by Borne Wilder
Baal looked fearfully up into the archangel’s face. “Baal is confused; he doesn’t understand why you let the foul beast go?”
“He talked too much.”
“You could have let Baal have him,” Baal whined.
“I wouldn’t piss on you if your hair was on fire.”
20
Nolte popped back into the dimension of time, just inside the Walmart’s entrance. He immediately ran into the vision center, his diaper squishing with each stride. He ducked behind the podium the register sat on. The last thing he wanted was to bump into the biker faggot before he had a chance to recover his nest egg.
Seeing nothing and hearing nothing, Nolte began moving in stealthy bursts. He hurried from one rack or display to another. From the chip of the week to the ‘I’m sorry dear’ flower arrangements, he quickly made his way to the pharmacy. He needed a fresh diaper, all the miniatures had returned with a vengeance when he had escaped from Jerry and his diaper was wet and heavy. Having never paid attention to the size he wore, he had to tear open three packages before he found one that fit.
Other than the bubbling of the aquariums, he could hear nothing. Deftly, he scooped up his shades, two miniatures of Jack Daniels, smokes and his wet lighter and stuffed them into his crotch. He patted and tugged at the crotch of his diaper, to shift and settling its contents, as he trotted back toward Sporting Goods. Once he got to Automotive, he slowed to a walk and then again, bolted from cover to cover. The store was empty, but he could feel his nest egg calling to him.
Nolte couldn’t see a gate, doorway or a portal, but what he did see was rifles, beautiful rifles. He would get his nest egg back American style, through the use of deadly force. Nolte trotted back to Automotive and grabbed some bolt cutters and a pry bar.
Quietly cutting the cable, which was threaded through the trigger guards, Nolte removed an AR 15. He wasn’t sure, at this point, who all he was going to shoot, but someone was getting shot. Michael for sure was catching one. Nolte was going up the clock tower.
The ammo was nowhere in sight, Nolte assumed it was beneath the display cases. Using the pry bar, he removed the sliding doors, it took four doors and a lot more noise than he had wanted to make, to locate the rounds. He grabbed three boxes and two magazines, and popped out of sight, the boxes of ammo and rifle clattered to the floor. Immediately Nolte popped back into the Sporting Goods. He shoved the rifle through one leg of his diaper and filled his crotch with 5.56 rounds and clips until his diaper could hold no more. Again he popped out of sight, this time, the rifle and rounds went with him. Dimensions were fickled, he decided.
Michael stepped around the end of the fishing aisle and shook his head in disbelief, “Strange little man, you have no idea of what is about to happen.”
“You have to admire his will to cheat death, though.” Gabriel stepped around the opposite end of the fishing aisle. “Why did you let him go?”
“I didn’t, Jerry must’ve. I figured he must have his reasons. I think he feels sorry for him.”
“Are you ready for the show?”
“Why did you cut us out of the loop?”
“I didn’t, you’re here, aren’t you? Jerry knew, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Neither of you has too much faith in humanity. This has to happen, in order to harvest the highest possible yield. Some people have to see to believe, but seeing comes at a price.”
“He’s going to be coming out soon; I felt the connection being made. He’s tied to Lucifer now.”
“No one twisted his arm, Michael; this was a choice, he made freely.” Gabriel shook his head. “Humans, by nature I guess, have a hard time trusting in anyone but themselves. They find it so much easier to believe in the gods that they create, than the One who created them.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. Tell me something, who gets to pour out the Bowls? I thought that was going to be my job.”
“The Boss decided to do that himself. He doesn’t think he should ask anyone to do something; he really doesn’t want to do himself. Too much guilt involved, I guess. Let’s go talk to Jerry and see what the naked man has planned for that weapon. As soon as this guy comes up out of that hole, he’s going to be bringing evil with him. I would rather not be standing here in the midst of the filth.”
“Let’s get some ice cream first.”
