PILATE
A Brutal Bible Tale
steven.rage
Outskirts Press, Inc. Denver, Colorado This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher.
PILATE
A Brutal Bible Tale
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2008 Steven Rage V2.0
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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ISBN: 978-1-4327-1797-1
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CHAPTER 1
I t was late dusk in The Harbor and shadows deepened quickly. The man with yellow eyes within the yawning gloom of a crumbling vacant building stared with great interest at the group manning his corner. The drug runners, their dealer, and the cops protecting them stood his spot. The man with yellow eyes chose the dealer. This dirty cop will die first. The vampire could smell his blood. Pilate thought he smelled delicious.
Pilate recently awakened from daytime slumber. He crouched now in deepening shadows and gazed in silence at the police officer and entourage. The mortal wasn’t wearing a uniform, but Pilate recognized him. Theodosius was one of Mayor’s up and comers.
Pilate began to breathe as hunger for oxygenrich blood grew strong. Breathing was pain for a vampire – a not so subtle reminder of physiologic need. Pilate’s need was food. He needed it soon.
Theodosius was standing Pilate’s spot, talking animatedly with other cops. There was a whole grip of his young niggas milling about them, acting tough.
The cop’s crew was shutting Pilate’s doors and opening up shop. None of Pilate’s shorties were anywhere to be found. And with the presence of Theodosius, Pilate knew Herod’s blessing had been procured. Enraged, the vampire’s jaw clenched and bit. A thin string of brackish blood slid down his chin.
Pilate considered the corner and its profits his minus, of course, the quota. He saw himself as a private contractor and not beholding to the organized power structure. Herod, longtime elected Mayor of The Harbor, answered only to Caiaphas and Annas Pharisee. This closely held organized crime syndicate controlled all Plata distribution in the Midwest. Plata had originated in The Harbor. Up until recently, business had been booming.
“I’ll have his teeth,” grunted Pilate, “hanging from my neck.”
Pilate yawned deeply, stretched out muscles in his back. He stepped with purposeful noise from gloomy shadows to dying sunlight.
The mortals turned to look. Pilate listened as he pulled tightly curled hair into one long ponytail. He was just out of earshot, for a mortal.
Theodosius and crew caught Pilate’s movement from the shadows. They could see him, but just barely.
“Who’s that?” Theodosius asked. He stood straight as a shorty answered.
“That nigga’s Pilate.”
“You sure?” Theodosius snapped, gripping the boy’s shoulders.
The shorty snuck a quick peek. Pilate stood waiting. His eyes twin orbs of murky yellow, backlit like a beast.
“Yeah,” shorty replied, “that’s him.”
Theodosius broke from the boy and turned to Pilate. The vampire eyes made the cop gasp. He’d heard stories.
“Pilate,” he said, “oh, no.”
Vampire hearing brought it crisp to Pilate, where he waited for more.
“Never thought I’d see him,” shorty said, “wasn’t sure he’s real.”
Theodosius grimaced at the fear building inside him. It was crazy, this fear. Pilate’s just a man, whereas he’s a cop in tight with Herod and by extension, the Pharisees. This Pilate motherfucker could not stop him. He appraised the growing state of affairs. Shit like this spin out of control in no time. Theodosius tried to size it up quickly, but Herod neglected to tell him Pilate would not abide losing this spot.
Theodosius wasn’t sure what he should do. Pilate’s shorty told him earlier he’d come hard. Theodosius put on a brave front, but fear was leaking from him. His boys noticed.
This fear he could not hide and that decided it.
“I’m gonna give him what he come for!” Theodosius declared, fear exploding.
He shoved his right hand beneath loose fitting coat, found the weapon and pulled it.
Pilate stared intently, sensing the group’s growing concern. It made his head swim. Delicious smells of the fearful herd bombarded his senses. He could hear their hearts’ increased force and speed, doing little trip-hammer dances in collective chests. Lungs suck in air to saturate hemoglobin in the blood with volumes of oxygen. This oxygen made his mouth water. Pilate’s pupils dilated, murky yellow surrounding black holes growing in intensity.
