Belly

by Reverend Steven Rage

  BELLY

  A Brutal Bible Tale

  by

  The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

  Chapter One

  Our hapless prophet finds himself in the

  Wrong damn place at the wrong damn time:

  THE blood that blossomed from the center of his chest was only a trickle when it should have been a torrent. The sharpened ice pick stuck there quivered like a plucked piano chord. The dealer eyed the plastic dirty duct taped handle, then the emaciated junkie bitch that had just stabbed him. The fiend still crowed about his weak shorted sack whilst the dealer grasped the pick with his strong hand. He tugged fiercely, but it would not budge. The ice pick was buried in the hard bone of his sternum. He should have been grateful. Two inches to the left and there would be one less nigga in The Harbor.

  No matter how hard the dealer tried it would not pull free. The dealer was staring at it, getting more and more frustrated at the bone encased ice pick. The fiend’s pealing was getting on his tits and that was a problem he could solve. The dealer let go of the ice pick and a hidden snub-nose emerged from his waistband. He pointed it at the whiny little bitch and made the angry spewing face vaporize in an instant red fog. It was finally quiet enough to think, the loud fuck.

  As if on cue everybody ran but a long greasy-haired Jonah. “Shouldn’t even be here,” he mumbled.

  The shaken dealer having heard yet another motherfucker open his pie hole turned and pointed the hot muzzle at Jonah. His face paled. Too frightened to move He shit himself. Jonah was going to die right here, right in the very last place he wanted to be. Jonah found himself staring at a loaded gun pointing bleak and hard into him.

  The dealer fired point blank into Jonah’s chest. He felt the concussion shove him away. He folded his shoulders to each other and collapsed backwards onto the walk. Another customer standing beside Jonah made a dumb move on the dealer; the snub-nose stopping him dead in his tracks. Pieces of junkie speckled the others, dying as he fell.

  Jonah’s chest was bloodless and clean. He searched the front of his torso and found nothing. Jonah couldn’t believe it. There were no wounds of any kind; not one. He looked up a grinning fool relieved. The dealer was not amused. And Jonah’s smile lasted not long.

  The dealer seeing Jonah unscathed stepped up again. This time the dealer dropped to one knee to get closer to him and pressed the smoking muzzle to Jonah’s shiny-slick forehead. It hissed where it touched his sweaty fearful skin. He pulled the trigger and Jonah’s bowels erupted again. The smell of fear and waste was thick fudgey-goo, but he remained alive and unmolested.

  The dealer stood and stepped back. Confusion smeared across his sweating face as he stared at his smoking gun trying to determine why Jonah was still standing while the other junkie lay dead at his feet.

  The dealer’s face then contorted from confusion to unquenchable pain as the chest-buried ice pick moved all on its own. As if grasped by an invisible hand the pick burrowed deeper fast into the sternum with a sloppy crunch. Then a quick snap handle right. The sharp point tore into heart muscle ripping great blood vessels as it traveled, stopping suddenly.

  Blood drained wide from the dealer’s face as his chest filled with the blood that was supposed to feed his brain. Silent, he fell and all was quiet. For about six and a half seconds the dealer was a dropped stone. He folded in a crumpled heap right next to a stunned Jonah.

  He was then in the dead man’s pockets as if by rote without thinking. The rest of the fiends standing close by followed suit, but not before Jonah was able to procure a healthy sack. It contained dealer weight and probably shouldn’t be in his pocket.

  Not one to look a motherfucker in the mouth Jonah pushed the free dope down by his nuts and turned to run. A big man with long chin braids stood tall before him. He smiled at Jonah like he knew him. And man he was a big fucker too. He seemed like he was waiting for Jonah to say something to him, but he don’t know this apparition.

  “See you later, Jonah,” chin braids told him.

  Jonah blinked and chin-braids vanished. He dissolved right before his astonished eyes.

  Who the hell was that and how does he know my name?

  Jonah heard shouting now and decided it would be prudent to quickly get the fuck up out of there. So, he ran.

