The Revelator

by D W Bell

  The techs sat in open-mouthed silence. The night vision feed had made the operator’s entrance all the more glorious as the shorting and sparking electronics of the wings overpowered the optics and gave the whole scene a supernatural, sparkling, otherworldly quality.

  The two men broke from their stupor as the unholy image stepped gently down from its perch on the railing and walked, all dangerous sex and swaying hips, directly towards her intended mark in front of the drone camera, wings still burning.

  “Christ, I love this woman! Let’s get her extinguished and proceed with the next objective.” The man sighed in relief as he gave commands to the operator’s headset and watched as they were carried out; scanning the hotel alarm system to ensure the burning feathers wouldn’t trigger the smoke detectors. Now that they had got the shots he set the heavy lifters in sleep mode on the balcony to conserve battery life for the egress.

  “Right-o, our boy is all spritzed up and ready for his date.” The relieved technicians high-fived and leered at each other in lewd expectation.

  ―

  The sheik watched the screen in transfixed horror. It certainly wasn’t the conciliatory visit he had been hoping for. He watched himself laid comatose at the mercy of the warrior-goddess who had descended to earth on flaming wings. The camera followed her every movement as she strode to the foot of his rose-adorned bed, no longer aflame but smoldering nonetheless, fearsomely sexual in aspect.

  She looked down at him with stone-faced contempt as she snatched the bed linens and whipped them away, exposing his sleeping nude form and showering them both with scarlet petals. Gracefully mounting the bed on all fours, she slowly and sensuously crawled up his naked body until she brushed her lips lightly across his dream-furrowed brow and straddled him astride his pelvis, just above his slumbering cock as it began to twitch in confused, blind arousal.

  Sitting upright atop her prey, the woman lowered her already provocatively cut top to fully expose her perfect breasts. She caressed his bearded face with her right hand as she placed his lifeless left to her breast with the other. She gyrated her hips on his abdomen, pantomiming a moan of ecstasy for the camera close-up as she guided his hand to paw at her already aroused nipples.

  And then she slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to torque his head to the side in a very uncomfortable looking angle. Immersed in the video, the sheik’s hand involuntary jerked to touch the soreness of his cheek and felt the sting he had slept through when first it was assaulted.

  ―

  “Oh, damn!” The video technician chuckled to himself as he flipped through the project’s shot list. “That one was definitely not in the script, he must have deserved it.”

  “It’s good stuff, though. We can use it or cut it in editing, depending on what Boudreaux thinks. I’ll rein her in for time so we won’t be rushed in post.” Acting as director, he reached over to his drone pilot workstation and clicked the button to connect his headset to the operator’s earpiece, “Okay, Valkyrie. You’ve had your fun. Cease and desist with the improv and proceed with the scenario as written. We’re burning moonlight.”

  The beautiful, green-hued image of the sexy but dangerous predator on the screen turned to face the camera in response to the command with pouting lips and crossed arms, like a spoiled little girl being halfheartedly scolded by a doting father, but then smiled her succubus smile and blew the technicians a kiss to signal her compliance.

  As ordered, she dropped the sheik’s hand from her tit, grabbed a handful of his beard with her left hand, and sensuously traced the line from her hip, down her bare thigh, and to the top of her boot as the camera followed.

  ―

  Inexplicably and shamefully aroused, the sheik unconsciously stroked himself through his robe as his body tingled with fear, anger, and excitement. He watched the questing fingers dance slowly down her thigh and reacted with an appropriate horror movie gasp when she yanked free the blade hidden in her boot and raised it high.

  Caught up in the scene he nearly rolled away to avoid the phantom blade, but caught himself and watched as the so-called Walküre of the film lowered the blade and slowly traced his hairline down to his beard with its razor edge.

  With a playful wink to the camera the Valkyrie cut a lock of hair from his under-beard and held the curly trophy aloft in triumph, causing her now conscious victim to feel for the bald spot as he watched the act. With palpable dread he paused the playback to search for the small, discarded, heart-shaped box.

