by Borne Wilder
Science hasn’t realized this conclusion yet, and will probably never find how it is encoded into the soul. It seems man has disregarded the idea of the supernatural, in order to take more and more credit for his own existence and will eventually discard the notion of a soul entirely.” Once again Azazel placed her hand on Ron’s knee. “In short, I need you because of your DNA. Sins of the father is a more accurate term.”
“Actually, I was planning on giving you a DNA sample later on,” Ron smiled. “You can stop dancing, and tell me what you want. I’m about a hundred and ten percent positive, we can make a trade.” Azazel uncrossed and re-crossed her legs; Ron immediately wondered if this woman was shaved, he couldn’t imagine her allowing herself to be dirtied by unsightly body hair...well, maybe a neatly trimmed heart-shaped patch. He smiled at the thought.
“Your father’s genetic imprint is on his soul, within the Shekel of Tyre and I need someone who shares his DNA to firmly, more permanently link the dimensions. I had planned on using your father to complete this task, but as you can imagine, he has his own agenda and does not seem to play well with others.
I’ve watched him over the past two decades and realized he was incompatible with my mission and no amount of money would convince him to share my interests. That is when I turned my attention toward you.” She picked up her purse and removed a small leather book. She handed it to Ron. “Open it.”
The book was soft and worn, inside there were two credit cards and a Maestro card from Credit Suisse, embossed with Ron’s name. “So you’ve been stalking me for some time, huh.”
“I prefer Credit Suisse to UBS. Of course, it looks much better to use the Centurion in certain circles and for larger transactions. I find Centurion transfers much more expedient, yet, there is still some discretion available through Swiss banking.
There is a passbook in there also. Right now, my name is on the account, along with yours, but we can stop in Zurich, where you can personally secure it in your name only, should you agree to participate in my endeavor.”
A Swiss bank account was never even imagined by Ron, yet, here was one with his name on it. The last and only activity on the account was four months earlier, a deposit in the amount of twenty-five million. Ron looked at Azazel from the corner of his eye. “What’s the deal lady? I’m half asshole and part retard, there’s no royal blood anywhere in me, no Nobel Prize winners hanging from the branches in my family tree. Why in the fuck, would you pay this much for my DNA?”
“It’s not just for your DNA; you are going to help me bring a long awaited peace to this world. Your DNA just allows it to take place. I need a direct genetic tie to the coin. Your brother is another option, but I feel, with a little refinement, you are much more suitable for the position.”
“What’s the position?”
“King. I'm going to make you a king. Not just any king. I’m going to place you in charge of the world.”
Ron grinned. “I can’t even get a fucking home loan and you’re going to make me King of the World. This woman was rubbin’ shit in her hair crazy, he thought. “I know all this shit can be forged. What do you really want from me?”
“The first thing we will work on is your use of profanity.” She handed him the hotel phone. “Call your regular bank and tell them you would like to transfer five hundred thousand dollars from your Credit Suisse account, using the passwords and account number in your passbook. Have them check the availability of the funds. As soon as you agree to my terms, we will go there from here and I will sign the papers. You can transfer all of it if you like, but remember; soon, you will be implementing a new tax code at the world level, banks will fail and governments will crumble, you don’t want your new found wealth to disappear in the near future in a floundering financial institution.
Call American Express and Credit Suisse and validate the cards.” Azazel poured herself another glass of wine. “Shall I refresh your scotch?”
“What are the terms that I have to agree to?”
“I want you to look like a king. I want you to act like a king. I want you to be a king.”
“What are all the other kings going to do? Are they just going to lay their crowns at my feet and hand me the keys to their castles?”
“Within a week, most of them will be dead. There are big changes coming, the world is going to fall apart and you, with a little help, are going to pick up the pieces and put it back together.”
Ron set the hotel phone down and took his cell out of his jacket.
“Do you need some privacy?”
“Nope, I’m locating a dealership; I’m going to buy a Ferrari.” He was going to call the crazy lady’s bluff.