The rich, heady scent clouded Pilate’s reaction and spray from the cop’s concealed auto pistol cut a furrow through his left shoulder. The stream of rapid fire bullets pulverized muscle tissue as he leaped backward and down into gloom.
Pilate ran, unseen, across the street from shadows. He watched second quick spray tattoo the old brick façade of the crumbling Boys and Girls club where Pilate stood a moment before.
Firing stopped. Pilate squatted behind a stripped sedan, to the right of Theodosius’ crew. They were looking left at cement dust kicked up by bullets. He lowered his face and folded hands as in prayer. Pilate welcomed the exquisite pain of lengthening fangs and pointed growth of talons as they split his bleeding fingertips. Blood shimmered where he’d been shot.
Then he stood.
A shorty spun around and beheld Pilate. His smile, full on, teeth long and sharp, displayed in opened mouth. Shorty’s eyes rolled up in his head. He fainted dead away. He crumpled as Theodosius turned and raised his weapon a second time.
Pilate closed the distance of twenty feet in the blink of an eye. First he was beside wrecked sedan and next instant Pilate was six inches from Theodosius. The cop’s face was vacant. Comprehension had not set in. Shorties followed their leader’s arm as it arced, staring where Pilate had been beside the car.
Before anything registered, Pilate had his talons imbedded in the mortal. Theodosius glanced from yellow vampire eyes, to already healing shoulder, to Pilate’s fingers sunk in his very own belly.
“Bullshit…” Theodosius managed. Pilate ignored him. Instead, Pilate beheld the crew and pulled attention to him. It was magnetic and they could not resist.
Pilate scanned the group and gleaned the herd’s weakest, easiest to control. The vampire turned to him.
“Shut your eyes,” he whispered to shorty, not even old enough to drive, “but stay alert.” Rest of the crew Pilate ordered quiet stillness. “You do not witness,” he told them.
The boy’s eyes were closed as commanded and Pilate refocused his hold on him. The boy stood rigid, at attention.
“Why are you here?” Pilate asked.
“Mayor say you missed quota three months in a row, so he give this spot to Theodosius.”
“Impossible,” Pilate angrily replied, “this here my spot. I brought it to Herod. It belongs to me.” Pilate’s voice was rasping dry and painful. “He can’t give away what don’t belong to him.”
The boy shivered. He’s very healthy with lots of bright red life inside, sludgy-thick with oxygen. Pilate’s patience thinned. His hunger deep, clawing at him. Soon it would
uncheck.
“When this happen?” Pilate snapped.
“Yesterday,” choked the boy, tears welling, lips quivering.
“Be calm,” Pilate advised and the boy tried. The others, standing statues: ignorant, motionless and awaiting their next command.
Pilate boiled with rage. The monthly quota was missed by only a few grams of Plata. This powerfully synthetic heroin-meth mixture makes slaves of users and normally had hordes of fans. In the last few months, however, the trend reversed. Now, niggas are getting pissed because their pockets aren’t as swole.
The missed quota gave Pilate pause, but was not validation for losing The Harbor’s most lucrative spot to peddle drugs. Even short, Pilate still pushing more cake than any, so Herod’s logic is suspect.
The boy waited silently. Only chattering teeth could be heard as darkness snuffed out dusk. What lie beyond pale streetlight glow succumbed and became deep shadow.
“Open your eyes and see,” Pilate commanded. All attention the boy could muster was aimed at the vampire.
The boy, his captive audience, spellbound in stunned silence as Pilate lifted rapidly dying Theodosius, talons seeking spine. Pilate grasped hard, knobby bone, lifting still. Pilate’s left hand reached over back. Pierced rib and muscle with three inch talons, below where neck joins spine. He grabbed hold.
Pilate brought torso to him and bit below where left and right sides of ribcage met in the center. He chewed gobbets of flesh and spat them onto the cracked sidewalk. He punctured a big artery with his pointed tongue. Pilate raised Theodosius above his head and the jaw unhinged, as would a predatory snake. He twisted the mortal like he was wringing a soggy rag. Blood from ruptured abdominal aorta spewed forth in an orgy of velvet fluid. The spine popped bubble wrap staccatos. Pilate twisted and drained Theodosius of every last drop of his living blood.
