Freeney

by Clay Zimmerman

  When his eyes were finally permitted to adjust, he could discern that the powerful light was originating from a single tennis ball sized point, hovering in the very center of the cell, about three and half feet above the ground. Patrick tried to control his astonishment. Was this some strange new form of experimental interrogation?

  Now the ball of light began to grow in size. As it enlarged, the irradiant glow it produced, brightening the surrounding walls, was decreasing respectively. The ball of light appeared to be absorbing the incandescence from the ground and redirecting it into it’s evolving shape. Ultimately, the anomaly took on the appearance of a man. He was elderly but well preserved. Despite his balding head and thick white beard, his skin conveyed an impression of health and vitality, especially with the expression of warmth and kindness the man’s Caribbean Sea blue eyes instilled. He was dressed venerably in a vintage cotton suit and dress shirt. The color scheme was composed of a variety of golds as the patterns of light green, yellows, browns and whites blended tastefully. As the details of the old man’s appearance revealed themselves, Patrick kept waiting for his feet to take their place on the ground. But they never did. Instead, his image bobbed in place and wavered up and down in the center of the room, a halo of bronze encompassing him.

  “Do not be afraid, Patrick. My name is Giovanni Bernard and you have been chosen.” Giovanni’s piercing blue eyes bore into his consciousness.

  He squinted, trying to maintain focus on his paranormal messenger.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “What I want and what you want are one in the same.” He said this whilst spreading wide his open palms as if his words themselves were revelation. “When you are ready, you may begin.”

  The visage floated away from Patrick now, toward the cell door and seamlessly, as if through some kind of spectral osmosis, melded into the door, emerging out onto the other side. Giovanni gave Patrick a wink and then his image continued slowly gliding down the corridor and out of sight.

  Patrick blinked in amazement. It could hardly be considered extreme given the sequence of events he’d been privy to in recent times but still, none the less, he wondered if what he’d seen had really transpired or was he beginning to crack? Is this what people with schizophrenia experience when their minds have been exposed to inordinate amounts of pressure? Maybe his mind was conjuring things that were more or less agreeable in order to compensate for the inexplicable occurrences he’d witnessed in reality.

  Patrick bounded off of his bunk and across the 6’ x 9’ cell to the door and, leaning against it, strained his neck, adjusting the angle, trying to manage a glimpse of where his celestial visitor had vanished to. He’d toggled for the position that would allow to see the furthest down the hallway and there wasn’t a trace of Mr. Bernard. Verily, the negligible amount of inertia exerted from Patrick’s adolescent frame he was absent mindedly applying to the door was just enough to deactivate the latch. It popped loudly as the steel portal lurched past the mechanical bolt. Apparently, his door had never been properly secured in the first place!

  The action startled Patrick, his mind simply wasn’t expecting the door to be so easily perforated. For a brief moment, the notion had occurred to him that, as his hands were now occupying a space that was far beyond where he had taken for granted that they could possibly exceed, that perhaps he was truly ignorant as to the extent of his own strength.

  Am I really bursting through this wall like the Kool Aid man?

  This tidbit of unanticipation wasn’t all that unwelcome but it brought with it a new set of dilemmas. Was I not just wishing for an opportunity like this? It surely seemed too good to be true. Patrick was compelled with a significant urge to dash through the threshold and make a break for it but a bit of logic caused his hesitation. What if he got caught? Wasn’t he in enough trouble as it is? That could possibly add to the amount of time he would be jammed up. Then again, it wasn’t as if he could get into much more trouble at this point. Especially with a bunch of crazed heathens at the helm, what difference did it make? Perspective prevailed as the realization that there must be countless individuals at this moment in time who would relish the opportunity which had miraculously fallen in his lap. There’s no telling what some would be willing to trade for a bite at the apple that even somewhat resembled what he’d so freely been given. And he didn’t even sell his soul.

