Cult of Kill #1

by Patrick Kill

  And guess what: Penicillin didn’t do a damn thing. The strange virus I had acquired had no earthly vaccinations.

  So my three hours of fantasy quickly became a lifetime of misery.

  And then I came home to my pregnant wife and her first labor pains.

  I thought about taking a coat hanger to her right there on the spot.

  But was it really her fault?

  Yes and no, I guessed. I didn’t know.

  So I decided to wait it out. See if things got any better.

  During the birthing, the doctors were blinded by a mysterious bright light shooting from my wife’s crotch. It turned out that the newborn didn’t need a doctor’s assistance after all. The little bastard was seen walking atop the amniotic fluid. It parted the birth canal with a wave of its tiny fingers and crawled right out.

  During the nine months in its captivity, the little Messiah had turned the afterbirth into bread and a portion of my wife’s blood into wine, which explained her constant hiccuping.

  Of course, the baby didn’t cry, It just lay there in its crib, looking around with its wizened eyes. It stared at me menacingly and the first words out of its mouth were: “Hey, you mortal fool, too bad you didn’t have a longer tallywhacker…perhaps you could have poked me out of the womb!”

  The nurses called it “cute baby gibberish.”

  I called it “taunting.”

  When the nurses finally left and my wife fell asleep, I gave the thing a little thump on the head.

  Right on the soft spot.

  With a fire extinguisher.

  But it didn’t even phase it.

  I think it got the hint, because never again did it speak to me.

  I tried to get it to speak again, but it was stubborn.

  A week after being discharged from the hospital, my wife went to the grocery. She was gone just an hour, but I made the most of that time.

  First I filled the bathtub with scalding water and dropped the baby in. It rose to the surface unharmed, so I threw in a toaster oven and electrocuted it.

  The only thing that it did was to make its hair frizzy.

  Without dressing it, I took it outside, tied one end of a long rope to its little legs and the other end to the back bumper of our Ford Ranger. I took it for a little ride. I hit every gravel road in the city.

  I pulled in the driveway back home, after getting a few strange glances from the neighbors, and checked the damage.

  Not a scratch.

  So I took the Son of God and rammed our dog’s favorite chew toy down the baby’s throat. I threw the infant out in the back yard for our Rotweiler to play with. The dog took the baby in its jaws, shaking it violently, and tossing it into the air.

  The little shit was unscathed.

  Dejected, I gave up, changed its diaper and tied a pillow over its face.

  Nothing worked. The thing was invincible.

  At six months of age, the baby looked just like Jesus, but shorter, of course. Even had a beard. The doctors thought it was some genetic anomaly, possibly one of those diseases where the person ages extremely fast.

  I knew different.

  So I figured God was making a point. Either that or it actually was the Second Coming of Jesus.

  Either way, I could care less.

  During my wife’s last visit to the grocery, I took a road trip. Found the most desolate patch of forest I could find. In a clearing, I went to work.

  If God wanted to make a point, I would too.

  In that isolated patch of land, I erected a tiny wooden cross.

  “You remember this?” I asked it.

  It just stared back at me, unafraid.

  So I crucified the little bastard.

  During the hour it took me to pound in the nails into its little hands and feet, I was never struck by lightning. Even after the fact…I never faced anything unpleasant. Well, except for the night my wife attacked me with a kitchen knife after finding out what I had done to her precious bastard child. But I fixed that problem as well. She’s heavily sedated now, under about five feet of sheet rock in the cellar.

  So I’m either off the hook for killing the Son of God or His vengeance is pending.

  Maybe He just decided to be fair about it. Call it even.

  Only time will tell.

  About the Author

  Patrick Kill specializes in writing the most absurd, iconoclastic humorous dark fiction around. At 6’1’’, he is the tallest midget on earth. He is a competitive eater…of children. He prefers footie pajamas with someone else’s feet in them. He fishes for dead bodies in drainage ditches during the day and traps for yeti at night. He is the most ridiculous man in the world. His favorite saying is: “I don’t always eat humans, but when I do, it’s dos Mexicanos. Stay evil, my friends.”

  About the Publisher

  DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.

  To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at www.darkfuse.com.