Pilate finished and breathing abated, as did the mortal he emptied. He dropped the limp bag of bones and eased his lower jaw into place. The blood delivered oxygen to Pilate’s starved body. Subtle, steady euphoria rippled from the center of his chest to every square inch of his cold, hypersensitive skin.
Pilate calmly sucked remnants from his fingers as talons receded. The crew waited.
Pilate spoke. “Tell Herod,” he said, “Pilate does not get replaced.”
The boy waited. Pilate nodded. The boy turned and ran fast out of sight. His untied sneeks left where he’d jumped out of them.
Pilate walked away. He neared the periphery of deep shadows and raised a hand above his shoulder. The crew scattered. They dissolved into darkness, shelter seeking roaches escaping the instant kitchen light.
Shoulder mostly healed, flush with blood and oxygen, breathing no longer required. Pilate left the carrion where it fell.
Pilate needed to return to his lair. Juan, his Second, and Mary Magdalene awaited his return. He needed to confer with Juan and shed bloody clothes. Pilate wanted Mary to braid his long hair before nightly rounds.
Pilate’s shorties were missing and needed locating. Plata still had to be flipped and he needed to plan. Herod would not let this go unchallenged. He shall try the Pharisees.
Pilate stepped over the bodies of Theodosius and unconscious shorty. He melted into darkness.
The night was his ally. It swallowed him whole.
CHAPTER 2
A romas of barbequed meat hung thick in the air. Backyard of the large old house festooned with decoration. Today was a great day, a wedding reception. She’s to spend the entire day with her followers in celebration.
Guests milled about on a bright, beautiful day in
The Harbor. They sucked down cervezas, drank shots of tequila, and smoked marijuana-stuffed cigar blunts. People relaxed as they could in this chronically dangerous locale. Music blared and world-weary faces creased with rare smiles.
Immanuel relaxed on a plastic lawn chair, bare feet gripping dark green blades of cool grass. She refused alcohol, but accepted a long luxuriant pull of cannabis. She blew out a plume and smiled.
“Truly a gift from the Father,” she said and was rewarded with amen by several people surrounding her.
“Enjoy, Teacher,” the former hard ass degenerate Plata fiend told her. Pedro handed back to Immanuel without taking his. “This blunt’s the last.”
Immanuel accepted and smoked on the stuffed cigar. She leaned back and crossed her short, slight legs. She’s a very pale Latina with the blackest of thick hair, eyelids always half-hooded. The twentythree year old blew a nice smoke ring and considered the brown cylinder.
“This is good smoke,” she said.
“It’s Indo, Teacher,” he replied, satisfied. “Hydroponic, very nice,” she smiled. Like most
of her followers, Pedro felt immensely pleased to give her even simplest delights. “Is the chronic all gone?” she asked. “Sack empty?”
“Some shake at the bottom. Might be enough to roll a joint,” he replied, reaching down the front of baggy khakis where he kept a zip-locked baggie of dope. “My apologies, El Cristo,” he added. Pedro pulled a big, fat, QP of fluffy, so stinky you could smell skunky shit right through the damn plastic, seedless buds. Where there was only a flaccid bag of shake.
Pedro stared in shock at the taut cellophane bag. He smelled the kind weed and winced it was so good. He looked to Immanuel who graced him with a sly smile. She just loved doing shit like that to him. Pedro always was wound too tight.
“God is good,” she said.
“And God is Love,” they finished.
“Pedro,” she told him, “twist-up for the children of the Lord.”
“Yes, Teacher,” he answered. The six-foot, five-inch two hundred fifty pound man had scars of past sins showing lumpy purple on his neck. Six-inch braids dangled his chin. He bowed slightly to her.
“Thy will, Master, be done.” Pedro rolled blunts, one after another. The high-grade hydro never diminished. Not so much as a gram.
