by Athanasios
Rolf felt this in his almost bursting, prideful heart. His father was one of the few Teutonic Knights who survived the Templar’s near annihilation. He taught him the mysteries and secrets of the mystical men at arms. They had taken much of their strength from the pure, clean Christianity the filthy Catholics put down in the French Southlands centuries before.
The Catharae had not relied on a worship of a Jew, no matter how extraordinary He may have been. A talking dog is still a dog. The Teutons flourished in the First Reich and had gone on to be part of the Templars when their first Messiah had come. The Fuhrer had almost achieved the return of the Holy Roman Empire and came so close that its end was all more tragic when it failed.
Now as the portrait behind His God rose to reveal the rest of the waiting sacrifices Rolf knew they would have another chance to avenge the injustices committed upon them.
About the cringing black-shirts were many brown-shirts, men and women, hands behind their backs. Upon sight of Him and the Reichsfuhrer, they clicked their heels and salute with an arrogant snap of their arms. The Fuhrer and deputy jutted their chins forward in response and forgetting the crowd in the hall walked to the assembled victims.
The first person they came to was moving his head about trying to discern what was going on. He had been beaten so unmercifully his eyes were covered in blood from bruises and cuts. On his right upper arm was a concentration camp tattoo. Rolf saw it and chuckled. He’d been told there was a Nazi hunter trying to find him and his father but did not know he had penetrated this far. It was too rich an irony to have come so far and meet a more horrible end than he survived decades before.
Rolf motioned for one of the Reichians to clean the fellow’s eyes. He wanted him to know who was before him and to let his Fuhrer have his fill of the desperate horror to come. Once his eyes were whipped clean he squinted and blinked to see an unmistakably familiar face. He still saw it in nightmares and horrible memory yet he saw it now, with his eyes, not memory or nightmare, and he screamed.
“I’m in Hell!”
“No, Juden, Hell has come to you,” Rolf Hess pleasantly replied and gave his Fuhrer a ceremonial dagger to begin the feast whetted by this delicious appetizer. Adolph Hitler’s rapturous face thanked the Reichsfuhrer for this succulent preparation.
Lighting The Dark
Time: February 23rd, 1975, Danvers State Hospital, Danvers, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
Dr. Helen Gallagher had just taken a breath and allowed Dr. Megin her chance to get in her word in edgewise. She was voicing her displeasure with Chief Superintendent Dr. Phoggel hijacking their patient and how they were at least lucky that he didn’t have the jurisdiction, and isn’t it strange that the letters keep coming from those wackos, sorry she knew that as Superintendent of Danvers she shouldn’t use that term, it was a layman’s usage, and weren’t those people laymen to be still writing The One, how could they believe that he was who he said he was, no wonder he was in a padded room with a straight-jacket on, she would be too if people thought he was the Son of Satan and all those people who were serial killers, what about those that weren’t did they have stuff to hide, like that John Wayne Gacy, David Berkowitz, Jim Jones, Richard Ramirez, Chris Wilder, Ted Bundy, and the others, she would bet her last dollar to doughnuts there was something with all of them, they gave her the creeps.
“Helen, stop there. We’ve got enough to worry about with Dr. Stick up His Arse coming in and acting like we the people.” Mary Megin was sitting at her boss’s desk trying to reign in the kinetic little woman. Her easy manner had a way of calming and forcing Helen Gallagher to slow down and let others talk. “That little poufs got something to hide himself, I’m sure of it. He’s humoring The One’s delusions about all this, and I don’t like it one little bit.”
“He’s making him believe all this.” Mary Megin was interrupted by Helen’s response, which came uncharacteristically slow, calm, and to the point.
“They’re writing him, Mary. I think he’s right.” Near silence followed with the only sound being Mary’s jaw hitting the floor and the air being sucked into her open mouth.
“You believe him?” She quickly recovered. “Helen he’s a mental patient. You can’t be serious.”
“I am. You’ve been agnostic, even an atheist, for as long as I’ve known you, but I believe. I have faith. I think The One is the AntiXos.” Helen kept calm and waited for the eventual outburst that came.
