The Assassination of Satan

by Curtis Houck

  Armageddon was the correct course.

  I got up from the pew, and headed toward the curtain, my mouth curling into a wicked smirk. But a deafening explosion knocked me out of my trance before I reached the curtain. I whirled around in time to see my father fall to the floor, clutching his left side.

  “Papa,” I yelled, crouching beside my father. “What…what happened?”

  “It…it…appears I’ve…been shot.”

  I stared at the blood seeping through my father’s fingers. “How? Maybe I…I should…call Relampago.”

  “There’s…there’s no…no time, my sweet little…angel.” My father struggled to speak above a whisper. “Whatever…whatever you do, keep…keep the Ojo away…from Allen.”

  “But—”

  “Promise me!”

  “Okay, I…I promise. But shouldn’t I…I call—”

  The candlelight suddenly flickered, and a series of cackles echoed off the cavernous walls of the church. I stood up on watery legs. Someone holding a pistol slouched in the arched doorway. Instinctively, I grabbed my father’s knife, and ran toward the intruder. But by the time I reached the doorway there was no one there.

  Just a white feather…and a scarlet scythe painted on the warped door.

  Ω

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  I yanked my neon pink mask over my electric blue bob, hiding the silver ring piercing my left nostril, and gripping my crucifix, vaulted over a fractured cement barricade. After chasing away a feral dog feasting on the bloated body of a dead cat, I darted into an alley with vulgar graffiti spray-painted on the crumbling brick walls, only to find myself facing a thug brandishing a machine gun.

  Shit!

  Without hesitation, I somersaulted between the thug’s legs and grasped his wrist, twisting. Bones crackled while the machine gun fell from his limp hand. As I back-flipped onto a Dumpster, the toe of my boot connected with the thug’s jaw. In the same motion, I wrapped my legs around his neck and flung him into a stack of plastic crates, knocking him out cold.

  I jumped off the Dumpster and, crouching, rummaged through the thug’s faded yellow shorts—a pack of cigarettes, some nudity magazines, a glass pipe…jackpot! Close to a dozen tiny packets full of brown powder.

  A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  My leg sprung upward, nailing another thug—this one wearing a yellow bandanna wrapped around his dreadlocks—with a spinning kick to the side of the head. He crumpled to the ground. But when I noticed the scar zigzagging down the thug’s cheek, I tossed the packets into a nearby sewer drain and hurried out of the alley, hoping nobody saw me.

  Ω

  So, yeah, I followed in my father’s footsteps and became a Luchador. Often, I wondered what my life would’ve been like if I had remained a nobody…just another computer nerd drifting toward mediocrity.

  Anyway, maybe I should back up for a second and explain exactly what a Luchador is.

  Well, everyone knows about the masked wrestlers on TV, right? Sorry to say those aren’t true Luchadors. Not really. See, the wrestling ring is sort of our training ground, I guess you could say. Only a select few are chosen to take the next step and become a true Luchador—a superhero. Once we’re chosen by our Eternal Master, El Corazon Blanco, we receive, I don’t know, a magical mask that gives us a unique power. Maybe magical isn’t the right word. Basically, our masks give us gifts passed down from God to help win His ongoing battle with Lucifer.

  Yep, we’re God’s army here on Earth.

  Unfortunately, my motives for donning my mask were less…wholesome than the other Luchadors. Even so, I had no problem taking advantage of Relampago’s hospitality. After my father died, he bought this bar called the Maya, where we could chill during our free time. More often than not, I was at the Maya with my partner in crime, Esqueleto, discussing, well, discussing life in general.

  “You knocked K-Dawg out with one kick?” Esqueleto downed a shot of tequila. “That’s pretty badass. But Tigre Negro is going to be so pissed.”

  I sipped from my beer bottle. “Yeah, well, I want H-Town to look like the rest of Acreditar. The only way that will happen is to get rid of the heroin.”