“Here.” She produced a business card from her purse. “They sold me my Bentley, but they sell Ferraris. That card was given to me as a service reminder, but I believe the sales department is located on there somewhere. I don’t need it; I become bored with my cars long before they require servicing.”
“How are all the kings going to die?”
“Ultimately, for some, it will be their greed which brings about their demise, but failure to adapt to social and political change will doom the others.”
“Let’s say I accept your offer, will that have a negative effect on any relationship, concerning my greed and my demise?”
“There will be a much larger sum in that account before we are finished. Let’s hurry, after you buy your car, we have wars to start and the day is wasting.”
“I think you are bat shit crazy.”
“We shall see.”
17
“For, lo, thine enemies make a tumult; and they that hate thee have lifted up the head.” Sweat ran in rivulets from the preacher’s brow and clung in droplets at the ends of his long hair. His mind was given over to the Lord, but his body was given over to skag. Sometimes it was extremely difficult to tell which one had his heart.
At times like these, when he was dope sick, he could barely hear the Lord. At times like these, he questioned the Lord’s decision to have him bear witness. It really wasn’t that he doubted the Lord; it was just that he was sure; there was someone out there more worthy of his role. His stomach boiled; soon he would be blowing chunks. “The Lord will provide.” He said aloud, to himself.
Tay-Tay usually brought him a bag of dope at night, on his way back from his drop. It was unclear to the preacher if Tay loved the Lord, but it was clear, that Tay needed something from God. For a few lines of scripture, he traded his wares with the preacher. A bag of skag for a chapter of the Word, the preacher couldn’t beat the price with a stick.
Tay-Tay saw himself as Job. Territorial beefs and payback, had pretty much taken away all Tay’s family, he needed to hear, even if he couldn’t be certain, that the light at the end of the tunnel, wasn’t the light of an oncoming train.
Cramps knotted the preacher’s guts. “The Lord will provide.”
“Sheeet Preacher, the Lord ain’t gonna provide you with shit, he got you stove up like a mauffaucker.” The preacher turned to see Cleotha standing directly behind him. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, mauffaucker, Tay-Tay ain’t slingin’ dope no mo’. He got his ass shot full of holes last night. Mauffaucker had short eyes. He got caught with a little kid on his dick.” Cleotha laughed through his nose, snorting. “Can you believe that shit? You Bible thumpin’ mauffauckers are all hypocrites.” The preacher lowered his eyes and turned toward the street.
“Then he said to me; "Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, 'Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone; we are cut off.' Therefore, prophesy…”
“Shut the fuck up, mauffaucker, I gots yo’ shit.” Cleotha dangled a small bag of heroin between his finger and thumb. “Only thing you got to do, mauffaucker, is tell me yo' name.”
The contents of the bag offered relief, and the price was barely above free.
From just under the preacher’s skin and to his core, his body jerked. Though it couldn’t be seen by lo
oking at him, his soul felt like it was in a sustained, slow-motion seizure. It would get worse, much worse, he needed his dope. “Therefore prophesy and say to them: 'This is what the Sovereign LORD says; O my people, I am going to open your graves and bring you up from them; I will bring you back to the land of Israel.” The preacher wiped the sweat from his lips with the oily sleeve of his shirt. “The word of the Lord…”
“What is your name, Preacher?”
Tears mixed with the sweat on the preacher’s face. “The flesh is weak.”
“What is your name, Preacher?”
“I am Ezekiel.”
Cleotha tossed the tiny bag at the preacher’s feet. “Wake the fuck up, Ezekiel.”
“I am awake; the bowls are being gathered and filled. I saw the one that is going to kill me and leave my body lay in the street for three days, over there, across the street, this morning. He was pumping gas.”
“You better hope not, you know how bad the rats is around here, they will pick your bones.”
“I will be raised on the third day. I will prophesy against you and emit fire from my mouth.”
“Sheeet Preacher, your God done give the fuck up on you. You should see Enoch; he’s got his shit wired tight. White wool robe, voice ain’t all shaky, don’t need no dope. The Lord be takin’ care of his ass. God done give the fuck up on you.”
“Why do you do this, when you know it will fail? God Himself has told you it will fail.”