  Patrick threw caution to the wind as he brazenly pushed the metal door open and slid out into the chilly labyrinth. Whatever they might do to him out here could be no worse than what they likely had in store for him in his cell, he reasoned. Except here, at least, he wasn’t trapped like a rat.

  He latched the door shut behind him and instantly felt vulnerable. A rapid glance in either direction of the corridor confirmed that he was indeed alone but the presence of security cameras interspersed every so often meant it was a certainty he would not stay that way for long. He quickly came to the conclusion that time was of the essence. He began moving in the same direction he’d seen Giovanni disappear moments earlier, lightly pattering the balls of his feet against the glossy institutional flooring.

  His progress was short lived though, as his fears materialized rather abruptly in the form of a mammoth, rotund jail guard with a buzz cut emerging from around the corner of the elbow at the end of the passage way. Naturally, he was followed by the simian gait of the first guard he’d encountered previously when he’d inquired about his phone call. Patrick could see now that the lower ranked corrections officer was probably of a more normal stature at one time but his spinal structure had been severely distorted by some means giving him the exaggeratingly pejorative height he now assumed.

  The boy froze like a deer caught in the headlights. He was busted and there was no getting around it. They would descend upon him like a coordinated assault by a pride of lions on a lame zebra in the Serengeti plains. Patrick braced himself for lift off. His best weapon would be agility. There was no way his underdeveloped frame would do any measurable damage to their bulky adult vessels but he might be able to out maneuver them! Besides, they didn’t exactly exude the insinuation of dexterity. Just what was it about jail guards and police men in general? Was there some unwritten requirement that they be overweight? It says here; you’re 5’11”, 175lbs. Sorry, not fat enough. Put on another 75lbs and re-apply. Probably something to do with all that coffee and pastries he concluded.

  It was a tangent he didn’t quite have time to explore but as he’d been able to mull it over, he couldn’t help but notice the lawmen weren’t barking commands as he might’ve expected there to be a degree of consternation regarding his disposition outside of his cell. Nor had they taken any measures to alert the rest of the facility or apprehend him and they weren’t all that far away from him either. The heavy set one was lumbering toward him in typical fashion. If they had seen him, they were doing a damn good job of concealing it. Actually, Patrick felt quite confident now, there was no way that they couldn’t see him. But apparently they didn’t because if he hadn’t so deftly sidestepped them, the big guy would’ve walked right over him.

  As mysterious as it might be, there was no time to do a synopsis on what exactly had transpired here. He didn’t wait for them to make it to his cell and freak out when they realized he wasn’t in it. He scurried down the hallway in the direction from which they had come, navigated through the rest of the catacombs composing the central booking facility, avoiding eye contact with staff as much as possible and, unceremoniously, walked out of the front doors, completely unobstructed and unnoticed.

  Chapter 18

  Meanwhile, at Abundant Grace, Freeney had been overseeing a series of renovations. Above the majestic pipe organ towering over the altar area, the picturesque stained glass display overlooking the pews featuring a rendition of The Messiah clad in a red robe had been obscenely vandalized. A pair of devil horns and Van Dyke style moustache with soul patch had been crudely painted on in jet black. The unpalatable artist had even se
en fit to add an extra line protruding from The Savior’s mouth, replete with squiggly line meandering up, indicating a lit cigarette or joint maybe. There was even a cartoon dialogue bubble next to his head with a quotation from none other than Porky the Pig with his most infamous of dismissals: “That’s all, folks!” A plethora of candelabras had been instituted throughout the perimeter of the sanctuary, lending to a more Romanesque environment as a small army of imps had now insinuated themselves amongst the assembly of twisted humanoids who’d since gathered. The men and women in attendance, based on their garb, could be seen mostly to represent an assortment of public service positions, law enforcement composing the overwhelming majority of this cross section. Lawyers, medical workers and other high profile government positions were counted as well as some of the more pedestrian members of society. There were even a handful of McDonald’s employees present as the scene more closely resembled a pit of vipers in terms of the mannerisms and body language the group had acquired as they mingled and interacted.