  “True.” Esqueleto tightened the strings at the back of his magenta mask. “Except we need all the help we can get. The Segadors are getting more powerful with each passing day. And, like them or not, the Jacares have always had our backs.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to be the good guys? If we keep teaming up with criminals, how are we any different than the Segadors? The Segadors, and the rest of Satan’s army—”

  A Luchador wearing a black mask resembling a tiger burst into the bar. Protective layers of invisible energy wove around my body, turning my skin hard like steel, as the powers of the other Luchadors also kicked in. Fireballs materialized in the palms of the Luchador adjacent to me, while lizards slithered over the Luchador across from him. One of the Luchador’s eyes turned opaque within the holes of his turquoise mask, and a breeze stirred the smoky air. Once we realized we weren’t in danger, though, our powers shut down and we returned to our drinks. But we remained tense. I even had to take another sip of beer to hide my uneasiness. None of us had seen Tigre Negro in such a state of disarray before.

  “Thank God you’re here, Crucifija,” Tigre Negro exclaimed, brushing past a pair of Luchadors playing pool. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  I set my beer bottle down. “Look, sir, I’m sorry about K-Dawg. I just don’t understand how getting in bed with drug dealers is helping God’s cause.”

  “K-Dawg? I don’t care about K-Dawg. I need the Ojo.”

  “No, sir, you need to calm down.”

  “I’m the one who gives you orders. Now, give me the Ojo, dammit!”

  The pool game abruptly ended. Fuego quit flirting with Amphibia and Relampago stopped serving margaritas to the Luchadors deejaying in the corner. Tigre Negro had given me a direct order, and if a leader gave a Luchador an order that deed must be done. No questions asked. Regardless, I delayed. I never knew the exact reason why El Corazon Blanco chose my father as the Ojo’s guardian. But now that Papa was in heaven, the medallion was my responsibility.

  Mine and mine alone.

  “Sorry, sir, can’t give you the Ojo. Not unless—”

  “You have some nerve disobeying me, Crucifija. I could banish you...ah, forget it.” Tigre Negro pulled a piece of parchment from his tights. “The Segadors have kidnapped Ciri.”

  While the other Luchadors murmured amongst themselves, I scanned the contents of the parchment: If you want to see your daughter alive, bring the Ojo to Gloria Church. When I looked up again, Tigre Negro’s blood-shot eyes pleaded with mine, silently begging me to help.

  “Giving the Segadors the Ojo is the only way I’ll see Ciri again.”

  “But, sir, is one life worth risking the entire human race over?”

  “Come on, Crucifija, this is Ciri we’re talking about.”

  I finished my beer, and rising to my feet, headed for the door. “Fine. I’ll talk to Allen. But I’m going alone, sir.”

  “No, Quer…I mean, no, Crucifija.” Esqueleto tried to slow me down. “You can’t—”

  “I said I’m going alone!”

  Ω

  After slipping into a tank-top emblazoned with an ornate crucifix identical to the crucifixes tattooed on my biceps, I found a clean pair of spandex tights and laced up my glossy pink boots. I rushed over to my closet, where I wrenched up some floorboards near the back wall. Inside the hollowed-out space was the computer disc my father had given me shortly before his death, and underneath that, the Ojo.

  The question I asked Tigre Negro back at the Maya continued its trek through my mind.

  Is one life worth risking the entire human race over?

  Really, though, there was only one thing to do, even if it meant breaking the promise I made to my father.

  “Forgive me, Papa,” I whispered as I clasped the Ojo around my neck, and bolted out of
my apartment.

  Soon, the beaches and psychic shops of downtown Acreditar thinned out. A maze of shacks topped with rusty tin roofs replaced them. Rap music blared from the broken windows of the shacks and heroin addicts sat on the porches, staring blankly at the dogs eating out of overturned trashcans. The urge to take out more of K-Dawg’s gang boiled up inside me. I set my jaw and remained focused on the task at hand…until my feet flew out from under me, sending me sprawling face-first to the pavement. Quickly, I jumped to my feet and threw a few wild punches before realizing I was staring down the barrel of a machine gun.

