Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I

by Athanasios

  “Mordecai, I’ve known for quite some time that you have been disobeying my orders. Today, it was blatant.” Balzeer’s voice was like flint. He could manipulate any word for his desired effect. He could charm a baby from its mother, instigate suicide or frighten murderers into service.

  “Non-conformity is expected. The awful thing is that you don’t have the tact to be discreet with your deviancies.” Balzeer’s left arm arched up from his thigh and he backhanded Mordecai across the mouth. His face turned in the direction of the blow, but he did not stumble back. It had not been a powerful blow, it was merely meant to humble him.

  “I understand that one day, you hope to be Supreme Tribunal. I commend your ambition.” The right hand came up with more momentum, and this time, he knocked Mordecai back a step.

  “It is how every one of us has risen through the ranks. Your lack of proper secrecy is the crime here because if you are to one day rule you must deceive the world. You can’t even lie convincingly to me.” Once again, he struck Mordecai across the cheek. More slaps followed, each hand alternating as the lecture on Mordecai’s failure continued. It was humiliating to be sermonized, all the while smacked like an errant dog.

  “You must become far more adept. Everyone who has ruled has done so by wresting power. It has never been given up willingly.” There was another openhanded blow; he was not worthy of a closed fist.

  “If you cannot fool me, how will you be able to lead our church? You have failed your lessons. How do you expect to serve our Nobility?” Mordecai had taken too many blows without a response. He looked up after the latest smack and his eyes shone with defiance. Balzeer saw it and motioned, instead of another clout.

  Mordecai’s defiance halted. He did not know if Balzeer truly meant for him to come forward — if Balzeer wanted to reconcile. To his confusion, Mordecai felt strong hands take hold of his arms. His head whipped left and right and all he saw were black hooded shapes, three on either side, wrestling him toward one of the couches.

  “The consequences of failure, for most in our order, are along the lines of what Mossy received. However, yours will be more personal.” The figures forced Mordecai to bend over the couch. He felt more hands clasp his ankles, switching from his arms to his feet. They pulled his pants down to his knees and he felt his bare buttocks exposed. He was unable to move. He could do nothing but squirm in the human shackles.

  “Balzeer, don’t let them do this. I’ll never forgive you for this. I promise you that.” Mordecai was screaming as he jerked his head from side to side, trying to see if anyone was taking position behind him.

  “Forgiveness is not included in our vocabulary, Mordecai. That is a trait of the Supreme Weakling. Scream and bellow all you want; I don’t care. Your continued belligerence is further proof that this is the proper punishment. Mordecai, it’s for your own good. We need a strong and proper leadership.”

  “You’re right, Balzeer. You’re right I will do whatever you require. I will do everything that you want.”

  “Oh, I know you will, Mordecai, I know.”

  Mordecai felt a hand rest on the exposed small of his back. He heard a zipper and felt a fleshy protrusion enter his backside.

  “Believe me, Mordecai, this is not easy for me.” Balzeer’s voice came in grunts as he jerked his hips forward in short bursts.

  “I much prefer women to men, but you must be put in line. Your defiance must be channeled, and this is the best way for you to remember.”

  These sensations were not new to Mordecai. Unlike Balzeer, he preferred men to women. However, this was unlike either. He yelled at each stroke and continued to struggle, though to no avail.

  “Stop fighting, Mordecai. