Pills-in-a-Little-Cup

by Rage, Reverend

  I look at Immanuel. Her wrists are bare once more. I sigh and shake my head. I exit the car, and come round to the passenger side. I open the door and help her out. She seem so small to me, deflated. I can no longer sense her abundant power. She is drained, leeched…ordinary.

  Immanuel stands beside the car, saying nothing. Herod’s cops pull up and park behind us. They file out of their vehicles. I see a small glint of shiny metal, the cuffs returning to Immanuel’s wrists. I look at her and she not back. She’s staring out of focus at the ground. She appears to be praying.

  “Spare me this cup of suffering,” I hear her whisper. Immanuel then says: “Not by my will, but Thine, be done.” And then she is silent.

  Herod’s cops align themselves in a concave wall in front of Immanuel and me. They do not take eyes off me, their guns only a quick snatch away. No matter what Matthias told the cops about the Pharisee-imposed truce, I know without a doubt that if I even so much as think about pulling more shenanigans like I did at the chapel, they are going to punch my card.

  Dear God in Heaven do the cops look like they wish I would. The police are all smiling to themselves knowing they would get their chance to give my vampire ass what they’re sure I’ve got coming to me.

  Sensing this, I grip Immanuel’s bicep. I very carefully proceed through the hole they make in their cop wall. I guide a subdued Immanuel toward the entrance. The cops follow close behind us as we all enter Herod’s Compound.

  Immanuel remains a passive prisoner as we make our progressive way through the layers of security to Herod’s Throne Room, deep in the sub-basement of the refinery. I know the bastard is waiting for us there.

  I am bringing the Herod of The Harbor Immanuel the Christ. I feel as though I am drowning a puppy, but try my level best to shake it off. Thinking like that will get me nowhere but dead. My entire existence depends on the next few hours.

  Immanuel moves slowly, walking in her gallows gait like guilty prisoners whom have made their peace and are resigned to their fate. But, I know she hasn’t done a single solitary thing to deserve what’s to be done to her. The whole ordeal is making my hands burn again.

  We are nearing the Throne Room entrance. We can hear Herod’s laughter right through the wall. It is well-oiled, Herod’s evil. I can feel its thickness and depth. Herod is completely insane and his evil is true. I can feel all of the unseen things whipping all around us, their shrieks I can plainly hear. I do not fear the unseen, but with my crazy itchy hands being shredded by the talons that are making no difference whatsoever, I am getting scared at what I’m about to do.

  It is becoming quite plain. Immanuel leans into me, bumping me slightly. And with that simple gesture, the burning has gone away. I now realize that this tiny preacher has scared Herod and the Pharisees. She means much more to them than just reversing the downward selling trend of Plata. This is not going to be a simple execution. It’s gone far beyond a business decision to correct an errant bottom line. And it’s making my heart lurch. The Pharisees are going to allow Herod to have his wicked way with her. I remember the chapel parking lot. The police were ordered by Herod himself to damage Immanuel. I see that now. If the lower ranks were ordered to put a big hurt on the little preacher, then what in holy hell does Herod have in store for her? I wonder. Curiosity and the cat and all, but still… I glance over my shoulder; the cops are right behind us.

  “I dare you,” one says

  “Oh, yes, pretty-please,” begs another. They all laugh.

  I don’t bother checking them anymore.

  Our group makes it to the Throne Room with Immanuel’s cuffs still fixed firmly in place, her head lowered. She slumps submissively and with trapped resign. She makes not a sound. Wicked hatred fills the entire vicinity. It settles into the cracks and dark corners like a steamed mist. If the Throne Room is entered, it can not be avoided. It seems to be waiting for us.

  We stop at the threshold. The big iron door is closed and it gives to me the impression that it is breathing. I reach out for the long handle to slide the door open, but stop myself.

  This is wrong, I think. I’m tempted once more to turn back and check the cops behind us. I don’t. I know they have their hands on their guns, taking no chances. They’re aching for an excuse to end me. I don’t cherish giving them any. Immanuel remains impassive. I am suddenly filled with the almost overwhelming urge to Superman her out of here. I can’t fly. Maybe I can’t, I know this. I am a villain, the bad guy, but this feels so completely wrong.