  He reached under the bed for the ominous gift, crawling and stretching in undignified submission. Once retrieved, he sat on the floor with his back against the mattress in his disheveled robe and regarded the tiny package with despairing eyes.

  Finding the courage to remove the lid, his nostrils were instantly assaulted with the cloyingly musky funk of its contents, which he recognized as his own; a small, silken pouch tied closed with a bow fashioned of his own beard hair.

  “A-ozu billahi mena shaitaan Arrajeem!” Tears welled to the sheik’s dark eyes as he sobbed the exclamation, begging refuge in Allah from the cursed Satan, set the small, silky sack that reeked redolent of his funk down gently beside him, and laid his head on his drawn-up knees. Boudreaux had won.

  ―

  “Beautiful, baby! Perfect. Now let’s get into position for the final close-up; the most unkindest cut of all.” The drone pilot come director covered his headset mic with his palm and leaned over to his partner, “Jesus, bro. We gotta get Boudreaux off all this Shakespeare shit.”

  “Ha ha, good luck with that. It’s annoying, but that’s his shtick, man. Besides, the clients love it. They just don’t have to deal with the clichés on the daily like we do. It definitely gets old after a while.” He moved the camera drone into position with a few strokes of the joystick and typed out a few commands to adjust the image. “Camera and talent are both on their marks. Action!” The video tech giggled to himself as his director partner cut him a chilling sideways glance.

  “Very funny, Spielberg. Now shut the fuck up so I can direct the actress.” He uncovered his mic and gave commands to the operator and watched the final scene unfold, keying the commands to wake up the lifting drones and ready for departure.

  Freya slithered bodily down the comatose sheik, saddling back up just above his knees so his groggy, befuddled prick, nestled like a baby bird in a bushy black nest, was on full display. Half-hard and dripping, the urethra meatus gaping like a blind, hungry chick naïve to the hovering, serpentine danger.

  She took a moment to point and laugh at his member for the camera, covering her mouth like a modest, Japanese schoolgirl fantasy despite her still exposed and engorged breasts. The effect was emasculating and cruelly arousing. Freya placed her fists on her hips and shook her head in mock disappointment as she regarded the pitiful worm squirming for her attention with sightless desire.

  Pulling a small, battery-operated hair trimmer from her other boot she set to work. When she was done, the helpless sheik was bare as the day of his birth, robbed of his wooly masculinity, his manhood smooth and hairless as a twink porn star. As a final insult, she placed a few strands of his wooly mane in her palm, blew them directly into the camera lens, and then blew a kiss with a wink. The director called cut and it was time to leave.

  ―

  Not knowing what else to do, the sheik watched the rest of the video and listened to the score; the production values were quite good. A resilient man, he explained to himself that it would all grow back and that there had been no permanent harm intended or done. The lull in sexual conquests as he recovered could easily be justified as a period of purification after his travels in the immoral West and would not be questioned by his staff. However, the swordsman may have witnessed his bald shame when he delivered the package. The man would have to be dealt with, for the greater good.

  He tried to rationalize the attack against his person as an example of Boudreaux’s great skill in providing these services, which would be practiced to suit hi
s needs, but it didn’t assuage his sense of defeat and obviously impotent anger.

  The sheik was deep in thought, scratching at his freshly shorn scrotum when the operatic performance came to an end. It closed as the woman leaped from the balcony and soared into the sky, seemingly floating on the force of the musical crescendo, in actuality catching the ready cables of the waiting drones. Die Walküre returning to the heavens.

  ―

  Boudreaux sat going over papers arranged in neat little piles across his desk, he still preferred hard copy over digital and had his secretary prepare his files accordingly.

  A soft voice over his intercom broke the monotony to inform him that he had a call holding. Smirking to himself, he thanked her, smoothed his hair, and stared at ceiling for a moment as his desk phone quietly jingled.

