“Yes, it’s for you.”
Again, without speaking, Partridge said, “You are a rule breaker. That is an attractive quality. You are also my savior.”
A little embarrassed, Ernest dropped his eyes, and said, “You’re welcome.” He then knew it was time for him to go to bed, so he exited the garage, and as he did so, he heard Partridge transmit—if “transmitting” is what non-verbal communication is called—a phrase to sleep on. It was: “Tomorrow night.”
It was no surprise to Ernest that sleep was elusive. He lay in bed and looked at the ceiling as he imagined what was occurring downstairs, and while he couldn’t sleep, he did manage to control his desire to run to the garage to be with Partridge, whom he began to feel was less like an angel, and more like…dare he think it…a lover. He had that giddy feeling people get when they become infatuated with someone new, a situation that had never developed well for him, but he realized that had changed. So, when he got out of bed, he quickly went to the bathroom and carefully groomed himself before heading to the garage. When he entered the hangar, he was stunned by what greeted him. Partridge had been busy, for the purloined letters had been used as construction material to build a structure like the structure at Mrs. Bagley’s house. Ernest then heard something pass over him, and not surprising, Partridge was behind him. He turned and looked at the angel and asked, “You built this?” A question that made him feel silly for asking because who else could have built it? Partridge further surprised him when the angel’s wings quickly moved forward and enveloped him and filled him with pleasure, the likes of which he never knew existed. While Partridge’s wings looked like ordinary feathers, they were anything but. They radiated a sensuality that sent an electric current through Ernest that both excited and relaxed him.
He closed his eyes, and his head filled with visions of a place that was more than beautiful. Words were inadequate, so the best he could describe the place was beauty and love and joy, and Ernest concluded that it must be Partridge’s home, that it was Heaven. “Not Heaven as you understand it,” he heard, “It’s called Tartarus, and it is part of the cosmos.” Ernest then snapped out of the dream, or hallucination, or vision, he didn’t know what to call it. As he regained full consciousness, Ernest saw he was in the processing room at work. He looked around and saw overturned bins with mail scattered all over the floor. In addition, from behind desks and overturned tables, both legs and arms were sticking out, and in his hands was a semi-automatic assault rifle.
“What!” he screamed as he dropped the weapon. Just having such a weapon is a violation of the Postal Service’s Violence and Behavior in the Workplace Standards, he thought.
Suddenly Partridge’s voice filled his head and said. “Leave through the employees’ entrance, the police haven’t arrived yet, you can get away.” Ernest hesitated; he didn’t know what happened, or what he had done, but he knew it wasn’t good, and he didn’t believe he should run. But then Partridge said, “Come to me, I need you,” and that was all Ernest needed to hear. He was off and soon found his car parked in the handicapped spot. He was a full block away before he saw several police cars converge on the postal facility.
As he drove, Ernest fought to recall anything. The last thing I remember I was in the garage, he thought, but after that he couldn’t remember anything. Within minutes, he was home, and he quickly ran from his car into the house and headed straight for the garage.
The letter enclosure was still there. Relieved, he said, “I didn’t hallucinate this!” He then found the entrance and crawled through a tunnel to the main area, what would it be, he silently asked himself, and just as quickly the word, “Salvation” filled his thoughts. “What do you mean?” he asked, making the last turn that led to the threshold of the center area.
“It is my salvation, and you made it possible,” was the response.
Ernest was just about to ask how, when he saw into the main area and was shocked to see Partridge prone and no longer with wings. Rather, hundreds of feathers floated about the enclosure, with scores of them acting as quills, writing on pages of open letter after open letter. Factory-like in its organization, a feather would open an envelope, retract its contents while one would dip into Partridge’s open mouth like it was an inkwell, and then write…write what? “Read one if you like,” Partridge said, and a feather deposited some papers before him.
Unable to contain himself, Ernest took hold of the papers and saw it was junk mail that advertised a time-share in Las Vegas. While that was what the text said, as he read more, the additional text…Partridge’s text…made its way into his consciousness. That text proclaimed itself to be “CONFESSION OF A FRAUD” and said:
“The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, on which the religion of Christianity is based, are actually plagiarized from much earlier religious beliefs that I adapted to fit the myth of Jesus, who never existed.
“The delusion to want to believe in a messiah made it easy to implant the myth of Egyptian and Greco-Roman gods into the thoughts of certain scribes, who, while never witnessing such events, actually believed them and proscribed them to a deity named Jesus. The beliefs pilfered from the stories of other gods include being born of a virgin mother, being born in a cave, heralding the birth with a star, having an angel announce the birth, and being worshiped by shepherds.
“Other aspects of the myths that I adapted to the Jesus myth are: When he was thirty years old, he was baptized in a river, and the baptizer was later beheaded. However, unlike the Jesus myth, other earthly gods had fewer disciples, but like the Jesus myth, they performed miracles, exorcized demons, walked on water, and restored life to the dead. Followers of the god-made-flesh called him ‘Holy Child,’ and a ‘Sermon on the Mount’ is alleged to have been delivered, which his followers chronicled, along with the rest of his life and his death by crucifixion. There are myths in which the gods were buried for three days in a tomb, and from which they emerged, having rose from the dead. The story of resurrection attracted followers who showered adoration on those gods calling whichever god they chose ‘the True Way,’ ‘the Word made flesh,’ the ‘Messiah.’