  It is now, at this exact moment, while I am on the verge of handing her over to Herod, that I finally stop fixating on revenge. I stop worrying about the business that was stolen from me. I stop using grief as the spark for my vengeance and rage. And I finally stop brooding about my pilfered millions.

  Even though it was in my best interests, I can’t refrain from thinking how off beam this shit is. This thing I’m helping to do to Immanuel is immoral and all the way wrong. I cannot rationalize it away.

  I remove my hand from the door. I bend down and brush away the hair from Immanuel’s face. She is downtrodden, appears defeated.

  “Who are you, little preacher?” I ask her, “Who are you, really?”

  Immanuel then raises her head, straightens to her full height. A quick flick and hair falls behind her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes are full and gleaming as they stare into me. A fog forms around the two of us as her power heats the brisk, dank air. She looks right at me, straight and eye to eye.

  “Know this, vampire,” Immanuel states, “I am the Son of God.”

  Her hand cuffs open and fall to the floor.

  * * * *

  Herod’s cops draw their weapons. The guns clear leather as one and I step between them and Immanuel. My back is fully exposed as I scoop Immanuel up and hug her tight to me. I cover her and her heat hisses against my cold vampire flesh.

  I grit my teeth as the fangs drop. The talons burrow into my arms enveloping her. I fully expect to be buffeted with countless bullets in the back for the tiny Christ, but they never come.

  I hold on to her for a bit longer. I am shaking with adrenaline when I finally put her down. I turn back and see Herod’s cops. They still have their guns tightly clenched in white-knuckled fists, fingers depressed on triggers. No gunshots. Thank God.

  I feel an immense wave of relief, followed abruptly by confusion. Herod’s cops are on their backs on the floor of the passageway. They’re less than ten feet from the Throne Room door and almost posed in their positions. The cops are a triangle of heavy pins, knocked flat by a deaf bowler. It is a silent and deadly strike.

  I look from the cops to Immanuel. She graces me with a miniature smile.

  “That,” she says, indicating the fallen pins stacked neatly on the floor, “that has not been written.”

  I glance back and see that they are, all of them, dead. I stare at her and see the hand cuffs gone again. I look at the door that separates us from the Pharisees’ desire. I think I see hope in her eyes. A choice now has got to be made. What’ll it be? Am I in or am I out? Make my decision and make it now. There are only seconds left.

  I made mines.

  I reach out for Immanuel’s hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I tell her with a harsh whisper.

  Immanuel puts her naked wrists up before my face and the cuffs reappear. They close on their own with a snick-snick and snap into place. She lowers them and regards me with her gaze.

  “C’mon,” I repeat in a whisper both harsh and impatient, “what the hell’s wrong with you, let’s go!”

  “We stay,” she states emphatically, “The both of us.”

  Immanuel’s words stun me. She really isn’t leaving and I can’t leave her. I can’t believe this is happening. She really isn’t leaving. What possible reason can she have for wanting to stay? I am certain she knows what’s coming. She knows full well that they are going to kill her. Still Immanuel insists on staying. Why?

  Our window of opportunity
is closing fast.

  “We can make it,” I plead. Motionless, she remains. “Why,” I try, “won’t you let me save you?”

  “Why won’t you let me,” asks the Christ, “save you?”

  Before I can consider that, the door slides open with a pounding metallic bang. There is Herod, himself. He stands in the threshold of the open door.

  He bids us welcome.

  And now we are too late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’M STILL POISED AND READY to grab Immanuel against her will. I am more than willing to drag her silly ass down the passageway and out of this place. Sensing this, I suppose, she steps over the threshold and enters Herod’s Throne Room of her own accord. My hand grabs at empty air as Herod turns to me.

  Herod looks at me, but I have already recovered. I gaze impassively back at the Herod.

  “What in the world happened to my boys?” he asks, smiling.

  “I’m not sure,” I respond, honestly, “They were okay a minute ago. You might want to check on them,” I add. “I think they might be sick.”

  Herod merely shrugs his shoulders.