  Again.

  “Go ahead and shoot,” I yelled, hoping my mask’s power would stop the bullets.

  I mean, my mask turned my skin invincible, and everything. Still, I had never actually tested it on high-powered projectiles from such a close range before.

  First time for everything, right?

  “Ease up, C-Tip.” The machine gun lowered, and K-Dawg emerged from the shadows. A bandage covered the bandanna wrapped around his dreadlocks. “We’re just friends having a peaceful discussion.”

  My eyes darted from K-Dawg to C-Tip, whose jaw was wired shut by some make-shift brace. “Looks like he won’t be discussing anything for a while.”

  C-Tip scowled and raised his machine gun. But K-Dawg calmly pushed the gun aside, and took a few menacing steps toward me. “Enough with the small talk. I’ll make this short and sweet. As you know, I have an agreement with Tigre Negro. You guys leave my crew alone. In return, the Jacares inform the Luchadors about any suspicious activity from the Segadors. It’s been a mutually beneficial relationship. Lately, though, my crew has been having issues with a certain Luchador wearing a pink mask. Well, that’s their problem. Except I couldn’t help noticing my heroin has gone missing, too. See, I’m a businessman. No product, no cash. Can’t let that continue. Understood?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t,” K-Dawg said, running a finger over the scar zigzagging down his cheek. “Consider this a warning, anyway. Next time—”

  So don’t have the time for this!

  I slammed my knee into K-Dawg’s crotch, and hit him with a flying elbow to the back of the head. C-Tip tried to pull the trigger of his machine gun, but I knocked the gun out of his broken hand by throwing a garbage can lid at him. Then, I leapt over K-Dawg and kicked C-Tip in the jaw.

  Again.

  Yep, Esqueleto was right. Tigre Negro was going to be pissed, alright. Oh, well, I was pretty sure he’d forgive me once I rescued his daughter.

  If I rescued Ciri, that is.

  Crucifija will return.

  To find out when, click here

  ENJOY THIS EXCITING PREVIEW

  Gloria Church was as dilapidated as it was the night my father was murdered—maybe even more so if that was possible—except now Corvo perched atop the splintered cross on the roof. As I approached the church, I could feel Allen’s raven exploring my mind. However, the penetration seemed much more acute than it was when I lived with my stepfather. Not only that, the scythe painted on the warped entranceway door glowed a supernatural crimson.

  Can anyone say black magic?

  Although my intuition urged me to flee, I caressed my crucifix and continued onward. That was when someone wrapped their arm around my throat, wrenching upward into a sleeper hold, as their hand clasped over my mouth. After pushing me behind a giant boulder at the base of a hill, they released the hold and I could breathe again.

  Somewhat.

  “Jesus Christ, K-Dawg,” I said, gasping for air. “Get the point—”

  “It’s not K-Dawg.”

  A familiar voice cut me off. But I couldn’t place the voice until a lizard slithered over my shoulder. I turned around and saw a Luchador dressed in a green spandex body suit. The Luchador’s curls tumbled out of a mask resembling a chameleon, complete with yellow eyes.

  “What’re you doing here, Amphibia?”

  “Cut the shit, Querida. I’m here as Rafaela, not Amphibia.” Rafaela pulled me close, and gave me a tender kiss. “You know I can’t let you face the Segadors alone.”

  “What about Fuego?” I asked, squirming out of Rafaela’s embrace. “Thought you two were a couple, or something.”

  “He’s okay, I guess. But, well, he’s not you—”

  Hold on.

  Let me elaborate on my, um, friendship with Rafaela.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Curtis was born in Whitefish, Montana before moving to Anchorage, Alaska. He now resides in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where he continues to write and struggles to plug-in to social media. If you’d like to connect with Curtis, please email him at curtishouck2@gmail.com.