abundant sunshine. It wouldn’t just be here in Acreditar, either. The whole world would be enslaved by Satan’s army.

  “You’re not hungry, Querida?”

  “It’s not that, Mom. I’m just—”

  “Hey, we might not share the same beliefs,” Allen said, digging into his spaghetti. “Still, we’re family. You can tell us anything.”

  “I’m just—”

  Allen’s raven let loose another squawk, and Eddie tossed the impish bird a chunk of his breadstick. “See, even Corvo agrees. Really, Sis, you can trust us.”

  “I’m just…just…just not sure why I’ve been so moody today. Can I go lay down, or something?”

  My mother poured another glass of wine. “By all means. Join me for tea later. Maybe we can work through what’s bothering you together.”

  Can anyone say weird-o-rama?

  “Right. Sure thing, Mom.”

  I ran upstairs, plopped down on my bed, and analyzed my poster of God arm wrestling Satan for something like the trillionth time. The knowing look in God’s eyes. Or, was that fear? The strain of Satan’s bicep. Or, was that strength? Ever since I was a little girl, I had no doubt God would win this epic encounter.

  Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  And who was the true bad guy? Of course, it was Satan. Except was this whole Satanic thing really evil? Satanism was just what Allen believed, after all. How was that any different than, let’s say, Islam? Or, I don’t know, Buddhism? Or, Christianity, for that matter?

  No!

  This couldn’t be happening. But it was. And there was only one thing to do, something I always did when life got rough. I called my best friend, Rafaela.

  “You’ve got to help me,” I screamed into the phone. “I’m turning to the dark side!”

  “Magic Bench,” Rafaela screamed back. “Now!”

  Guess that tea would have to wait. Hopefully, my mother would understand. Either way, I wasn’t about to go back downstairs. Instead, I opened the window, climbed down the drainpipe, and dropped onto the manicured lawn, sticking the landing perfectly. Bronze medal in gymnastics, my ass. I so deserved the gold.

  Well, at least the silver, anyway.

  Ω

  Rafaela and I never understood why the limestone bench always remained empty. We didn’t question our good fortune, either. We just called it the Magic Bench, and sort of left it at that. Over the years, the bench became our rendezvous point, and because it was enclosed by thick, intertwined palm tree branches, it also became the one place where we could hide from the rest of the world. Sure enough, Rafaela was already on the bench, scribbling away in her journal. But when she noticed my new look, her eyes widened to the size of large coins and her journal fell out of her lap.

  “Oh, my God, girl. What did you do?” The salt-tinged breeze blew Rafaela’s blue-black curls behind her, like strands of seaweed, while she caressed the lizard sleeping on her knee. “It’s so…so—”

  “Goth?”

  “Nah.”

  “Satanic?”

  “Bingo.” Rafaela stopped caressing the lizard, and picked up her journal. “Take it the judge ruled in Allen’s favor? Of course, a big-shot music producer like him can afford to keep Judge Santos in his back pocket.”

  I sat down next to Rafaela on the moss-covered bench. “It’s not like that.”

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “Really, it’s not like that. Papa never showed for the custody hearing. Judge Santos had no choice but to rule in Allen’s favor.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So, what’re you writing, anyway?”

  “Some story.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “There’s this teenage girl, right? She’s going to start her junior year in high school soon. With me so
far?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “She used to be a devout Christian, listened to classical music, and wanted to study computer science. Then, her mother married this manipulative bastard—”

  “Let me guess,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Now, she dresses like some punk wannabe and sacrifices virgins.”

  “Got the punk wannabe part right. But she’s way more into sacrificing newborn babies.”

  “Suppose she drinks blood instead of coffee, too.”

  “Exactly. It’s like you’re inside this character’s head.” Rafaela chased away the lizard, chewed on the cap of her pen, and scribbled something in her journal. “Think…think…think I’ll call her—”

  “You’ve made your point.”

  “Don’t interrupt. I’ve reached the epiphany barrier.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s when an author finally gets it. That ah-ah moment. Feel me? Think…think…think I’ll call her…Querida. That’s the perfect name. You’re a lifesaver, girl.”