  “Oh, well,” he shouts, “More for the Brood!”

  “More for the what,” I ask.

  “Never mind, not important,” Herod assures me. Herod puts his hands on his hips. He appraises his former conduit, me. “I hope we can put our unfortunate past behind us, let bygones be bygones.”

  I stare hard daggers at Herod. What an unbelievable ass. Herod has stolen everything I have; my entire existence. And yet, he’s standing here like he has done nothing more to me than quaffing my last beer, or joy-riding my car. It is all I can do to keep from tearing out Herod’s throat right here and now.

  Herod’s still smiling at me. Behind him, his goons are coming out of the woodwork. I can’t see them all because Herod’s in the way, but I can definitely smell them. The men are alert and tense with wary fear. These men all know me, apparently and there is more than a few of them. They know the name of Pilate and I have made them afraid. That makes them very cautious and extremely dangerous.

  “I’m only here,” I tell Herod, “following orders.”

  “As am I,” concurs Herod; still smiling. I am not buying it. The smile is completely false. It’s both silk sweet and bitter ash. It is nothing more than a chocolate covered rat turd. And I am more than tired of eating this.

  “The Pharisees imposed the truce between us, Herod,” I tell him. I know full well I can’t take out Herod with all those guns. I will have to wait for an opportunity to present itself. The Christ is staying right here, that much is clear. “I just wanted you to understand something,” I tell Herod.

  “Yes?”

  “The Pharisees’ truce is the onliest reason your bitch-ass still standing.”

  I curiously observe Herod’s reaction to being dissed and threatened in front of his boys on their home court. Herod darkens a moment then the cloud slides right past him. Crazy, he seems to take it all in stride. Herod holds out his hand for us to shake.

  “Truce, then?” he asks. His smile is big and vampire. Herod’s face is melting and slick with infectious paste, just like Caiaphas Pharisee. He looks like he was sucking face with the Devil, or something. Whatever did happen to the crazy fuck, one thing is true: Herod is obviously beyond my attempts at intimidation.

  As I look on, bugs begin mating on the hellish landscape of Herod’s diseased face. Worms are crawling all over each other to get in and add to Herod’s rippling eyes. It’s pretty sick.

  Herod’s hand is dry except for the index and middle fingers. Bone shows there, where it connects to the now permanently unsheathed talons. Waxy boil juice has eaten away the flesh of Herod’s fingertips. I notice, but Herod doesn’t seem to.

  “Truce,” I agree, but I will not shake the diseased hand. I will play along, I will protect the Christ. Tomorrow means nothing to me now. Tomorrow is a broken promise. Tomorrow is gone.

  Herod shrugs off my decline to shake his hand as a duck shakes off drops of water clung to its back. He’s stepped aside to allow me entrance to his most favorite room. I step into the big room. I stop and peruse the chamber. I have never seen the inside of this room, not until now. I have no idea what’s lurking in the shadows.

  The Throne Room has been cleaned recently, I notice. The surface of it is anyway. There’s below the natural lemon scent a deeper, frozen and more solid stink to the great room. The walls of the Throne Room hold on to the stink; feeds on it. Misery, I know from experience, has a stench all its own. It flourishes here.

  The stench clashes rudely with Herod’s ostentatious throne. The thing looks like it weighs several hundred pounds. The solid oak is gilded with gold and platinum curly-cues. The back’s six feet tall. Four clawed feet grip gold spheres the size of grapefruit. The monster is placed against the inside wall in the very center on a three-stepped dais.

  I turn myself slowly around. I note the exact number of cops in the room while doing so. Damn! There’s a grip of cops here.

  “What do you need all them for?” I ask Herod, “Y’all havin’ a Town Meeting, or something?”

  Herod chuckles. “No,” he explains. “My men are here to watch this:” Herod points to the wall opposite his grand throne.

  The wall Herod indicates is in deep darkness. My eyes yellow deeply and I can discern a distinct shape. It’s something that’s familiar and always avoided. My heart begins to chug.