“A professional of over twenty years and you’re telling me you believe in the propaganda that’s been thrown at the world for centuries?” Mary Megin said. “It’s all a bunch of horse shit, Helen. I can’t believe you’re telling me this.” She paused a second and gathered her thoughts. “How can you count yourself a woman of science and still believe all that crap?”
“I believe in God and His son who was sent to earth to take on our sins to save us. I became a doctor to try and save many of the unfortunates that have lost their reason, are troubled or disturbed. It is because of my faith that I became a psychiatrist,” Helen concluded.
“You think you’re doing God’s work? That He’s working through you?” Mary asked.
“No. I don’t appreciate your tone, Mary. I’m sharing something with you that’s very personal, and precious to me, please don’t belittle it.” Helen sighed and Mary caught herself at that quiet exasperation.
“I’m sorry, Helen. I was crass. I didn’t mean to,” she added. “But let me ask you something. Do you really believe The One is your Bible’s AntiXos?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
“How do you go on helping him then? According to your teachings he will bring Hell on Earth. Satan’s Thousand-Year Reign.” Mary did not have any guile or sarcasm attached to her question. She just wanted to know why her devout friend had not at least resigned from this case.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question for a year now. My answer is this: he doesn’t seem to want to harm anyone or anything. He is too consumed with his shows and movies. I don’t see evil or Revelation’s Beast.”
“What about the dreams?” Mary asked her.
“Yes, the dreams. He’s certainly got imagination. If he’s making it up he’s Walt Disney, Alfred Hitchcock, and H.R. Puff ‘n Stuff rolled into one,” Helen answered. Both grew reflective.
Neither said that they had only known him only a short time. Even the worst prisoner behaved if strapped into a straight jacket, and a locked, padded room. Both of them thought on him and didn’t share any further views about The One or Dr. Phoggel. Mary believed there was something wrong in Dr. Phoggel’s approach to the patient and to her. She had filed her complaint, and it would take months to work through the system. She detailed all the pertinent information and her fears about Dr. Phoggel’s mismanagement of the case. It would have to go onto the federal level because Dr. Phoggel was already the highest member in the state. In the meantime, there was nothing further she could do.
Dr. Gallagher had expressed her disapproval of Dr. Megin’s official complaint. She told her she had begun a process that was bigger than all of them. An official complaint took on a life of its own, and Helen was uncomfortable about where this would end up. Her belief about The One’s stated and corroborated identity was the biggest fear. There was no telling who might come across that complaint and put the poor man away.
Helen said a silent prayer and started talking about her garden. They each had one and always exchanged seeds and knowledge. They also spoke about food recipes. Helen would give her nutritional tips.
“So tell me about your latest dream.” Dr. Phoggel sat across from Adam and I as we lay on the bare floor in my/our snug, long-sleeved, canvas jacket. Dr. Phoggel was seated on a straight-backed, metal chair and looked down on the patient. “Was this one with Jesus again?”
I answered no this one wasn’t with Jesus. Broken Adam wanted this man’s help, and I couldn’t stop him. I used this as leverage for him to let me off the hook about Kosta. Adam went on to relate the dr
eam to him. He no longer wanted to avoid sleep. He slept easily, and in our subconscious various guests always visited us. How they got in there I don’t know. Broken Adam not only blamed me for everything, he was too distracted to pay attention and not let anyone else in.
It was a remarkably vivid dream in which he appeared as his Darkness, the monster he saw himself as, Dr. Phoggel noted, and looked about the Oracle of Delphi, in ancient Greece. It was underground, a vast chamber, and he wasn’t alone. Fumes rose from a chasm in the earth, and he knew with the certainty of dreams it was a long-dead great serpent that continued to decay.
“Is the serpent a repressed memory?” Dr. Phoggel put down in his notes.
Adam continued ignorant of notes or commentary. In the inner sanctuary he saw a white-hooded and cloaked woman sitting atop a high cleft where the fumes rose all about a golden statue of Apollo. Before it was a fire kept constantly fed with resinous fir, the inner roof of the temple covered with laurel garlands, and on a white marbled altar more incense burned. All these fumes warped the priestess’s mind and let her commune and channel the Oracle.
