by Poppet
I’m tired of being afraid. I stood at the door during his slaughter not because I believed in what he said, not because I even had a huge will to live, but because I was afraid. There, I said it.
I’m afraid to die. Or I was. If this is the kind of living I’m going to go on doing, in this satan filled, hell driven pit, then I’d rather die. One night of pizza and a bag of Mickey D’s isn’t buying me off.
A bible study? That was fucking inspired unless the big guy is actually buying in to John’s message. I don’t think so.
I hope not.
But we’ll be watched. It’s not like we can sit and chat about how to jump this motherfucker. There has to be another way. Passing notes? Too obvious. And if we got caught?
Well, hell we’re dead if we get caught anyway, but it’s no reason to be stupid about it.
First, I’ll have to see if I’m even thinking straight, and we’re all on the same page. I’ve no delusions. I sure can’t take the guy by myself.
But if I’m going to die anyway, I might as well die trying.
•
19: Andrew:
Did I hear him call the big guy Evan one time? I don’t remember, but I sure wish I knew his name. Seems wrong to call the guy who made the most ballsy move yet, in a bid to get out of here, 66.
He faked it.
I know he did. We shared a look. It was quick, but I saw it. It said, “Can we take this fucker?” I hope he saw my nod, the tiniest of things.
John’s intimidating, tall, cut, and clearly skilled. He's built like he was spawned by black ops who got hold of Superman's sister. Somewhere someone watches. We don’t know how long it will take for reinforcements to get here. We need a plan.
To develop a plan, we need to talk.
His ballsy move got us in the same room, and I sure as shit yelled the loudest “Praise be to the Most High!” when he had his fucking ‘vision’, but I’m still concerned.
I have an idea. It might be crazy, and I don’t know how yet I’ll pass it to the other two.
In prison, they usually don’t let the prisoners receive books unless they are sent from the publisher. They don’t allow them to swap books back and forth when they are in solitary confinement. Messages can be hidden in books.
Of course everyone has to have the same book, the same edition, from the same publisher. They did it in World War II. With the bible. The code was never broken.
With a normal book, the words are communicated with a series of numbers: a three digit code for the page number, a two digit code for the line number, and another 2 digits for the word on that line. It’s time consuming, meticulous concentration needed to create and interpret it.
But the bible was easier. Each week, a chapter of the bible was chosen. The numbers were the verse and word. Two numbers per word. Easy to do. Easy to remember. And each week, when the chapter changed, so did the code.
Every one of the six of us has a bible. He made us bring them when we changed cells. They all look identical. We have no ink, but we all have one thing we can write with. Blood.
Easy for short messages.
Great fucking idea. How do you let the others in on it? Will they be smart enough to catch on?
What was it he said? Tomorrow at three?
I sit down and open my bible, picking a chapter at random. Right in the middle. Psalm 23. “Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”
I begin to study, uttering an occasional “Praise the Lord” and raising my hands in praise for the cameras. I plan my first message to the prophet with something I haven’t felt for a long time.
Hope.
•
66: Evan:
It's so brilliant, it's diabolical. I'm beginning to understand why the devil gets such a stiffie for trickery and deceit. There's a heap of satisfaction in duping the warden and conning him into giving us freedom he'd never have considered a week ago.
Enthusiastic, I am holding my bible like my most prized possession, cheer gripping me by the gonads that makes me want to give a great old yee-haa when the door springs open and we're released for bible study.
At gun point, Preacher marches us to an upstairs room, one with an alarm on the door. No windows. Nothing.
There's just the floor and the light. No water, no chairs, no mat, just three dudes and their bibles.
Preacher John waits for us to file in, then stands there blocking the doorway, staring at me with a weird look in his eyes.
“Preacher?” I ask, worry taking root in my gut.
“I thought he'd make you an omega. He chose someone else. He spared your life and then chose someone else. Why do you suppose that is, Sixty-six?”
