According to all the stupid scriptures I had to learn, God was about vengeance. He’d turn you into a pillar of salt, drown you in a flood, or strike you down if you ever made Him mad. He was the ultimate punisher. He stated His mood clearly in the Second Commandment: “For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me…” I had to look up the word “iniquity” to really appreciate just what He was saying.
It scared the hell out of me to think God would visit wickedness upon a group of children whose only mistake was to be the descendents of unbelieving fathers, grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers. That seemed a little extreme. What was God so afraid of?
Yet, God also said He’d show mercy on those who loved him. So, if you were His friend, He’d be nice to you. But if you weren’t, He’d kill you. That didn’t sound very God-like. Matter of fact, it sounded very human-like.
Spite, jealousy, favoritism, anger…even rage. Human-like. All the emotions of man. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.
Throughout the Bible, God is attributed with human emotions. Why? Wouldn’t a “true” God be above those emotions? Shouldn’t God have eternal wisdom and the ability to comprehend infinite existence? Not the human desire for revenge. You’d think His mind, His awareness, would be enlightened beyond the primitive emotions controlling the human brain.
But God admits to having those human emotions. He says it in His own words: “I the Lord thy God am a jealous God.” He admits to being jealous and vengeful, not to mention a serious control freak. If you didn’t do exactly as He said—like plunge a knife into your son’s heart—He’d make you sorry you were ever born. Those were human traits if there ever were any.
I thought hard about the Bible. About the scriptures. What if they were actually true? What if all that Mary and the “immaculate conception” crap was real? And here I always thought she was just too scared to tell her husband she’d been messing around. What if the prophets in the Bible were real? Men who actually spoke to God, revealing His word. Could it all be true?
I stared into the darkness, thought deeply about everything I believed to be real, everything I believed to be bullshit. The night seemed to go on forever as I pondered why I was supposed to worship God if he was going to act like a man. Hell, with those traits, I could’ve just worshipped my asshole father. I had to be missing something—something about God’s tie-in with humanity. Why not hide human attributes from worshippers who believed Him to be all powerful? My dad said emotions were weaknesses. Why give mankind the awareness that He had weaknesses? What was He trying to tell us?
God speaks to us through the verses of the Bible. He teaches us through scripture. I’ve read the scriptures front and back. I’ve studied them more than anyone I know. So let’s say they’re real. What was He trying to teach me right now?
I was restless, far from sleep. The silence was eerie, the blackness almost suffocating. I realized the customary chirping of crickets was missing. When was the last time I had lain in bed without the chirping of a million crickets outside my window?
Listening to the terrifying sound of silence, I mumbled, “There’s no crickets, Grandma.”
Something was definitely out there, outside my window. But it wasn’t the boogeyman. No, I had the feeling it was something far worse. It was God, waiting to see if I could answer His little riddle. My throat tightened. I knew the consequences of not getting it right with my dad. I was willing to bet God was a lot worse.
Think of God’s words; think in His words. “I am the Alpha, I am the Omega,” I uttered into the black. The beginning, the ending. He said it, knowing we would analyze it in human terms with human brains. What did we know about the beginning and the ending? My beginning was when I was born; my ending would be when I died. So what about that was important? A question formed: what physical state was I in during the beginning and what would I be at the end? When I was born, I was human. When I died, I would die human. That was significant.
And then a verse popped into my mind: Genesis 1:26. “Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness.”
I needed to break it down word by word, literally. “Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness.” Analyze the facts: I am human. I am made in His likeness. Alpha and Omega—beginning and ending. Human throughout. If all that is true then there can be only one conclusion: God is human. Or at least He started out that way. Otherwise, I couldn’t have been made in “His likeness,” right?
Something else about the verse troubled me. God refers to Himself in the plural form. He says “Us” and “Our.” Of course I’m familiar with the Trinity—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and how they’re supposedly three people in one. But seriously, would God speak in plural terms if He were really talking about Himself? Sounded a little schizophrenic to me.
Maybe there was a better answer than just a crazy eternal bastard suffering from multiple personality disorder. Instead of trying to invent our own way of understanding God’s words, maybe we should just take them at face value. Maybe He wasn’t trying to be clever and cryptic at all. Perhaps He was trying to tell us something very important in very simple terms. Maybe He was telling us that there were more than just one of Him. And if there were more than one…
I sat up in bed and shook my head in amazement. The awareness I had stumbled upon was overwhelming. “Holy shit…”
More than one means there may actually be a race of Gods.
A race of Gods. A race of human Gods. If that were true, the million-dollar question was how did there get to be a group of Gods? Was there a secret God Kool-Aid? “Hey, kids, drink this and go part the Red Sea!”
And then it hit me—man’s ultimate destiny, his reason for existence, even if it takes an eternity, is to elevate his spirit to the level of Godhood. It’s written in the scriptures in black and white—Our image; our likeness!
Understanding washed over me. I could become a God.
“Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!” I exclaimed. “Can I really become a God?”