“Of course, the ancients were wrong about this, and, as it turns out, so are Christians.”
As Ernest read, the production of Partridge’s “confession” never stopped, or even slowed down. The feathers continued to write causing the enclosure’s walls to diminish until all that was left was a thin veneer that the postal worker could easily put his hand through. When he finished reading, Ernest felt exhausted, which caused him to slump into a heap to gather his thoughts. When he was ready, he said, “You can’t let this get out!”
“Why not?”
“About a billion people believe in Jesus.”
“At any given time, I can cite the exact figure, but no matter the number of worshipers, are you defending their gullibility? I must point out that others have willingly embellished the Jesus myth, willfully deceiving believers for increased power. I cite the Councils of Nicaea, and later, the King James translation.”
“I…don’t know. I just know it would shatter too many people’s lives.”
“Interesting, so you would rather they continue following a deception, that I am responsible for, rather than learn the truth.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I just know it’ll hurt too many people.”
“Do you mean the people who have turned worship of Jesus into an industry, or those who cite Jesus as justification for murder? While I do find that interesting, I do not believe it a reason to delay revealing the truth. Personally, I find it disgusting how so many believers in Jesus have been willing to commit atrocity after atrocity in the name of a non-existent deity. Do you not also find that disgusting?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then I do not understand your resistance to the reveal.”
“I don’t know. This is all so crazy! I think I’m going crazy!”
“Despite those feelings, there is an opportunity here
for you to work to end the pretense. Nonetheless, you should know that it will be remembered no matter what you choose.”
“How?”
“Soon the authorities will come looking for you, they will enter this dwelling and find these stolen letters. In order to deflect their employment of a madman, the Postal Service will see to it that the letters are delivered to their rightful owners, who will open them out of curiosity, and not being aware of it, will read my confession. Not knowing why, they will retain the letter and share its information with loved ones and friends, who will also want to share the information. It might take a century or more, but the news will spread, and I will be reprieved.”
“But…why would the authorities come here?”
“Because you are a taker of life, but you did not do so in Jesus’ name, so there are consequences.” The fact that Partridge no longer had wings forced the angel to touch Ernest’s face with a hand, and images flashed through the postman’s mind. He saw Mrs. Bagley as he cut her throat, followed by Partridge clamping angelic lips over the wound to suck out the dying woman’s blood like a vampire. That was followed by him entering the mail processing center and walking up to Emily, the district manager’s secretary, and shooting her in the chest. In a blink, Partridge was on the dying woman and drank the life-sustaining fluid as it gushed from the wound.
Ernest then entered the district manager’s office and found Dan Kane frozen in shock. Ernest took aim and dispatched the manager with the squeeze of a trigger. Just as with Mrs. Bagley and Emily, Partridge drank Mr. Kane’s blood, not spilling a drop, or even letting any dribble away. On it went, Ernest hunting down colleague after colleague, shooting them despite cries and pleas for mercy. When the rampage was over, twenty-two postal workers lay dead, and Partridge had amassed enough ink to finish the project.
“I started with the blood from Mrs. Bagley, and I used what I gleaned from the woman to calculate how much I would need to write the confession on all of these letters; you did the rest.”
“No! I couldn’t have done that! I liked all those people! I loved them.”
“That is false. Like with the followers of Jesus, the truth has been kept from you about Mrs. Bagley. I did so because I needed you to believe otherwise. You saw that Mr. Bagley’s cruelty was torturing the woman, and you resolved to put her out of her misery. Your subsequent action was truly motivated by mercy. However, the action you took with your coworkers was motivated by something else entirely. You resented and despised them. The fact is: you could only do what you did because you hated them.”
“Take me with you.”
“I’m afraid that is not possible. I plan on continuing my campaign, and you will soon be wanted for those murders. However, for your loyalty I will leave you with something,” the angel said as it let the caftan it was wearing slip to the floor to reveal breasts with hard nipples, and a vagina with engorged lips.
“You’re a woman,” said the mesmerized man.
“No…not really, but I can sculpt what is needed. I will use it to provide you with the most intense pleasure possible. Come,” said Partridge, taking Ernest’s hand.
Once on his bed, Ernest kissed his angel, at the same time his mind thanking God for this moment. That’s when the window exploded, sending glass everywhere, and before Ernest could react, strong hands pulled the lovers apart.
* * *
Everything happened in a blur. A group of individuals had burst into the bedroom through two windows that overlooked the back of the house and attacked the pair. They did something that caused Ernest to black out, and when he awoke, he saw that Partridge was on her angelic knees, tightly constrained in a type of bondage and discipline restraint. It wasn’t like anything Ernest had seen before. It was a golden substance, and it held Partridge’s arms together in front of the angel. It locked the elbows together and banded upward, ending so her hands were frozen in forced prayer. In addition, to prevent running, each ankle was fused to the back of her thighs, thereby forcing Partridge to kneel. Ernest tried to speak, but found he was unable to. That was when one of the intruders addressed Partridge. “There is real sympathy for you because of your condition, but despite your madness, you had to know you would not be allowed to proceed with this campaign.” The speaker, who Ernest deduced to be the leader, then turned to the others and said, “Let us take our leave.” Two of the intruders then easily lifted the restraint that held Partridge, and exited the room.