“You crazy as a mauffauker, Preacher, you can’t believe everything you read. Besides, I’m just takin’ back what’s mine.”
***
“Look for some place to get gas.” Jeremiel looked sheepishly at Michael. Gas had been suggested several times, by Michael, when they had first entered New Orleans, but Jeremiel was sure the gas gauge had been damaged by Michael’s attack on the turn signal, and there was plenty of fuel left. The bigger the car, the bigger the tank.
It was accepted as fact among the other angels, though Jeremiel was a cautious driver and safe behind the wheel, he was as mechanically inclined, as a Babylonian goat milker.
“I know where some gas is.” Charlie offered. “You know that car back there, the one you kicked the fucking tire off of? It had a full tank.”
“Pull over here.” Michael pointed at a small used car lot. The ticking of the turn signal had become too much, for too long. Between the punch in the face and Jeremiel’s antagonistic use of blinkers (the ticking being a constant reminder) and seatbelts, he was having a hard time keeping his mind on the mission, and not on kicking the other angel’s ass up between his shoulder blades. In fact, he was no longer sure what the mission was. He was going to have to talk to Gabriel.
A small camper sat in the center of the lot, connected to streetlight poles by strings of flapping triangles of blue, green, yellow and red. Painted on the side of the tiny trailer, in black spray paint, was, Bob’s Cars. Bob must not have had the stencil for C, it was done in freehand. Over the door, someone had created the word Offise, in small brass, mailbox stickers. Charlie was starting to become concerned with the quality of the American educational system.
Jeremiel pulled the limo alongside the camper/offise and killed the engine and blinker. A red, one-legged air dancer was strategically placed to the left of the entrance. It bent and jerked at the waist, flopping spasmodically, either to welcome customers or to frighten their children.
Michael scanned the cars, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Baal, look up here. Do you see the Camry on the end?”
Baal climbed up onto the seat and followed Michael’s finger to the end of the row of cars. “A Toyota Camry, green in color, yes Baal sees it.”
“Good, go buy it. Pay the man a fair price, and get back out here. If you try to bounce on me, Jeremiel will be right behind you.”
“Baal will strike a fair bargain.” Baal appeared to have no shame when it came to kissing the asses of his captors. Charlie felt sorry for those immune to embarrassment and shame. The tiny man leaped from the back of the car and was immediately accosted by a rotund salesman in a baby blue suit, and piss yellow cowboy boots.
“Good fucking riddance. That little fucker smells like a grilled onion.” Nolte grumbled. It was the first thing he’d said since they had left the witch’s shack. Once he found out the limo belonged to Baal, he had busied himself with cleaning out the rest of the minibar. Though Baal had protested vigorously, Nolte had gathered the remainder of the miniatures in a pile between his legs.
“Like you’re all corn silk and daisies, if an ass had an ass, you would smell like that ass.” Charlie leaned forward and snatched a bottle from Nolte’s collection. “That fucking diaper has the distinct ring of sour cottage cheese to it.”
“You need to keep your fucking dick-beaters off my shit.” The old man glared at Charlie. “Twenty years of planning straight down the shitter, because of you,” Nolte growled and tossed back, a vodka and a bourbon at the same time.
“You haven’t been planning for shit, you’ve been waiting for twenty years, there’s a difference.”
“Oh, I’ve been planning. I’m planning right now. I'm planning on tearing off your fucking head and shitting down your neck, the first chance I get.”
Jeremiel snickered and got out of the car. The empty threats of humans tickled him. “Here comes Shorty, let’s go.” He walked over to the midget and unceremoniously snatched the keys out of his chubby fingers.
Nolte feverishly stuffed the miniature bottles into his diaper.
The unlikely crew made their way over to the Camry. Baal’s effeminate voice called out behind them. “The Camry was already sold, so Baal traded for the Prius, the nautical blue metallic car over there.” He pointed with his walking stick toward the back of the lot. “It’s very pretty, isn’t it?”
The five of them gathered around the small car and peered into the cramped quarters.