Miracle was uttered among those who attended. Judas did not care for marijuana. The long, lean shaven-head man never indulged in drugs. Chasing women, boys, engaging in gambling, drinking were other vices he shunned. Judas craved money, instead. And the muscle that came with it. He stood away from Immanuel’s semi-circle of
disciples. Judas was behind her, talking into a phone, playing his hand. “She’s here now, I’m looking right at her,” in low tones. “I’m with her 24/7,” he said, “no one’s closer.” He felt tired, weak. Judas hated being out doors, especially during brightness of day.
Only Judas, as the treasurer, realized how well off the ministry was financially. Or, truth be told, how well he was doing. He used the donations as seed capital for his enterprises. He always returned the principle, but every dollar Judas profited on the donations, he kept. He’s a shrewd investor and felt he should yield thereof. Whether silent-partnering liquor shanties, or subsidizing low-budget, highreturn pornos, every crumb of profit went into stacks of scrilla. He kept the proceeds from his ventures in a hole in the floor of his bedroom. Stacks grew, the hole filling swiftly.
Money is power and power is muscle, and muscle in The Harbor is absolutely everything. Judas’ greatest wish was to die fabulously rich. Well, not really die. A vampire can live forever, especially a powerful one.
Judas listened, only interrupting with monosyllabic responses. He stole a look at El Cristo holding court. Her back was to him. Judas had a sudden urge to drain little bitch ass of all her ordinary human blood. Judas did not believe Immanuel was any Messiah.
“No, Matthias,” he said, “I’ll tell them myself what I want in trade for my betrayal. What I can do, no one else can, and it will cost.”
He smiled as Matthias agreed. Judas secured an appointment with the elusive Pharisees. Now he’s on his way.
Very top of the Plata food chain is Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee. The enigmatic pair was rarely seen, but knew all. Matthias told Judas brutal fairy tales, stop you in your tracks. The sort where those who offend, even in the slightest wa
y, simply evaporated. Sometimes, they would show up later but in very small pieces. The pair was power personified. Human beings a species, thought Judas, with unquenchable capacity for evil.
Judas was nervous dealing directly with the Pharisees, but lure of money of this magnitude’s worth the risk. He was aching to move up the food chain. There’s no money like dope money and he wanted much. Judas wanted his own shop.
He disconnected and was startled to discover El Cristo half-turned, contemplating him with dark, hooded eyes. As if she had watched Judas all along.
Pedro amazed, despite her undeniably powerful presence, how very tiny she was. Only five feet tall and buck-five in weight, Immanuel exuded calm authority that Pedro deeply admired. He believed her the very manifestation of the Living God. He would do or die for his Savior.
Pedro rolled blunts and thought about this miracle he witnessed. She astounded him as much now as the day he first met her. Immanuel should have been killed. It was the first miracle seen with Pedro’s own eyes.
What awed Pedro most, she’s always barefoot. Even in the winter snow when they did meet. Pedro dissolved Plata in an upturned twist-off cap of a forty with tap water. He tore a chunk of cigarette filter and set it with shaky fingers in the water. Pedro took a dull-needled syringe and sharpened the point on the rough side of box matches. He blew tiny metal shavings from the needle and drew two milliliters into the syringe through nicotine-stained filter. To catch any big pieces that didn’t melt.
The peripheral veins were all collapsed on his decimated body. Pedro had to use the still functional ones in his neck when booting.
Pedro took a deep breath and tightened abdominal muscles. He puffed out cheeks, bore down. Pedro looked in the mirror on the counter where he’d chopped his shit into tiny piles. The garden hose blood vessel puffed boldly with already rigid edges from overuse. His hands trembled badly, bowels threatening to erupt any second. Big muscle groups of the back and legs convulsed painfully. It was all because he had to wait so long.
Pedro managed, looking in the mirror, to puncture sweaty flesh and big vein with two audible pops. A spurt of blood clouded liquefied Plata in the syringe. Without any further ado, Pedro depressed the plunger, straight down into the superior vena cava. The rush so delicious his mostly useless cock a hardened plank. The rest of him relaxed in wretched glory of the all-encompassing Plata high.
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