***
Just inside the doors of the church was a Holy Water font, a vat on a pedestal, large enough to hold ten to fifteen gallons. A lifetime supply, Nolte assumed. He dug the boxes of shells out of his diaper and tossed them into the tub. For a moment, he wondered if some sort of prayer was required to make the bullets magic. From watching TV and movies, he knew that Holy Water was effective against vampires and possessions, but he was unsure of how it stacked up against demons and angels and such. He decided he would have to take his chances, besides, how tough could something called a Watcher be?
If his nest egg was truly gone, he would make all of them pay for punking him out, but the rifle gave him hope that he still might retrieve it and carry out what was owed to him. Life eternal, ‘he is risen.’ 'He rises.
It stood to reason, that Holy Water probably wouldn’t work on archangels, but by the time he was done putting holes in Michael, he’d be able to read a newspaper through the sonofabitch.
Holy Water, according to the movies, had an instant effect, so he figured a few seconds of soaking would be enough to give the rounds the punch he was after, but mostly he feared that any longer might make them waterlogged and useless. He tried scooping out a handful, only to find it was akin to cleaning a barbecue grill by hand, while the coals were still red hot. The water didn’t boil like on the movies but felt as though it were scalding and the rounds felt like they were fresh from the oven.
Nothing made sense. Nolte knew in his heart that he wasn’t evil, or a demon, or a vampire, but the bullets showed no sign of cooling and though it had yet to blister, his hand felt like he had just fished poached eggs from a pot of boiling water.
Nolte ran through the pews to the back of the church, or was it the front of the church, it didn’t matter. He ran toward Jesus, there had to be some sort of container near the Savior, maybe a symbolic blood catcher.
The altar cloth caught his eye, or rather the three bottles of wine that sat atop it did. This was his kind of Sunday go to meeting shit. Snatching the three bottles and the altar cloth, he ran back to the Holy Water, hoping the powder in the rounds was still dry.
The water still felt like hydrochloric acid, when he tested it with a fingertip, so he spread the cloth out on the floor. Using a Bible from the back of one of the pews, he squeegeed out the bullets, allowing as much of the painful liquid to drain back into the basin as possible, before he swept them out and onto the cloth. What a pain in the ass, he thought; God’s petty fucking rules aggravated him further.
Leaving the rounds loose, he put the bottles of wine on the pile, then, quickly removed them. What if the mojo from the Holy Water could transfer through glass and sap the zing from his bullets? What if the preacher had put the mojo on the wine? Nolte pulled the cork on one and let a drop drip onto a finger, it didn’t just burn it visibly sizzled. “Fuck me! The blood of Jesus!” he shouted to the empty church. He was disappointed, yet inspired at the same time. He tossed the bottles back on the rounds and rolled the cloth up tight, wine was for pussies anyway. He might not be able to wet his whistle, but he could use the rot gut to put some extra stank on his bullets.
Unable to fit his load into his diaper, and unwilling to put anything that hot next to his jimmy, he looked around for the stairway to the steeple, hoping it wouldn’t be a ladder.
The steeple, his ‘clock tower’, he was really going to do it after all these years. The first door was a closet; the second was a stairway so narrow he could barely fit his own skinny ass up it, let alone his makeshift bag-o-bullets and bullet juice. However, driven by the rage of being ripped off and his desire to kill, he banged, clanked and scraped his way
to the top.
The steeple had more than enough elbow room, but the windows were higher than he had hoped. In his fantasies, he had always imagined being able to fire from the prone position, even though ankle high windows made absolutely no sense in the real world. No matter, he would make do. He spread out his bag-o-bullets and laid his Pall Malls and lighter on the window sill to dry.
Looking across the parking lot and sighting down the assault rifle, he realized his field of fire was perfect, but off to his left, the Liquor Box, once again, caught his eye. He leaned the rifle against the wall and removed the miscellaneous from his diaper. He needed a bottle of mescal to make this right. Nolte popped out of sight.
He popped back into the dimension of time, next to a cardboard cutout of Dale Earnhardt Jr., whom he quickly disarmed and incapacitated, Nolte was in warrior mode and a beer display didn’t stand a fighting chance against him.