  On the third ring he picked up, “Assalamu Alaikom, sheik! I’ve been expecting your call. You are well, I trust?” Boudreaux was all superficial sweetness this time around, thin saccharin versus his previous rich honey.

  “I see, so you’ve given our protection packages some more thought?” He rolled his eyes as he waited for the sheik to finish talking.

  “The Platinum Package? Splendid! Sheik, my boy, you have made an exceptionally shrewd business decision and a very smart investment in your future. I’ll have my girl send out the necessary documents and we’ll get you enrolled. I don’t foresee any problems, but I must inform you that it takes about two weeks for the surveillance and protection to get up and running,” Boudreaux dropped any semblance of affability from his voice and continued in a dead flat timbre that left no doubt, “so watch yourself.”

  Smiling again, he toggled the intercom system to beckon his secretary who promptly entered his office and closed the door.

  “Miss Lilith,” he patted his lap and she alighted, “get on the horn with the Valkyrie mission commander and give the stand-down order to the Redshirts. A purge won’t be necessary. The sheik has decided to play ball. Also, I feel a toast is in order. Let’s pop ourselves a bottle of bubbles, shall we? Run along now.” With a swat to her bottom, he sent his assistant giggling and wiggling out of the room, selected an aged cigar from his humidor, kicked his feet up on his desk, and wallowed in his victory. Happier than a pig in shit.

  Chapter 17

  Something barely noticed and quickly dismissed had been nagging at the back of John’s mind. Once he was off the gurney and back on his feet, he had thrown himself into the work. His ragtag brothers-and sisters-in-arms were no longer the best of the best, but they were a team. A team rising above their various infirmities that had disqualified them from the elite missions. A team still fighting the good fight, or so it seemed.

  Redshirt missions were decidedly less sophisticated than those John had been tasked with during his brief tenancy within Boudreaux’s stable of thoroughbreds, but it was work. Mostly Sweep and Clear type stuff without all the extra theatrics of the higher profile missions. Often the teams were brought in afterwards to clean up the mess left by the principal agent, but they didn’t mind.

  It was even fun at times. The team-based training reinvigorated John after his disastrous solo outings, and the mindless repetition of tactics in practice helped him escape from his mental and emotional demons. They were even allowed a modicum of verbal interaction between teammates to facilitate a kind of walking wounded camaraderie that was billed as a way to increase their effectiveness as a unit, but it was really just a symptom of the benign neglect that the management viewed them with. They just weren’t worth beating anymore, so the trainers put the positive spin on it to hide the truth and squeeze the last bit of value out of their carcasses, as the former slaughterhouse had always done.

  Even their chief instructor was damaged goods, a grizzled old bastard known only as Charlie, who walked the killing floor with a limp and directed the training with short, guttural commands and a single eye. Just downright mean at the genetic level. If the Redshirts secretly reveled in their ability to speak with their comrades, Charlie seemed to rejoice in his silence and austere, fierce, brevity, if he ever knew joy.

  Despite having the tacit approval and ability to interact, John puzzled over his growing concern in silence. Even he himself didn’t truly understand the concern or its origin, but still it grew. A tiny voice calling out from deep in his soul and growing louder with each mission.

  Redshirt briefings, when compared to the elaborate song and dance of Boudreaux’s motivational speaking sessions, were slipshod at best. Gone were the high-minded values and talk of the solitary hero standing against the encroaching tide of evil, all that palaver had been distilled down to a simple call for exterminators to address an infestation, hopefully leaving the building intact.

  There were still thrilling narratives for each mission to be sure, after all, each of the Redshirts had once been a prime asset and expected a certain level of righteous motivation to perform their grisly tasks, but the epic story arcs with which the high-profile missions were sold were much more utilitarian by the time they trickled down to the low-level teams. The photos were still effective, however, and that seemed to be what tormented John.

  It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be sure. He had seen so many files, maybe he was confused. But there it was. An angelic little face wreathed in auburn pigtails that he had seen before. It wasn’t the child he had raised as his daughter, but it might as well have been.