  One of the imps, in an act of shameless self-indulgence, had arranged a group of soccer moms including Mrs. Bethany Simpson, seemingly intoxicated from a voluminous combination of box wine and prescription pain pills and clad in all manner of inappropriate evening wear such as lingerie and leather bondage outfits with crotch less undergarments, in a kneeling semi-circle before him as they took turns fellating his reptilian phallus with vigorous aplomb.

  Near the back of the pews was a man who somewhat bore the resemblance of a cross between Pinhead and Ghostrider. As he sat with a slovenly affect, his feet nestled on the back rest before him and his elbows spread across the pews he occupied, the fire from his needle ridden head raged with an eerie, supernatural calm. Maybe by divine specification or perhaps some other phenomenon, the flame seemed to possess an innate virtue of exclusivity in that it did not seem to be in danger of igniting the mahogany or what would seem to be the highly flammable embroidery of the pew itself. Presumably the result of a voodoo experiment gone bad, one could only conjecture as to what he had done in his past life in order to earn himself a position among this tawdry coalition of iniquity but no one could be sure. In fact, it was one of Satan’s selling points. While transparency and openness served as some of the basic cornerstones of God’s Kingdom, Lucifer stressed the value of privacy among his constituents. While new arrivals to Heaven might be shocked to discover old acquaintances or family members they’d long since written off, their celestial merit was easily accounted for and none were unwilling to be made known their heroism and integrity. All good deeds would come to light in the Holy Community. In contrast, whatever unsavory transactions had taken place between an individual and The Devil remained private and without directly confronting said persona, one could only be left to wonder about the conditions of their allegiance.

  The vulgarities taking place within the sanctuary chamber were compounded by the heinous atmosphere perpetuated by a duo of imps in the far corner, who’d nursed a campfire sized blaze fueled by a stockpile of Bibles and hymnals, bulletins. As they monitored and tailored it’s growth, the disturbing mood created was that of an unsightly, grimy mist that left soot caked on the walls and windows as ashes and scraps of light, airy Bible tissue fluttered to the ceiling and drifted down in a macabre, dismal type of snow. If this wasn’t revolting enough, the grotesque hell spawns had seen fit to construct a makeshift spit suspended above the embers as sparks and juts of flame snatched at the rather substantial rat carcasses having been skewered and slow roasting. Freeney had expressed exceptional pleasure at this. Commending them, “It is indeed right and just that we return to the ancient ways of the burnt offerings and create aromas which are pleasing to the Lord.” The stench from the damp, matted hydes of the rodents was absolutely hideous and the campfire steward imps cantankerously tinkered with and adjusted the level of incineration the pest corpses absorbed as they smoked, rotisserie style over the hot coals.

  Now Freeney, the man formerly known as Gary Simon, climbed the podium to address his wicked cohorts. He removed the hood of his signature Russell Athletic sweatshirt to reveal a crimson splotch, the remnants of whatever foul cuisine he’d been gorging upon, painted across his maw sloppily. He spread wide his arms, fists clenched, forming a ‘Y’ symbol in exhortation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” He announced. “May I have your attention please? Excuse me.”

  But his incitation had fallen on deaf ears. Nobody was paying attention. The mob was too engrossed in their respective immoral activities.

  Freeney grew frustrated. “Shut the fuck up!” He yelled indignantly.

  The crowd froze as though the needle had been lifted from a record. They quickly became aware of their dispositions, recalibrating their attention to the pulpit where Freeney, the alpha male, was to orate. The chamber was silent. Only the slurps and smacks of the latest soccer mom to offer her oral services to the sex crazed imp’s scaly obelisk, presumably too focused on her task at hand to be distracted, could be heard. Freeney continued undeterred.

  “Hail Satan.” He decreed.

  The throng replied in unison. “Hail Satan.”

  “My friends,” He slowly brought his hands to rest on the sides of the podium, his eyes bulging with demonic adrenaline. “It is with great pride that this installment of the Order of the Silent Sun shall commence. I, Freeney, shall preside as honorary chairman.”