Swallowing the dry knot in my throat, I shrug, “I dunno. Maybe because I'm too new ta all this loving? It makes me wanna skip around and be stupid. Knowing we're to worship together, it feels good and right. Being a church gives us a solid foundation.”
John rubs his nose, giving me that contemplating stare, the one where you just don't know which way his mood is going to swing. He's a bipolar fuck on the best of days. But then I guess drugs'll do that to ya.
Preacher glances at all of us in the once over thing, saying, “I'm locking ya'll in. Don't do anything stupid. And don't complain that you have nothing in here, not a drink, nothing – cos ya'll still have more than the tribes had in the desert. I remind you of Numbers 11: The people began to complain to the Lord about their troubles. When the Lord heard them, he was angry and sent fire on the people. Don't piss him off. He had a fucking bad day yesterday and he's got enough to worry about. But he knows everything, even your thoughts. Guard your hearts, keep your thoughts pure, and ya'll will still be alive when I get back.”
Daring to be bold, I frown, “Get back?”
“I'm going out. You three will be alone in here until tomorrow morning. This is a test, do not fail me or I'll reap you all.”
And with that announcement he spins on the balls of his feet, moving like a hungry vampire needing a throat to rip out, slamming the door and spinning the dial.
Looking at the dudes with me, I warn quietly, “We are here for the bible. My name is Evan. Have a seat and open your bibles to Exodus verse 21.”
Ducking my head to squash the smile, I sit down leaning my back against the wall, stretching my legs out and linking the ankles, looking to the dudes with the brands of number 67 and 19, saying with cheer, “Exodus is when the lord gave his orders and instructions to the tribes of Israel. Please read your passages quietly and contemplate the wisdom of the lord.”
Keeping my head down, trying to figure out where the hell the camera and mic are hidden in this room, so I know where to sit to hide my face and pointing to passages without having to call them out.
Exodus 21 verse 16 says Whoever kidnaps a man, either to sell him or to keep him as a slave, is to be put to death.
They have their bibles open on their laps, and I point out the verse in question on both their pages so they know where to read without giving the passage away to our watcher, deliberately saying out loud a different passage, “If a man takes a second wife, he must continue to give his first wife the same amount of food and clothing and the same rights she had before.”
Again I guide their eyes to the verse I really want them to read, saying “See it there?”
My companions look as abused as I feel, but their expressions when they meet my eyes, speaks volumes.
They both get it, they understand perfectly, cos they both give me lottery winner smiles, shouting, “Amen!”
Laughing, I smile too, saying, “More than one wife! God is indeed good.”
“Sixteen wives,” smiles 19, letting me know he read the right passage.
“What's your name?” I ask him.
“Jerry.”
I look at the sandy haired dude who almost blew it for us by approaching me on the landing yesterday, “You?”
“Andrew.”
I nod, “I'm sixty-six, I
'm a prophet.”
“And what a divine revelation you had brother,” says Andrew, referring to yesterday.
Hiding my smile, pointing behind my bible at where the camera is located, up there in the corner, strategically behind my back now, I say to Jerry, “Sixteen wives. You think you can handle that?” Implying does he think he can handle helping me put John to death.
Jerry laughs, “In another lifetime I'd have relished painting nails with them. But now I am redeemed and read 1 Thessalonians 5.”
Taking his lead, we page frantically to the right book, waiting for the next tip. These boys catch on quick, thank gawd for that.
Jerry looks at Andrew, saying, “I can see you having as many as 26 wives.”
Andrew laughs raucously, shaking his head, but our eyes are trained on 1 Thessalonians 5 verse 26. Greet all believers with a brotherly kiss.
Well now I know why Jerry is stuck in here. He's a queen.
Glancing down, I say for the benefit of our watcher who will eventually get bored and ignore us, finding better victims to voyeur over, “Oh look, here it says in 1 Thessalonians 5 verse 19: Do not restrain the Holy Spirit, do not despise inspired messages. Well spotted Jerry. It's great to have your support.” Dipping my head I give him a wink, so he knows what I mean.