  Jonah was out of there in a flash. He quickly skirted the nearby park, running hard. Jonah looked over his shoulder, his out of shape breathing making much noise. The dead dealer’s shorties were hard on his ass. Skinny fourteen year-olds are fast and these little niggas had guns. They were gaining on him.

  Jonah glanced behind him and saw the lead shorty raise an auto pistol. He loosed a girlish squeal and turned left on a dime. He was ducking and covering my head like the sky was falling. Chips of brick building peppered his exposed skin, bullets tearing up the wall. Jonah negotiated another sharp turn. He exited the park running full bore between two buildings. He quickly emerged into a residential block of tight two-story houses.

  Jonah leaped a low chain linked fence and landed in a darkened backyard. The occupants of the still quiet house were long asleep. His fear was over-ripe and all reason a glimmer, causing Jonah to dive head-first into the occupied doghouse. The chained animal awoke. Before he even knew what was what Jonah had the dog’s head twisted all the way back around on itself. The neck broke hard, but was muffled by the bear-like fur. He hoped it was quiet enough. The dog stared over its back at its own tail through dead eyes. Jonah let loose the dog’s head and set it quiet down. He had never killed anything in his life, but Jesus shit Jonah was scared.

  Jonah tried to slow his breathing and the ragged noise that came with it. He hoped he’d outrun his pursuers, but it was not to be. The shorties were there. Jonah could hear them moving about. He closed tight his eyes and bit his knuckles. Jonah wished desperately to vanish, to will himself away, but he could not.

  After a few fearful moments when Jonah heard not a sound he forced open his eyes. He stared out the doghouse and up at the night. No stars out tonight only feet.

  Jonah saw baggy-ass jeans and the way they terminated into a pair of size twelves. The owner of which began to squat on his haunches. The auto pistol touched the grass and a young boy’s face appeared sweat-dotted sideways in the doghouse opening.

  The boy smiled at Jonah, not saying a word. He guessed it was interesting to the little dude to see a grown man cry. He was dragged whimpering from the doghouse by the pair of gun-toting shorties. They had Jonah by the scruff of his shirt and were pulling him kicking across dew-damp grass beneath a bulging yellow moon.

  The two boys stood over Jonah’s cowed ass. A third stopped before the group panting hard.

  “That him?” the new arrival asked as he fought to catch his breath. They nodded. “Well,” top dog continued, “put your shit in his mouth.”

  The boy that found Jonah first put the evil auto pistol end to his lips. “Open up sweetheart,” he ordered.

  Jonah responded by uselessly turning his head away. The other two kicked him viciously in the stomach and my legs. For fun they stomped his feet. Jonah exhaled with an involuntary grunt. The auto slid roughly into his opened mouth with all the finesse of a prison date.

  Jonah turned red. His eyes bulged impossibly. His diaphragm was an immobile spasm and the cold metal rattled Jonah’s expensive dental work.

  “Get the Plata off the fuck and push out his wig,” the top dog ordered.

  The shorty on standby put his weapon on the doghouse and bent to Jonah. The boy undid the belt. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped him. Jonah was flustered and red-faced. The boy began to tug Jonah’s chinos roughly down when they were greeted with fecal assault. The boy stood and cursed. He backed away from Jonah and the stink. Top dog covered his nose and mouth. He looked to th
e auto pistol holder. The boy kept his shit in Jonah’s mouth, but blinked and coughed. He appeared to be on the verge of dumping his pork chops.

  “Fuck it,” top dog decided, “Kill the motherfucker. Then hose his ass off and get the dope.”

  Chapter Two

  The Calvary arrives:

  The boy with the auto smiled with relief. He positioned himself in a straddle-stance and held his shit with both hands. He was gonna shoot through the front and blow out the back of Jonah’s head with one clean shot. No one-handed bent wrist bullshit. He didn’t want the bullet to angle off through a cheek or jaw. Straight dome was his due. Jonah’s diaphragm finally dropped and filled his lungs with air. A scream erupted from him as the shorty squeezed the trigger. As Jonah screamed and cowed the auto pistol bucked, spouted flame and shot a dozen bullets into at him at point blank range.