But how? What does one do to become a God? I remember watching a movie once about a serial killer who killed because he wanted to be God. The character had said something enlightening like, “To become God, one must do as God does.” Could it really be that simple? Could that single line from a TV show really be the answer? Could it be that I was meant to watch that exact show at that exact time? Was it a divine message delivered through my TV? At first it seemed kind of silly, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. God speaks to us in strange ways.
Do as God does enough times and become as God is. Do as They do and become as They are.
“That’s it! That’s really it!”
So what exactly was it that God did? He didn’t just go around killing people. Well, actually He did. People like Terry. But He did more than just that. What else did He do? What was His ultimate job? I pondered that until the light of another day—a day holding wondrous new possibilities—introduced itself through my window.
I imagined a job description for the position of God. It would have to read something like: Must be able to decide who suffers and who doesn’t, who should be shown mercy and who should have iniquity visited upon them. Must be able to decide who should live and who should die. And must decide that vengeance is, in the end, always best.
Hey, I could do that. I could do all of those things. To the people I decided to show vengeance upon, didn’t that make me God? And it made perfect sense to believe that the more people I did that to, the more widespread my God-like powers would be. I trembled with my new awareness. It was the first day of the rest of my life—a life that would culminate with me as the newest member of the God race.
I slid from my bed, having passed a whole night without a wink of sleep. But it didn’t matter, because I was g
oing to be a God. And Gods don’t need sleep.
Billy Spurlock had taken my only friend from me. Time to visit iniquity upon him. My first act of Godhood.
Swinging for the Fence
Almost two years. That’s how long it took. Almost two damned years before I got the chance to teach Billy Spurlock about God and his vengeance. And unfortunately for Billy, his vengeful God was packing an Uncle Henry.
I watched him. Studied him. Even followed him now and then. I wanted to get a feel for Billy’s habits. His behaviors. Where he hung out. Who he hung out with. I needed to know as much about his life as I could. In two years, you can learn a lot.
Billy and I were the same age. As such, we took driver’s ed together. Not that I would ever have a car. My dad said if I wanted a car, I’d better get a good paying job so I could buy one. Otherwise, find one growing on a tree.
When it was time to sign up for driver’s ed, my dad signed on the dotted line, but I had to mow lawns to pay the fee for the class.
As luck would have it, Billy, a kid named Mark, and I were assigned to the same drive times on Saturday morning. I learned a lot during those Saturday drives. I did it by being cool. Since the day he killed Terry, I wanted him dead. But every Saturday morning, though he was always giving me shit, harassing me, I smiled and took it. Quietly, patiently, listening the whole time. All was good because there would be a day when I laughed. As he died.
He was an asshole. It was up to me to teach him that God didn’t like prideful bastards. Job 40:11 said, “Unleash the fury of your wrath, look at every proud man and bring him low.” Oh, how I wanted to unleash my fury and bring Billy low.
During one Saturday morning drive, he and Mark, also a member of the football team, talked about a house party. Billy’s parents were out of town and he was throwing a party. He invited Mark. “There’ll be hot chicks up the ass!” was his closing sell. Mark accepted emphatically. Then Billy turned to me and asked, “So what are you gonna do tonight, dickweed? Sit in your bathroom and beat off to pictures of your mom?”
Pictures of my mom? He could not have cut any deeper. Mark laughed. Billy joined him. I smiled like I was in on the joke instead of the butt of it. Parents out of town? Time to release my inner God.
That night, after my dad and Sheila went to bed, I snuck out of the apartment. It was shortly after midnight: the witching hour. In Clemensville, after midnight on a Saturday, unless you were at a bar, you were either home watching movies or sleeping. Or throwing a party while your parents were gone.
I walked the five blocks to Billy’s house, using the dark of the alleys. I didn’t see a soul along the way. I hid in the alley behind Billy’s house while his gathering of Clemensville High’s A-listers partied inside. Peeking over his fence, I watched through his open windows. Everyone appeared to be having a blast. Laughing. Drinking. Flirting. I knew I would never be invited to a party like that. I would never know this kind of fun. Billy hung out with his people, partying hard, while I hung out in the alley alone. It just made me more focused on the job at hand. Pictures of my mom? You shouldn’t have gone there, Billy.
Finally, a little after 1:00 a.m., people started heading out. Within half an hour, everyone was gone. Knowing he didn’t have a dog, I climbed over the backyard fence. Actually, I fell off the top of the fence and into his backyard. I told you I wasn’t very athletic. While crossing the yard I stepped on a baseball bat.
I crept to the back door, not sure what my plan was, but knowing I needed to be ready to strike when the opportunity hit. I gripped the bat with both hands. My Uncle Henry weighted down my front jeans pocket.
It didn’t take long for opportunity to present itself. Billy opened the door and, with a full trash bag in hand, staggered onto the patio, his back to me. I was ready to swing for the fence. Swinging for the fence. I always loved that saying. So cliché. Like everyone stepped up to the plate to hit a homerun every time at bat. I didn’t even play baseball and I knew that just didn’t happen. Except for me. Right here. Right now.
Billy dropped the bag to the ground, and then, in an unbalanced, swaying manner, turned toward me. His eyes grew wide just before the bat crushed his face.