  “LIGHTS!” bawls Herod. Instantly, four spotlights pop to life. They flood the wall with their bright glow. They are in pairs, the lights. There are two pairs and I can now plainly see what the spotlights are glaringly illuminating.

  My hands burn as if hot coals are glued to them. I fall swift and weak to my knees when I see the object beneath the lights. The weakness infuses me to the nucleus of my mortal coil.

  Immanuel comes toward me and she kneels beside me.

  “Thus it was written,” she tries to explain. I blink and start to rise. My talons are out. My hands are aflame and the fangs exposed.

  Herod’s men misinterpret my vampire signs as fight or flight, heavy on the former. The cops begin moving quick toward Immanuel and me. Herod continues doing nothing but pointing at the wall and smiling at his own private Idaho. The police have their guns drawn and are aiming, some triggers depressing, Herod smiling still at the vicious moment the Most Vile ordered begun.

  “Stop,” she mutters aloud while gazing deep into my eyes.

  All Herod’s cops stop on a dime, frozen motionless in place. Herod himself still moves freely. But, all he does is waggle his bug-encrusted eyebrows, nod and grin like a fool some more. Herod gestures with quick jerks of his head to the wall and the source of my collapse.

  I can feel Immanuel approach my weakness and pain. I think that this must be what it’s like to be human, to be at the mercy of others.

  She comes to me. I notice for the first time Immanuel smells just like a newborn baby: innocent, unblemished and without distractions or fault. Then the world gets hold of it and places its sticky rotting hands all over it. It saps the Holy from the Tree, leaving the child corrupt. It is innocent no more.

  She is the Christ. I’m seeing her clearly now and I know. I’m thinking and I know. This is Truth. She is Truth.

  Immanuel touches me lightly and gleans my heart, mind and soul. She knows my intent. She indicates the wall that torments me so. She snatches up my cold hands. She leans in and presses her forehead to mine, emitting a tiny quick hiss.

  “Wilst thou,” Immanuel asks, “wash thy hands of me a second time?” She pushes back a touch and makes me see her. I try to drown in my suffering, but she will not allow it. She makes me see her. “Wilst thou,” she repeats, “Pontius Pilate?”

  And then I fall once more. For the last time, I tumble headlong into another vision of my past. My first life as a human I shall revisit.

  Meanwhile, a laughing Herod has his men grab hold of me and drag me to the wall. Immanuel says nothing furthe
r. Even as Herod’s eyes gleam at her and his robe becomes undone and drops to the floor.

  Herod, heading with menace toward the Child of God, is the last bit I cling to as the world unfolds and reveals its true face to me. This one, for good or nil, I get to remember that day, two millennia ago, when I washed my hands and sealed His Fate.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I AWAKE AND OPEN MY EYES. I am numb and long past feeling any physical pain. I remember the torture and Herod’s maniacal laughter. They used railway ties in my wrists and one through my crossed ankles. I am naked and I just want to die, but my mind is clear. I know who I am. I look to my right and I see the Christ.

  She smiles at me, I can’t believe it. She is here with me. The two of us are in this together. The wrists of Immanuel freely bleed.

  “I know you,” I tell her. “You are Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “You are the Christ,” I testify.

  “Truly,” she agrees, “And you are Pontius Pilate.”

  She is nude. They stripped the Christ and made her nude. They hung her from a tree and are torturing her like a criminal. The sorrow I feel for Immanuel knows no limit; it has no bottom. I wish God will change His mind about all of this. I wish God will ask Holy Mother to wash it all away. If she is allowed to be hurt, then nothing deserves to live.

  I ache to help Immanuel, but I am bound and nailed. I am worthless to her. Like the two thieves being crucified on either side of Jesus on Golgotha, I am impotent and useless. I cannot even save myself. My frustration is agony.

  I turn back to her: “I know who I am,” I state. “I am nobody. No one, I am nothing but garbage, that’s what I am. I turned my back on you. I knew you were innocent and I washed my hands of it.”

  She nods, “Go on,” she says, “my child.”

  “I brought you here,” he continues. “I knew they wanted you dead and I brought you here. I delivered you unto them so I could save my drug dealing business. I did it for the love of money. And the power that goes with it.”