  His own pitiful scream was the last thing Jonah heard.

  * * * *

  A formless Pedro entered the back yard just as the top dog ordered Jonah to be shot. Invisible, the grass bent beneath his unseen feet. Pedro stood still and watched as the trigger was pulled. Jonah bounced around on the ground as the bullets buffeted him.

  Pedro exhaled in frustration and shook his head. He made his way across the moonlit back yard to where Jonah lay staring at the polluted starless sky staring at naught. Pedro came up from behind my moonlight attackers and reached for one of pair’s jersey collar. He grabbed hold and tugged the boy fiercely back to him and then shoved him forward and into the boy straddling Jonah. The two boys fell into a heap together a few feet away. They both looked back, but saw nothing. They heard Pedro’s amused cackle. They heard movement coming toward them.

  The two boys saw how the grass bent and then nothing as Pedro smacked their skulls together with a crackling bony crunch. Jonah’s attackers fell dead at his feet. The top dog seeing his boys so easily felled by an unseen foe, turned on heel and ran away. Pedro returned to form. He scooped Jonah up off the ground and carried him swiftly away.

  Chapter Three

  How to deal with a downturn in the

  local narcotics trade:

  Salome The Harbor Herod showered, got dressed and then broke her morning fast. She shared her table with Tacitus her Second in Command and their rising star Job. Together they covered the current numbers and discussed next month’s projections. The dope sales of Plata were down to their lowest since Herod’s predecessor was retired in a palace coup by Salome and Tacitus. Nearly every one of the last few months has shown a drop in the distribution from her end. The street level dealers haven’t peddled Plata anywhere near the numbers they were prior to Pilate’s death and Immanuel’s crucifixion.

  The followers of El Cristo were gaining ground in The Harbor while Salome’s organization was losing theirs. The Pharisees who were running the whole show from their lofty perch in Big City were still missing. If the Pharisees were still around the steady drop in drug sales would have ceased to be Salome’s problem. For she would have been far too busy being dead to give a shit.

  The Herod dismissed the men from her breakfast table, but bid Tacitus to stay. Salome needed some special attention from Tacitus. It had been a long time. Tacitus agreed to meet as soon as he was done giving Job today’s orders.

  Tacitus and Job were whispering to one another as soon as they left the room. Salome could hear them chattering. She wondered if she should be worried.

  Chapter Four

  Yes. Salome should be worried:

  Tacitus had consumed his sausages and eggs without tasting them. He had a lot on his mind. Salome’s Second was feigning interest in her bullshit sales projections. She didn’t know shit from shinola. Both the sales and subsequent profits were way down and the dealers were getting restless. She had no clue as to why. The Harbor’s drug trade was controlled to the point where Tacitus knew all the dealers because the vast majority of them worked under him. He allowed a few cowboys to sling independently, but they were all watched very closely and were quashed if they got too big for their britches. Therefore if sales were plummeting the source can be traced. Salome didn’t know shit. Tacitus knew they were straight losing customers permanently to the New Christians. Specifically a big, scary motherfucker known only as Pedro and a young lady named Mary Magdalene. It was the two of them that were coaxing the fiends, their Plata customers, away from the drug. Then, according to wild rumor and innuendo, Mary Magdalene and Pedro healed them from the urges. The fiends, so they say, never go back to Plata. They are healed from the infliction for all time.

  That’s what they say. From what Tacitus has seen, there must be a lot of truth to that claim. Their organization was losing customers steadily.

  This was no small loss. Tacitus estimated a core drop to the tune of thousands of junkies lost. That’s money out of their coffers and the Herod was clueless. Salome had no idea that this was the real reason. Tacitus planned on keeping this shit to himself. It was getting very near time for him to make his move. Fixing this problem will cause a resurgence of the fiends and justify taking the bitch out. If he only knew what happened to his bosses.