After Andrew reads the passage, he smirks at Jerry, “You can have the twenty-six wives. I'm still working on turning my mustard seed into the faith of moving a mountain.” Indicating he's not gay at all, thanks but no offense. The moving of the mountain is eradicating Preacher John from our earthly equation.
He glances at me, his meaning clearer than vodka.
“Amen. May god be praised to the highest heaven this day,” I smile, getting comfortable again, directing them to the next instruction. We have all night, by the time John opens that fucking door, we'll be ready for him.
•
Preacher John:
Bored - bored - bored listening to them pop passages around like ping-pong balls, I lift the manna, stealing three, waiting for the disciples to arrive.
My biggest worry is knowing which one of us is the thirteenth.
I'm annoyed that I can't bless Julie, worshipping God the way he always instructed us to. Now I have to leave her alone. It gives satan a chance to hide back inside that weak flesh.
I don't like this at all. It feels twenty shades of wrong.
Maybe I'll just forget about indoctrinating a wife, purifying her and all that shit. I'll just go out and grab the hottest chick there, and overnight she will be my wife. I'll pierce her ears to make her my slave, and I'll keep her chained in the kitchen until she accepts her fate.
End of story. No more drama, no more work, no more bullshit.
But then I remember tonight we're killing women to avenge what Lilith and Eve did. God never forgets betrayal. Not ever.
Oh well, at least I'll finally get to hide a blessing in that succulent socket created to be filled by a man who redeems instead of condemns.
I'm tired, I'm angry, and I'm more than ready to go out and cut open a few pretty faces. It's time the angel of death sharpened his knives and honed the skill of defacing a temple slathered with gaudy whore paint. Make-up is the sin of vanity, it tastes like shit, and it offends God.
But still, after I've murdered, I might still bring home a wife. The watchers before me did it, and I'm a watcher, so I fucking qualify.
~ Chapter 27 ~
... he touched my lips with the burning coal and said,
'This has touched your lips, and now your guilt is gone and your sins are forgiven'
~ Isaiah 6:7
Preacher John:
Golgotha is a place of death. It's the place of the skull, and it was in that Goth club that we found a clutch of pussy to take into the wilderness.
They were so eager, the thought of going to Mark's for a private party was such an easy temptation. So we gave them manna, dry humping on the dance floor of death while filling their thirsty souls with liquor, and then thirteen angels and their willing sacrifices to the lord left the tomb of bones behind... to worship the way we did in the olden days.
Beyond the barn where I slew Peter and Seth, out in the perfect night, covered by a sky so black it hides us under a vast raven's wing, the only light is the bonfire.
Two of them have 'boyfriends'. Women are such despicable fornicators. I've had so much Jim Bean that the stars are pinwheeling, and I cannot stop laughing.
Staring into the fire which distorts and oscillates like a salamander made of flame, inspiration grips my heart and I struggle to stand, stumbling toward the 'boyfriend' with the white hair and nipple piercings.
“You boy, you should be a prophet,” I tell him, bending down to waggle my finger in his face.
He's securely tied to the ranch fence, he ain't going nowhere.
“Fuck you!” spits in my face, the gross sensation of slime drooling down my cheek enough to banish my altruistic moment.
Smashing my knuckles against his temple, I slam again and again until blood covers his left eye.
“I don't fuck men!” I shout at the heathen.
Swirling around, the world tilts and sashays, heaving with the warnings of God coming back. He's coming to burn you all!
Spying the flames leaping to heaven from a bed of incinerating coals, so white-hot they've lost the red of rage, no longer lava, now it is the bright white light of God's wrath.
What was I doing?
Fuck man, the earth is undulating like water, heaving and bucking as if a hive of leviathan nest underneath us.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I reopen them, blasted with the heat of a roaring furnace, looking around and seeing a man with white hair and eyes so bottomless they're black holes.