“What is your question of the Gods?” she intoned.
Note: Is the woman a mother figure replacing his birth mother or his stepmother?
“I have no question for you, only an order. Bring me your masters, the Gods. My question is for them,” Adam says insulting her even in the drugged stupor of her trance.
“You make demands of the Delphic Oracle? To the Pythian Apollo? Who are you to see the Gods?” Her contempt was slurred and insulted Adam.
“Do as you’re told. Bring me the Gods. My question is for them.”
“As you wish, Dark One,” she replied.
Note: Dark One, even in his dreams he is held in worship. He sees no escape from any of it.
She leaned forward and opening her hood wider breathed in the fumes. She was in her middle years and quite striking, but as she opened her eyes they revealed her blind, mad, or both. With a few deep breaths her face fell forward onto her chest and was still, until she violently convulsed off her seat and into the chasm. Her descent continued as she fell out of sight and was lost in the darkness.
The fumes and incense then grew thicker, more pungent, the laurel from the canopy and smoke from braziers and firs intensified. It obscured everything wafting its way up and after a while dissipated revealing figures where there were none before.
They were all of heroic proportions and dressed in variety of clothes some obviously Egyptian, Norse, Celtic, and Greco-Roman.
“You know what’s really starting to bother me?” Adam stopped his earlier detailing of his dream, catching the Superintendent off guard.
“Uh, what? What’s that? Bothering you, I mean.”
“Everybody on TV these days is a detective, solving crimes. Can you believe it?” He was honestly bothered by this. “There’s McCloud, McMillan and Wife, Columbo, Barnaby Jones, Charlie’s Angels. They’re everywhere! What’s next? Priests and rabbis?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Give me a sit-com like Sanford and Son, All In The Family, Odd Couple, or M.A.S.H. any day of the week over Emergency or Kojak. Six Million Dollar Man and Kung Fu are getting pretty damn cool too.” He paused, deep in thought, and with complete conviction finished, “I loathe The Waltons. Those freaking inbred oakies make me wanna puke.”
Dr. Phoggel was quiet for a few seconds, digesting this completely unrelated information. “Does this come into the dream you were telling me about?”
“Cartoons are getting pretty awful too. They actually redid Star Trek in cartoon! If it wasn’t for Scooby Doo and Hong Kong Fooey there wouldn’t be anything on Saturdays to get up for.”
Note: He talks about television with the same enthusiasm as a child. Could he be a moron or an imbecile?
“Anyway the head guy, Grand Pubah, Ra, Zeus, Jupiter, or Odin are at the highest point of the chamber on thrones that appeared with them.
“Below some sitting demurely or defiantly standing and some a little of both were the Maiden, Mother, Crone Goddess: Demeter, Athena, Aphrodite, Hera, and Artemis. Likewise Ceres, Minerva, Diana, Juno, and Venus were looking at me and back at each other and the rest of the gods all about them, confused and interested at the same time. To their left was Isis, as Maiden, Mother, Crone, Norse and Celtic Matronae were also in threes.
“The Goddess Consort: Dionysus, Freyr, Bacchus, Baal, and Osiris were all well under way to being drunk. They all took drinks from wine, ale, or other alcohol they carried. Nobody spoke and the silence got pretty uncomfortable until a belch from the Goddess Consorts shattered it. Some the Gods snicker, others bellow with laughter while some rolled their eyes.
The Gods of War plunge forward and ask, “What is your request Redeemer?”
“Who made me The One?” I wanted to know which one, if any, I could finally blame.
Note: Patient may be close to breakthrough as he is confronting his delusions in his dreams.
The Maiden, Mother, Crone answered with a wave of her hair, a nod and a purse of her lips. No one woman from them answered but it looked like they spoke in one voice. “We give one’s fate to them at birth. The Maiden spins the thread of their lives, the Mother measures its allotted length, and the Crone cuts it when it has reached its time.”