He ran to the front window to check for activity at the Walmart. The Prius was still parked out front and the rest of the parking lot was empty, still, he knew he was wasting time. He could do his killing without the mescal, but he wanted everything to be right.
Frantically he searched for his beloved cactus juice. Bourbon, vodka, gin, tequila, BAM! Mescal! He snatched up a fifth and stuffed it into the front of his diaper. Again, he ran to the front to check the parking lot before he blinked over to the church. Still good to go.
Next to the cash register was a stack of plastic bags for pints and half pints. They were hand sized, a lightbulb went off in his head and he stuffed a handful into his diaper. Next to the plastic bags, was a pack of Virginia Slims. Menthol. Bonus! He couldn’t see any matches, so hopefully his lighter had dried out. He placed the smokes into one of the bags and blinked to the steeple.
Either, it was the anticipation of his beloved mescal, or maybe it was the thought of a cool, soothing Virginia Slim, or it was the rest of the miniatures, but the trip between the Liquor Box and St. This-n-That, had caused him to piss himself more than usual, even more than his trip to Walmart, his mescal was soaked. He removed the bottle and sat it on the window sill, along alongside his Pall Malls, to dry. At least his Virginia Slims had been protected.
Hoping the piss soaked plastic bags wouldn’t transfer the mojo on the bullets like electricity; he donned a pair like they were gloves and quickly loaded two clips. Sixty rounds, he was going to fuck some shit up. “Get some!” he shouted into the air, he was almost giddy. Behind him, someone shuffled their feet.
Whatcha doin’, White Boy? Gonna do a little huntin’?” Cleotha gave Nolte his shark tooth grin.
Nolte tapped the bottom of the magazine and chambered a round. The shot struck Cleotha in the center of the chest, sending a black mist out of the young man’s back. Clutching his chest, Cleotha’s razor sharp smile slowly vacated his face, and was replaced with one of horrible realization; he had been killed by a white boy in a diaper. Nolte turned and readied his firing position in the steeple window, as the nigger crumpled behind him.
“No nig-nogs allowed in my belfry, Boy”
The Cleotha body was no longer a viable method of transport. The darkest of shadows seeped out of the mouth of the reef shark boy and slithered up the wall, where it paused to watch the insane naked man. The shadow couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride, that the urine drenched man was one of his. He may not have formed him from dust, or put the breath in his lungs, but he felt he could take credit for everything else. Nature had lost this round to nurture.
Nolte uncapped the mescal and took a long pull. Before all this shit, if there was anything that would have convinced him that God truly did exist, it would have been mescal.
He sighted down the rifle, the warmth of the mescal soothing his throat, this time, he focused on the back windows of the Prius. “Where are you Half-a-fag?” Nolte slowed his breathing and put the sights on Baal’s head, slowly; he released his last breath and squeezed the trigger.
The windows of the Prius turned black, the driver’s door flew open and Jerry jumped out, painted in Baal blood. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yelled. Nolte watched as the angel opened the rear door of the car and the headless midget tumbled out onto the asphalt at his feet. Nolte tried to get Jerry into his sights. He didn’t know if the Holy Water would work, so he was going for another head shot. Even if it didn’t kill the angel, missing half his head would at least slow him down.
“Stop movin’, Shitbag.” Jerry was scraping globs of blood from his suit and flinging it onto the asphalt next to the decapitated demon. As Nolte drew a bead on him, Michael and another asshole popped into play. They were jogging over to the Prius. Nolte quickly switched targets, he really had nothing against Jerry, but the other motherfucker who had made him eat his own shit was a different story. Nolte put one center mass on the archangel.
Michael saw the muzzle flash, flashed into his true form and caught the round barehanded, instantly side arming it back up at Nolte’s position, taking out a large chunk of the shutter.
Nolte ducked below the window, amazed at what he had witnessed. “The motherfucker caught a bullet with his hand! He turned into a monster and caught the fucking bullet!” He reached above his head and fumbled around the window sill for his Virginia Slims. Clamping one of the long thin cigarettes in his teeth, he struggled to spin the wheel on his Bic left handed; the image that came to mind, any time he attempted something left-handed, was a girl throwing a baseball. The Holy Water had burnt his right thumb pretty badly, so he had no choice. The lighter fired up and he puffed at the flame with his cigarette. He took a drag and held it in, contemplating how one might shoot a bullet catching silver monster.