His face melts, leaving bone and those eyes, his heart exposed behind ribs, beating out a drum tattoo to dance to.
Dancing around, feeling the rhythm, the vibe bombs my blood, making my jeans too tight until I flop dizzily, staring up at the vast empty heaven. So much potential, just waiting for us angels to find a new race, to make a new race like we did before, a new servant to worship us and our glorious wisdom.
We'll give them manna and they will love us. They will die for us. They'll toil and sweat and do everything we tell them.
I pop a new seed of manna, sucking it, they're the candy of angels. They strip away illusion and leave us standing alone in the truth. The acid bite on my tongue makes my gums bleed, and the taste of hemoglobin reminds me of when we ate the fetus with the mother.
But that was a long time ago. Now I'm death. I like being death – no one escapes me.
Sitting up, wobbling on unsteady legs into a stand, I stare in confusion.
What was I doing? I have a mission, a holy one, inspired by God himself.
Oh yeah!
Tripping down to the bonfire, I snag the tongs, laughing so hard my side hurts when James sticks the slut's hand in the coals. That's what happens when you don't swallow! You do not spill holy seed you stupid bitch.
While she's screaming thirty colors of crass, he stabs the blade of his scythe into her throat, sitting down on her chest, writhing hard, desecrating her by blasting a pearl necklace onto the mouth which defied a holy order.
His gloved hand smears it up, wiping her eyes, and he's curing in tongues, damning her soul to hell.
Lascivious Lilith, we'll show you what God thinks of you running away and hiding from retribution. We'll murder your children, your race of females and their holy genitalia. Created for us! You don't have permission to say no! Stupid bitch. Stupid stupid stupid.
They're all deficient. They belong on all fours, squealing like stuffed swine. Free will was revoked! And she burnt the memo. Ha! So we'll burn you!
Still holding the tongs, swaying with the movement of a boat, I stare at it, trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing with it.
Spinning, panic seizing me, I stare around wildly, until I see the stupid fuck with white hair.
“My proph
et!” I yell, pointing at him, remembering my perfect plan.
Careful, cos I feel like I'm gonna fall off the edge of the world, I pick up a hot ember from the bonfire, carrying the holy tool to the new prophet.
The abyss yawns behind his head, filling his eyes with a halo of brilliance.
“I'm coming, the angel of the lord is coming.” Giggling, I kneel in front of him, sagging and waiting for my head to stop pumping blue streaks of melting rainbow.
I have to do something first? What? What what what!
Fuck.
Staring up at the sky, I shriek, “Before the coal what do I give him?”
“He has to eat the scroll!” yells back from the other side of the fire.
Snapping my head to look that way, a great angel stands there in black leather, red horns on his head, slits for eyes, his cock ramming into Lilith from the back, his twin doing it from the front, and all I can focus on are two udders swaying with the motion of sex, metal hooks hanging off them.
And God saw that it was good.
Looking back into the prophet and his skull face, covered with hair the shade of bleached bone, I rifle in my pocket, sticking my tongue out with the concentration of multitasking. Holding the tongs and getting the LSD communion wafers is making me sweat.
A cold shiver sucks on my skin, shriveling my balls, and I shout a happy bellow of glee when I get the scroll out of my pocket, holding the ember to the prophet's eye, ordering, “Swallow this scroll! Eat it all! It will taste like honey. Manna also tastes like honey. Everything from God tastes like honey. My cum tastes like honey. And He is leading you to a land filled with milk and honey. It's called hard cock and lactating females!”
His eyes swell to the size of melons while I stuff the scroll of honey into his mouth, holding his nose until he swallows God's secrets.
He opens his mouth to breathe and I shove the coal into it. I am cleaning him of his sin and making him a holy prophet. Patting his face with my hand, I almost fall backwards when I ordain him, saying, “Now you are Isaiah.”