  I dug into the pocket of my skirt, and yanked out one of the few remaining remnants of my life before my mother married Allen—my ivory crucifix. “Hello! Would a Satanist have this? I just want to give Allen a chance before passing judgment on him.”

  “Why?”

  “Mom and Eddie are happier now and, well, it’s kind of nice having dinner with my family every night.”

  “Newsflash! Your father is never around because he’s a Luchador. He’s following God’s orders. And who is God’s sworn enemy? That would be Satan.”

  “Lucifer.”

  “Satan. Lucifer. What’s the difference? A Satanist’s goal is what?” I tried to steer the course of the conversation back to Rafaela’s writing. Unfortunately, she refused to be swayed. “Huh? What’s their goal? It’s to start Armageddon, isn’t it?”

  “Trust me. I know Armageddon isn’t cool. But—”

  “What’s your excuse now?”

  “See, yesterday Allen told me this story from the Satanic Bible,” I said, pocketing my crucifix. “Actually, I overheard him telling it to Eddie—”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Well, the story got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, God’s path isn’t…never mind, the story is pretty long.”

  “Pitch it to me, then.”

  “Like, what, baseball?”

  It was Rafaela’s turn to roll her eyes. “Nah. Pretend I’m your agent and pitch me the story. A short summary. Get it now?”

  God, Rafaela’s aspiring author bit got so annoying.

  “Right. Here goes nothing. So, um, Lucifer…Satan…used to be God’s favorite son, despite his grotesque, goat-like face. God even loved Lucifer more than Jesus. In fact, it was Jesus’s jealousy that forced Lucifer to confront God about being too powerful. This confrontation made God so angry He cast Lucifer from heaven and imprisoned him in hell for eternity. There. How’s that for a pitch?”

  “Could use more showing and less telling. Not bad for an amateur, though. And you actually believe that bullshit?”

  “Not really. But would a compassionate God allow so much suffering?”

  “Individual choices cause suffering.”

  “What about the innocent children slaughtered in wars?”

  “Individual choices.”

  “Murder? Rape? Drugs? Incest?”

  “Look, Querida, all I’m saying is you need to talk to your father about this…this crisis of faith you’re having. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said, pumping fists with Rafaela. “We’re still cool, right?”

  “Do you have to ask? By the way, you’re not driving Allen’s BMW to Gloria Church.” Rafaela pulled back a couple palm tree branches. The sounds of seagulls, screaming children, and traffic inundated our sacred space. “See that taxi over there? That’s your ride.”

  Reluctantly, I poked my head into reality. The taxi driver seemed more interested in the college girls playing volleyball than taking the tourists to their destinations. But Rafaela was right. H-Town wasn’t exactly the best place to be driving BMWs. “Yeah, I see it. Call you when I get home.”

  “You’d better, girl.”

  Ω

  The sun, a reddish-orange disc, played peek-a-boo with the rolling emerald hills by the time the taxi sputtered to a stop across the street from a dilapidated church with a splintered cross nailed to the top of its sloping roof. Gloria Church. Acreditar’s unofficial city limits—the part the City Council wanted the tourists to be aware of, anyway. Of course, they conveniently forgot to include H-Town in their picturesque brochures.

  After paying the listless driver, I hopped over a stick-thin dog wrestling some half-dead carcass…and felt a cold metal blade slide against my throat.

  “Who sent you?”

  I tried to reply, but my lungs were as useless as deflated balloons.

  “Mayor Vernon? Judge Santos? Police Chief Morton—”

  Somehow, I got my lungs working again. “Papa…it’s…it’s me.”

  “Querida?” My father lowered his knife. As he spun me around, his hazel eyes widened within his gold mask, just like Rafaela’s did earlier. Can anyone say déjà vu? “It can’t be.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “Guess I didn’t recognize your new look. Take it Judge Santos ruled in Allen’s favor?”

  Not this crap again!

  “What did you expect? You no-showed the custody hearing.”

  “Everyone, especially your mother, knows why I wasn’t there.”