“Shotgun!” Nolte cried out.
“In your dreams, Diaperman.” Michael squeezed into the front passenger seat. “Let’s go, Grilled Onion sits on Cottage Cheese’s lap. There’s plenty of room.”
There was no doubt in Nolte’s mind that the twink would get his way, so he began to hurriedly unload the bottles from his diaper, into the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. If they were to get into an accident, a diaper full of glass, with a round-pound sitting on his lap could have devastating and quite possibly, irreversible results on his jimmy. The hole in his chest showed no signs of healing, so reattaching his tool probably wasn’t in the cards. Nolte plopped down in the back seat and patted his lap. “Come on, Junior.”
Baal struggled to climb into the car, managing to accidently poke Nolte in the jewels twice, with his walking stick. Nolte barked like a seal with each poke.
Charlie shook his head in disbelief. “I swear to God; I hear circus music.”
Michael turned in his seat to face Charlie. “Do not use the Lord’s name vain, in my presence again.”
Nolte poked his elbow into Charlie’s ribs. “Don’t let that half-a-fag tell you what to do. He’s all talk.”
“Buckle up.”
Nolte wrapped his seatbelt twice around Baal’s neck, before buckling up and caught one of the midget’s elbows in his face.
The car puttered to life. Jeremiel switched the turn signal from left to right and smiled at Michael. “Turn signals work. Should I test the wipers?” He pulled the car out of the lot and back into their pursuit of Azazel.
Every bump in the road sent a jolt through the car as if Jeremiel had run over a brick in the road. Charlie looked at the frail man beside him. The withered ghost was smiling, apparently unfettered by the tiny demon on his lap. He saluted Charlie with a mini of Jack Daniels and took a sip. The smile seemed off and misplaced, considering Nolte was planning to kill him, or shitting down his neck, the first chance he got.
“What were your plans for the shekel, Baal?” Jeremiel adjusted the rearview mirror, so he could gauge the dark pri
nce’s face for the truth.
The demon blushed. “The truth be told, Baal had yet to develop a plan, Baal was weighing his options when you so rudely apprehended him.” The small man shifted on Nolte’s lap. “Baal will readily admit, he does not fully understand the mechanical how’s and why’s of the developments within the shekel, but he was quick to see its potential.” The demon shifted again. “Baal will also admit, his designs on the coin, were exclusively about advancing his position. There were to be no victims or collateral damage, whatsoever.” A look of horror came across Baal’s face as he looked down at his lap. He looked back into Jeremiel’s eyes in the mirror. “Oh my, I believe the beast beneath me has developed an erection!”
The grin stretching Nolte’s lips told the story. “I can’t help it,” Nolte said, though, his voice didn’t at all sound apologetic. “I’ve always had a thing for midgets. I assumed it was just the females, but the way the little feller has been bouncing around back here has broadened my horizons. The jimmy wants what the jimmy wants.” Nolte placed his hands on the demon’s hips and pressed himself up against the small man.
“Remove your filthy hands from Baal, this instant!” The dark prince held his hand in front of Nolte’s face, fine threads of blue electricity danced from one fingertip to another.
“Don’t do it, Baal,” Michael warned. “I think I might need him.”
He dowsed the electricity by clenching his fist and sending another elbow into Nolte’s face. Nolte pushed his sunglasses back onto his nose and laughed. The demon flashed Charlie a pleading grimace, the tiny man looked as if he had tasted something horrible and wanted Charlie to get him some water.
“Don’t look at me Mr. Onion; you’re not sitting on my lap.”
Nolte gripped Baal’s hips tighter and thrust up harder. “Don’t you ever get the urge to bump uglies, Mr. Trumpet Tuner?”
Baal looked from one angel to the other, pleading. “This is rape! Baal is being violated!” He struggled to break Nolte’s grasp. If the archangels were not present, he would extinguish this soul in the most horrific manner possible. The humiliation was inconceivable to him. He knew Jeremiel would have no pity on him. “Michael, this is rape! Please let me destroy this wretched beast.” The obscene creature beneath him began to thrust his hips upward.