***
Seething with power and new knowledge, Ron looked around the white room, he realized that he knew every one of the Watchers by name, although they were identical, he knew them individually. Somehow, way back when, he had attended their creation. He smiled and they smiled. Ron poured another brandy and winked at Azazel, he realized that she was no longer out of his grasp, nothing was.
“Give them their papers and cash; I want them in place by morning.” Not only did he know their names, he knew their purpose and individual assignments. They were his ambassadors, as much an extension of himself, as were his own arms.
By tomorrow, each one of them would be standing next to a King, a Prime Minister, a Dictator or President, conveying his will and wishes to every leader on the planet. All save one, he would be delivering the presentation to the King of Jordan in person. The palace in Amman would serve as his temporary residence, until after the war. Besides; the Jews had yet to begin construction on his Jerusalem home.
Though Ron was telepathically connected to each Watcher, he realized it was Azazel’s job to communicate with them on his behalf. As Ron’s new persona became more established within him, the clearer his role became within the chain of command. Since he did not have to answer to the Trinity, there was only one higher, yet, there were millions, soon to be billions, beneath him. Azazel was not only a tool of communication; she was at his beck and call, to do his bidding, all of his bidding. When he got her to the palace in Amman, he would be giving her that DNA sample.
Directly above him, two archangels stood. Though he couldn’t see them, their presence was unmistakable. He couldn’t help, but admire the power that emanated from them. He waited quietly until they had moved on. They could feel him, too. They knew he was coming. “Get these guys paid and get them something to wear from the Walmart. They need to cover those Ken doll mounds until they can purchase, or steal some proper attire.”
The Watchers, one by one blinked through the portal. Ron looked around the white room again; there was something he had to do before he joined them. He could feel Nolte in his head, and the foul little beast was planning a party. All parties need partiers.
The sounding of the Fifth Trumpet releases the locusts from the bottomless pit to torment men---he now knew the Holy Bible, chapter and verse from memory. Although Ron had no contr
ol over the Trumpets, he did hold the key to the abyss. Nolte’s time on earth, as far as Ron was concerned, had gone on much too long. He doubted God would mind if he borrowed a few locusts. Ron was really impressed with his newfound knowledge, though it was unnerving to know something which someone else had learned.
Ron refilled his brandy snifter to the brim; the Watchers and Azazel had gone; they were all shopping for sweatpants. He was alone in the white room. He knew that pissing on the wall would create a hole, but he had drained himself before he became a god. He supposed that even gods were subject to some laws of nature.
He tossed the snifter at the wall and watched the dark liquid steam and burn through the wall. Soon a brown, Smurf looking creature, leaped through the opening and tested its small wings against the atmosphere of the room. Ron shook his head and laughed, John had really fucked up their description when he had called them locusts. The white room quickly filled with four-foot-tall, winged demons, yet, without even having to say abracadabra, he halted their flow into the room, with a thought. He had total control. Even in his new godly state, this amazed Ron.
Vibrations, accompanied by a long horrifying scream, filled the room. The smurfs scattered, plastering themselves to the walls, terrified. “You are a pack of pussies, aren’t you? How in the fuck are you going to torment men?” Ron motioned them forward. “It’s nothing, someone just killed the midget. It’s okay, though. You are going to kill his killer.” Baal getting killed didn’t bother Ron in the least; in fact, he could feel Nolte’s joy coursing through him. What bothered him was that the old man had figure out a way to kill a principality. It was time to go to Walmart.
With brown smurfs in tow, Ron approached his troops. His heart sank as he looked over the Watchers. Some were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, some in nursing scrubs, some in bras and panties. He hadn’t expected much since it was temporary, but there was no way he was turning his soldiers loose in drag. “What the fuck are you doing? We’re a bit crunched for time.”