“So you’re responsible?” I finally had an answer. “Why did you choose me?”
Only the Mother spoke now. “There was no other who could’ve borne the burden. Anyone else would’ve faltered under it.”
No answer at all. She saw my frustration and went on. “We don’t consciously choose anybody’s fate, we plant the seed, water and care for the plant and then reap the harvest. We do not make the plant grow we only provide whatever necessary for its growth.”
The War God continued the point with a voice that was cracked by countless paens, war cries, and bellows over screams of pain. “Without struggle there is no progress. The Goddess cannot be blamed for your fate. Nobody can. You have to fight your own battles.” He clipped the last word like a deathblow.
I tell him/them, this isn’t a battle with nothing to do but fight and win or lose. I can’t even see my opponents. You’re not making any sense. Every God I’ve spoken to talks in parables.
What gives?
Is it just me or are they all retards?
The ‘tard talk continued with more parables and inspirational words.
“In any war, your worst opponent is yourself. If you lose heart or seek to lay blame upon other’s shoulders then you can’t fight.”
I don’t want to fight. I want to live my life in peace. These guys don’t get it. I don’t want any of this.
“Peace? You’ll find peace in your grave: life is war. You must fight for Man and if not Man then for your peace.” He ended the word with a sneer for my hoped for peace.
Note: Major subconscious conflict for supremacy. Patient’s obvious multiple personalities are at odds about his life’s direction.
I didn’t understand what he said. Was he saying I should fight my fate or my fate is to fight? The Wisdom God raised his hand to add his own explanation to the War God’s parables.
“What the God of War says is that you cannot get your answers from us. You are the one that controls fate.” He stopped talking and that enigmatic little beau-mot said absolutely nothing.
“Nobody wants to answer with anything more than pretty words? I didn’t ask to be The One.” I wasn’t saying this to anybody in particular I just vented.
“You sound like a woman. Your life is yours to lose Dark One, there isn’t anything else.” A loud scoff and synchronized fart of disapproval came from the Goddess Consort.
“You got something to add besides burps and farts?” I asked. He looked at me with repulsion and pity.
“Yes. In fact I do. The God of War doesn’t know what it is to have a fate where all you do is die. He at least fights, and the outcome is in anybody’s hands. You have a struggle. No matter what I do I’m gonna die because somebody thou
ght it was a good idea.” He took another swig while the God of War arrogantly replied.
“Somebody still dies it’s inevitable.”
He shook his armored head at the swaying drunk who answered with a thunderous belch, to which the Maiden, Mother, Crone acidly retorted, “You have a pivotal role in the cycle of life. You begin it and all you can do is drink. Oh, you disgust me.”
“You’re not disgusted when you’ve got my cock in you, whore.” He was nearly falling over himself as he stood and swayed back and forth. “Yeah, I’m always drunk. I’m up for a party. I’ve got to be to fuck your volatile cunt and die for my efforts you, Black Widow Bitch skanky whore!”
The hiss of steel leaving its scabbard is less dangerous than the even business tone of the God of War. “You will apologize to the Goddess, you drunken mistake.”
“You’re just mad because your weapon is the only thing you’ve ever put into anybody.”
The dream ends in a great big, free-for-all fight: the Gods of War against the Consort Gods while the Earth Mothers look on in regret, attention, fright, and excitement. They find this sexy.
Note: Patient has a marked disassociation with sex: further clues of his retardation. Has a juvenile interest in bodily functions and sexual attraction.
The cavern was then deafened by a few claps of thunder followed by the Sky God’s loud bellow of, “Silence!” Everybody then went back to their place and looked down in shame at the correction.
“Redeemer, you won’t find any answers here. Whatever you wish to believe will be right for you. You’ll have to live with the consequences.” Then they were gone and I’m with myself again.
All alone again I’m confronted with my regrets. I keep apologizing, but I won’t listen. It was my fault and nothing I’ll say will change that. It’s all my fault. I tell myself I’ll have to forgive me of it, but it’s still too early, way too soon.