He went down like he had just been shot. I set the bat down and dug the Uncle Henry from my pocket. I straddled Billy’s still body. I had brought the proud man low. I kneeled down, a knee on either side of his chest. Two scriptures popped into my mind. Psalms 59:12: “For the sins of their mouths, for the words of their lips, let them be caught in their pride.” And Isaiah 2:11: “The eyes of the arrogant man will be humbled and the pride of men brought low, the Lord alone will be exalted in that day.” I used to think the scriptures were full of shit. Not anymore. God was giving me direction. Telling me how I could become like Him. Like Them?
I set the Uncle Henry down on Billy’s now flattened forehead and pulled yellow rubber dishwashing gloves from my back pockets. Stole them from under the bathroom sink. One of the few acts of kindness my dad showed Sheila; at least she didn’t have to get her hands dirty while she cleaned the toilet. I slid them on.
“Billy,” I began softly, holding the Uncle Henry, “for the sins of your mouth. You laughed when you hit Terry. For the words of your lips. You bragged about it.”
His face was bloody and a bit misshapen from the bat, but the main features were still discernible. I opened his slack jaw and grabbed his tongue. I was actually surprised at how hard I had to saw to cut it out.
I threw the piece of meat into the yard and then moved to his eyes. “The eyes of the arrogant man will be humbled.” I cut out his right eye first. It was kind of like cutting out a grape, but slimier. It kept slipping between my fingers when I tried to grab it, but I finally got it out of the socket. The Uncle Henry slid easily through the optic nerve. I threw it after the tongue and went to work on the left eye. I obviously did something different, because it popped with a wet, squishy, sickening sound. Some of the eye goo shot into my mouth. It tasted rotten, salty. I almost spit it out, but then I remembered a crime show I watched where they caught the bad guy by DNA in his saliva. I swallowed. Almost threw up.
Two things I will never forget: the sound of a human eye popping, and the taste of that very same eye.
The words of another verse drifted into my mind. I couldn’t remember exactly which one it was, but it was something about “stoppeth his ears from hearing of blood, and shutteth his eyes from seeing evil.”
Okay, the eyes were done. That left only the ears.
Must be cartilage around the ears, because they’re not very easy to cut off. But where there’s a will, there’s a way.
I left Billy lying there, brought low on his patio. I took the baseball bat and went home. I quietly let myself into the apartment. All was well, Dad and Sheila sound asleep.
In the bathroom sink, I washed the blood from the gloves and put them back where I found them. Then I snuck into my room and buried the bat and the clothes I was wearing in the bottom of my closet. It would be safe there for now, because with my dad, if he couldn’t see it, he didn’t give a shit. Sheila did the laundry each weekend, but she made no effort for me. If I didn’t get my clothes to her, they didn’t get washed. The stuff in my closet was safe.
I wasn’t prepared for the fallout. You would’ve thought the president had just been assassinated in Clemensville. The police questioned every damn kid in our school. After that incident, I realized I’d better lay low for a while. Put the God thing on the back burner. No need to draw attention to myself.
To Be Desired
Of all the things I miss in the governor’s fucking hell, Carla isn’t one of them. She never was much of a wife, or a companion of any sort. If I had a redo, I would’ve kept Brutus and instead hit her over the head with the frying pan. How many times can a guy be told how worthless he is? How many unsuccessful attempts at making love can a guy endure? It was funny how her stomachaches and headac
hes always seemed to occur at the exact moment I needed her to make me feel like a man. She finally went to a doctor who diagnosed her with irritable bowel syndrome and fibromyalgia. That made me laugh. My dad would’ve told her she was just being weak.
I used to lie on my back in bed and listen to her snore. I’d interlock my fingers behind my head and stare into the darkness, wishing I’d married someone who wasn’t such a waste of a wife. It was usually hot—too hot to be covered by anything heavier than Fruit of the Looms. Usually I ended up climbing out of bed and heading into the living room. I’d throw in an X-rated DVD and take care of business on my own.
One night, instead of watching porn, I remained in bed and thought about the young schoolgirl who walked past my house each day. There were always other kids too, but Jenny usually walked alone.
I met Jenny Nelson as she walked home after the first day of school. Our house was about a block from her junior high. I had just mown the lawn and was putting water to it when she passed. We didn’t talk that first day, but our souls shared something unsaid.
She was really pretty and she dressed so sexy I couldn’t help but notice. I am quite certain that was her intention. Back when I went to school, skirts had to be past the knees, shoulders had to be covered, and a girl’s stomach couldn’t be exposed. Times had obviously changed. Jennifer wore a denim miniskirt—frayed at the bottom—that didn’t reach much below her butt. Her spaghetti-strap top revealed shapely shoulders and a flat, tanned stomach. I wondered what kind of parents would let their kid dress like that. They obviously didn’t care about her. Not like I did.
At first I didn’t completely understand why I had developed such deep feelings for her so quickly. She noticed me watching her. She nodded and kept walking. The way she looked at me, you could tell she was thinking about me. She was probably having thoughts that confused her. She made kind of a funny face when I smiled and she continued past, her pace quickening. She didn’t have to explain; I knew why she sped up. She was afraid she might stop and nervously say something that would sound dumb and she didn’t want to scare me away.
Criminal Zoo Page 11