The remaining intruders turned to follow, but one turned to the leader and said, “What of him?”
The leader looked at Ernest, and said, “Unfortunately for him, Jesus has always been able to collect disciples.” Pausing for a few seconds, the leader added, “And martyrs.” Wings suddenly appeared behind the intruder, spreading up, and circling around to the front where it reached out to the hapless postman.
* * *
Ernest awoke buried under a heavy pile. He tried to move, but the weight held him fast. He was very familiar with the substance that pinned him down: It was the stolen mail. And from his inability to move, they must have placed all the letters on top him. He was sure he would suffocate soon, but he suddenly realized that he wouldn’t have the chance to do so because flames started to envelop him. Packed away in his own crematorium, Ernest never heard the police sirens through the sound of his own screams.
THE END
BAPTISMAL SCARS
By Nick Dinicola
Pastor Patrick sat in the front pew, far in the corner, watching his congregation mill about the entrance of their church. Each Sunday was like this: a slow, confused procession of mostly new faces wandering down the single aisle like it was a labyrinth, trying to sit in the back but pushed forwards by the friends or family who had brought them. Patrick smiled and nodded at each of these familiar faces, chuckling to himself as they fought with the new faces, insisting they all sit closer, as close as they could, until the second pew was filled, then the third, and so on. All the while the new faces glanced about, whispering questions, trying to square the majesty of the church as it had been described to them with the ramshackle church around them.
The church was just an old rectangular classroom portable. The entrance was on one short side, allowing for a nice long central aisle and several rows of pews. Big casement windows filled the other walls, letting in so much morning sunlight there was no need for any lamp. All the windows were cranked wide open to let in the fresh air, and to let out the smells that would soon take over.
The pews were really just metal folding chairs with no cushions, lined up eight to a row with the aisle splitting them in half. They were uncomfortable; Patrick knew this and sympathized with his flock, shifting his weight in his own seat, but he knew everyone would forget their discomfort once the service began. It wasn’t a long service; Patrick didn’t know much about this pastoring business and preferred to keep things short. He prided himself on not rambling overcomplicated sermons, on getting straight to the point with hard truths and then stepping away, letting the baptisms take over. That was what everyone really wanted to see, that’s why they were all really here: to see the baptismal candidates give themselves to God and, hopefully, be rewarded.
The rest of the church was sparse. There was no pulpit. Patrick didn’t want to hide when he spoke; he wanted everyone to see him, and everyone wanted to see him. There was no altar at the head of his church, no cross or any other religious symbol anywhere in the room. No incense, no candles, no statues, no chalice or cup or cruet, but there was a pink inflatable pool on the floor in front of all the pews. Patrick preferred blue, and he would go shopping for another pool before next Sunday, but for now the pink was the best he could find. It was the size of a well, with plenty of room for an adult to stand in, and plenty more room to catch any detritus that might fall off.
The entire back of the portable, the whole chancel, was covered with roll upon roll of plastic sheeting duct taped to the walls, ceiling, and floor. The plastic engulfed the pink pool, stopping
just short of the first pew where a line of bricks created a lip—a poor man’s rood screen.
Above the pool was the boss, the centerpiece of the church, the artifact that would change the world given enough time. A thin wood pane was screwed into the ceiling, on which Patrick had arranged a circle of stones, each the size of a fist, each scorched like it had fallen through the atmosphere, and each held in place by hooks and string and tape, anything Patrick could find to secure them without damaging them.
As the congregation filed in, no one sat in the front row with Patrick. Those seats were reserved for the baptismal candidates, and there were five of them this Sunday.
First up was Felix, the second oldest of the group, here for the third time. A man in his late fifties, who was happy to let his beard go gray, but still dyed his thinning hair a deep black. He wore a simple, traditional baptismal gown. The candidates were free to wear whatever they wanted, provided it could be easily removed. Most chose to bring bathrobes from home, but Felix was an old man hung up on old traditions, even when trying a new religion.
Suzanne was next, the oldest of the group, and another stickler for the appearance of tradition. Her gown was cruder though, likely homemade, cut from a bed sheet or curtain, showing a thriftiness that belied her rich fortunes. But her face exposed her wealth: skin powdered pale, pulled taught across her skull over multiple surgeries, each a little less effective than the one before. This was her sixth baptism.
Patrick had high hopes for Bernie, a dark-skinned, bespectacled, shy man who was here for the twelfth time. He was the most likely to become something better today, but the many baptisms had worn him down. Not even thirty and his hair was already graying, his face sagging, his shoulders slumping. Beneath his blue bathrobe his gut was growing, Patrick knew this from the last baptism. Bernie has long since stopped taking care of himself in anticipation of his divine reward.
Blood and Blasphemy Page 29