  “Look, Papa, I didn’t come here to talk about the divorce, okay? I just wanted to, you know, see how you’re doing, and everything.”

  “You’re right,” my father said, his body relaxing as a grin filled the mouth of his mask. “It’s been far too long, my sweet little angel. How’s Eddie? Did he accept that engineering scholarship?”

  “Um, he’s still thinking about it.” I didn’t have the heart to tell my father about my brother’s new rock star ambitions. “There’s some good news, though. His therapist—”

  “When did Eddie start seeing a therapist?”

  “Last year. Right after you and Mom separated. Remember?”

  My father’s body tensed once more. I could picture his anvil-like jaw clenching under his mask. “Can’t say I do. Then again, it might help if someone filled me in on what’s happening from time to time. I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”

  “Doesn’t your mask give you the power of telepathy?”

  “That’s not how it works. Another thing—”

  “Anyway, Eddie’s therapist lowered his anti-depressant dosage. He should be completely off the meds in a few months. Isn’t that good news?”

  My father shuffled his booted feet, and remained silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice wavered. “Sure it is. We should talk inside, though. One never knows where the Segadors might be hiding.”

  Eerie candlelight threw shadows across the cracked stone aisle bisecting Gloria Church as I followed my father toward the velvet curtain covering the back wall. Sighing, my father waved a gnarled hand at one of the dusty pews lining the aisle.

  “Have a seat,” my father said, gazing up at the stained-glass window depicting Jesus hanging on the cross that spread over the water-stained wall next to the pews. “Do you still have that disc I gave you?”

  “Yeah, I have it.”

  “Remember what I told you.”

  “I know, Papa. Some guy with these…these horn-rimmed glasses will ask me about the disc, and I’m to tell him I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Not that I knew what was on the disc, or anything. Or, who this man was supposed to be, for that matter. The only man I could think of who wore glasses like that was my father’s older brother, and I was pretty sure Thiago wouldn’t do anything bad. Then again, I hardly knew anything about my uncle, either.

  Yeah, communication between my family wasn’t exactly our strong point…until Allen moved in, that is.

  My fa
ther looked away from the window, and paced around the pews. “I know you don’t like all these secrets. You’ve got to trust me, though. The less you know, the better. What’s on that disc could destroy the human consciousness.”

  “Like, what, Armageddon?”

  “Much worse than Armageddon, I’m afraid,” my father said, sighing again. “Just make sure no one finds the disc, okay?”

  “I’ll keep it safe. But what if, I don’t know, Armageddon isn’t that big of a deal to begin with? Guess that’s pretty much what I came here to talk to you about. I mean, is Satanism really evil?”

  My father stopped pacing, and folded his muscular arms across his barrel-like chest. “What’s Allen been teaching you?”

  “Seriously, what’s the difference between Satanism and Christianity?”

  My father’s gaze shifted back to the stained-glass window before settling on the velvet curtain. “Do you know what’s behind that curtain?”

  “The Gateway, I guess. At least that’s what you called it when I was younger. It’s what El Corazon Blanco chose you to protect. It’s your duty. I get it. Really, I do, even if Eddie doesn’t understand. But what’s it a gateway to?”

  “El Corazon Blanco didn’t choose me to protect the Gateway. He chose me to protect this.” My father opened a wooden box sitting on a lectern beneath the window, and withdrew a medallion connected to a gold-linked chain. The medallion was carved out of onyx and shaped like a pentagram. A goat’s head inlaid with rubies stood transfixed within a diamond-studded eye. “This is the Ojo. It opens the Gateway.”

  “You never answered my question, Papa. What’s it a gateway to?”

  “It’s…it’s Earth’s gateway to…hell.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that medallion opens the gates of hell?”

  “Exactly.” My father handed me the medallion. “Now, if Armageddon isn’t that big of a deal, go unleash Satan’s army. It will save me and the other Luchadors a lot of trouble, since the Segadors won’t be a threat anymore. You’ll be doing their job for them.”

  As soon as I touched the medallion, my doubts vanished. A calm certainty filled my mind. Allen was right; my father had been wrong all these years.