  It wasn’t the first. Redshirts were not allowed access to the file folders themselves, whoever had been selected as the team lead for that particular mission reviewed the dossier and briefed the group as a whole, the nature of the photos in the file was implied and their physical presence a prop. In an earlier briefing a clumsy lead had dropped the photographic evidence to scatter on the floor, a fumble which could be forgiven as only the thumb and trigger finger remained on his right hand, and in a momentary glance John thought he recognized some mournful brown eyes and raven little-girl curls he recognized. The photos were picked up before he could be sure, and he chalked the flash of weird, shocking recognition up to training fatigue, but so was sown the seed of doubt.

  Now, there could be no doubt. After several successful missions and months of hard training, Smith had been chosen as lead by the no-nonsense Charlie. Working with the team had brought him back from the brink and given him worth again, and now he would lead it. But the mission…and the picture.

  It had been a while since he had seen the tiny portrait, presumably taken from the collection of a loving relative searching beyond all hope, but he couldn’t be more certain. The photos used to tug the heart’s strings and goad it to violence were a lie.

  Any other man may have missed it, but not dear John. He had first seen the image of this precious little girl, among others, in the workup for his very first mission, when his righteous fervor had been channeled into abhorrent, brutal cruelty under the tutelage and guidance of Boudreaux.

  Such was his commitment and conditioning at that shining moment in time, when the world and his place in it finally made sense, that every freckle, button nose, and gap-toothed smile of the alleged victims of evil had been indelibly burned into memory with the precision and permanency of a laser etching. Yet here was the same likeness again, but as a fresh victim of unthinkable acts to be rescued or avenged, a doppelgänger of deception.

  This mission he was to lead involved the destruction of a cartel involved in child sex trafficking and drugs, so the Redshirts would be at their bloody worst, high on righteous might, secure in the knowledge that whatever savagery they visited upon the target it was fully deserved and not nearly enough. But the reasons for the rage, these suddenly suspect photos, the thoughts of which helped them sleep at night, were rife with falsehood. What was the truth?

  What had they done? What had he done? All for the thought of these inflammatory images and gruesome stories. Looking around at his attentive team of misfits, sitting at attention under the watchful eye of the crippled Charlie, realit
y and cognitive dissonance began to crush John’s psyche. Overwhelmed and overcome he reverted to training, Smith gave the briefing in robotic monotone.

  Chapter 18

  Boudreaux sat in the back row of a courtroom in the LA County Courthouse reading a book through the wire-rimmed lenses perched on his nose. Hearing the name he was interested in called to the stand he closed the book, smoothed his hair, and stowed away the reading glasses in his suit pocket. It was time for the victim impact statement. Leaning over to the old lady seated next to him, a fellow unaffiliated party just there for the spectacle, he whispered, “This is always the best part.”

  The lonely old widow he had been shamelessly charming throughout the trial to entertain himself stifled a little giggle and blush behind her thin fingers. She quietly, but quickly, rummaged through her handbag and produced a cellophane-wrapped disk of hard candy and placed it surreptitiously on the arm of Boudreaux’s seat next to her, with all the overt, exaggerated glances of one desperately trying to be covert.

  Boudreaux played along by scanning the crowd himself with a soap opera sharp eye as he palmed the bright green contraband. She carried Key Lime Starlight mints, a favorite of his. He smiled at her with a wicked wink, with what might have been genuine affection were he capable and popped the sweet and sour confection into his mouth before turning his attention back to the proceedings. The old girl nearly swooned.

  The trial had been all over the news, if it bleeds it leads. Sex, drugs, and the gangland rape, torture, and slaying of a pretty white girl. All the gory cuts on which the voracious media most loved to feast, served bloody rare and topped with a rich, spicy sauce of the victim, being a deconstructed reduction of blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenage daughter of prominent local pastor. Megachurch prominent. International televangelist local. Succulent, piquant, and shamefully delicious.