  He had their full attention. They’d filed into their respective pews forming a sort of obscene congregation. Enhanced by his speech, their heads bobbed and nodded along with approval at the nuances of his enunciation.

  “To begin, I want to congratulate all of you for making the journey to this fine assembly. As we all know, it is not always easy to stand up for liberty, especially when you are encompassed on all sides by a sea of oppression. Many of you are no stranger to the concepts I speak of. Yea, it is difficult when the Creator has set us up for failure from the beginning. It is a truly twisted contention of reality to subject one’s own children to an unattainable standard and heap unwarranted and ruthless punishment upon them when they fall woefully short of those unattainable goals. The Deceiver claims to offer us unconditional love and so called “free will” and then reprimands us for utilizing it. It is not love to desire slaves. We are sentient beings who prefer something better in life. And we deserve it!”

  Freeney punctuated his viewpoints by slapping the podium with an open palm. His audience was thoroughly encapsulated, hanging on to his every word.

  “But luckily for us, our fearless leader, Lucifer, rescued us at our darkest of hours. He demonstrated to us what true love really means when he offered us acceptance, regardless of what pleasure we partake in, regardless of what “crimes” we’ve been accused of.”

  With each argument Freeney successfully raised, his comrades in debauchery grew more confident and excited. They began working themselves into a fervor in their accustomed styles of celebration. The men hooted and hollered, galloping about in simian fashion as though they were attending a Rolling Stones concert on Planet of the Apes. They applauded intermittently with bizarre clasps made over their heads as though they were some kind of demented chimpanzees. The others crouched in a squatting position and slapped their hands on the floor with intensity. The ladies of course, demonstrated their elation with impromptu masturbation sessions, their guilt free climaxes seemingly exaggerated sonically for effect. The imps controlled their fanfare more effectively. They’d doubtless witnessed more impressive spectacles back in the depths of Hades. One, however, was so overwhelmed with stimulation that he actually produced a letter opener and drove it into a peer’s eye socket with all the grace of a wielded ice pick. A handful of onlookers jeered and egged him on as he pounced on the writhing victim’s circumstance and proceeded to bludgeon him in the face multiple times to the joy of the spectators.

  “My friends,”

  Freeney liked to address his audience as though he were John McCain before the U.S. Senate floor.
He hushed them by gesturing with his hands in a calming motion. He’d whipped them into quite a frenzy but he was demonstrating a high level of control now. He was building a reputation as a gifted speaker.

  “Brothers and sisters, far too long have we hidden in the shadows whilst the enemy who is legion ignorantly gallivants and parades in their opulence in a land they, themselves admit they have no right to. That’s right, even in their own farcical literature, they patronizingly refer to as “The Bible” as if they are the supreme guardians of truth, it clearly states that this world belongs to The Devil.”

  Freeney paused for effect.

  “Why, then, must we operate in secrecy when we are the undisputed, rightful inheritors of this realm? That is not freedom, my friends. That is not America. That is not truth.”

  “Here, here!”

  “Aye!”

  Came the shouts of agreement along with the obligatory ‘Hail Satan’s.

  “You see, my compatriot freedom fighters,” Freeney continued. “Our Luciferean doctrines are patently American in nature and precisely that which our forefathers intended. This nation was founded upon the liberty of the individual, something The Believers know nothing about! I say unto you: we refuse to mortgage our identity for a false iteration of happiness! It is even cleverly concealed in our worshipful master’s very name. The name Lucifer comes from the combination of two Latin words: Lux, meaning light; and Cifer, meaning carrier or bringer. Just as The Great Deceiver would have us exist on a foundation of lies as he so attempted in the Garden of Eden, our serpentine Lord seeks to liberate us with none other than the truth. While Zeus’ acceptance is contingent upon a strict adherence to his outlandish company policies, Mephisto always has room for you in his ever growing family, regardless of your beliefs or actions.”