  Tacitus had sent Job earlier in the week to find out on the low just what the hairyfuck happened to Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee. The pair’s chief cook and bottle washer Matthias had also gone missing. Job relayed what he’d found as they left Salome’s breakfast meeting.

  “What did you get?” he whispered to Job as he rounded a corner. They were deep inside the old steel refinery Compound.

  “The Pharisees’ mail is piling up. There is no one inside their penthouse,” Job quietly replied. Tacitus looked all about spying no one nearby. He pulled Job to him.

  “Do you know this for sure? They could be holed up inside.”

  “Don’t think so,” replied Job. “I’ve checked out the utility usage for the last year.” He pulled the report out a one of his pockets and ran a finger down the printout. “The gas and electric together remained steady up until three months ago.” Job’s finger slid down and stopped at the most recent usage. “From that point further there is a sharp drop.”

  “Who’s been paying the bills?”

  “Their accountants have,” Job answered. “The account the Pharisees use for household expenses is still flush,” he continued, “to the tune of eighty grand.”

  “The Pharisees could still be around, then,” Tacitus countered.

  Job replied, “There’s been no deposits or cash withdrawals in – can you guess how long?”

  “Three months,” answered Tacitus, thinking.

  “That’s right, three months. There’s more,” Job continued. “I know where Matthias got himself to.”

  Tacitus raised his eyes, “Where?” he asked.

  “The morgue,” Job replied. “He washed up from the Lake.”

  Tacitus chuckled. “No shit,” he said. “I guess that makes sense. No one has returned my phone calls. Have they determined a cause of death yet?”

  “Yeah,” Job said, “nigga overdosed on Plata.”

  “What?” asked an incredulous Tacitus, “You’ve got to be shitting me, Plata? Are you sure?”

  “Got the coroner’s report right here,” Job replied.

  Tacitus grabbed it and read quickly.

  “Yeah, it’s strange,” Job commented. “The toxicology shows over half a gram of Plata in his system, but nothing in the liver or the brain and none in the lungs.”

  “And they only found one track mark,” Tacitus said. It was very strange. He knew for absolute certain Matthias didn’t indulge. Motherfucker was all business.

  “He got killed, Boss.”

  “Looks like it,” Tacitus agreed. They fell silent.

  “What’s next?” Job asked him. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get ready,” Tacitus replied with a sly smile. “You are about to be promoted.”

  Job smiled back. “We’re going in then?” he asked.

  “To the Pharisees, don’t know yet,” Tacitus replied. He
was ready for the big move, but first things first. “I’ve got to go through the chain of command.”

  Job smiled. He said: “Just like the Army.”

  “Exactly right,” Tacitus agreed. Then he made to Job a request for a tool.

  Job raised his eyebrows at the strange request. He answered and Tacitus clapped him on the shoulder. Tacitus told him where he could be found. Job turned away from Tacitus and headed back the way he came. Wondering why the nigga needed a pair of pliers.

  * * * *

  Salome undressed and waited for her lover to appear. Tacitus said he wanted to meet in her bedchamber. She readily agreed. It has been several long weeks since he fucked her last and she was on the verge of recruiting a new toy. Salome was ready.

  Salome stood nude before the full-length mirror. The kilos she had acquired in the last few years puckered a bit in the back, but overall only added to her lovely curves. She turned from the glass and made her way across the floor to her huge bed.

  On the nightstands she lit thick candles and turned down the lights in the ceiling above her. Salome scooped up a remote and selected some soft rolling music. The lighting was just right. The incense she lit was pungent and delightful.

  Herod lounged back on her pillows. Waiting for Tacitus, Salome reached down between her legs and began playing with her shaved clean self.

  Waiting.

  Chapter Five

  Carpe Diem, nigga:

  Tacitus had his Herod’s lovely neck in both his hands and he was squeezing the life out. He was a wheezy oil rig pumping away on Salome’s plump spread thighs. Her moans quick now turned to garbled chokes.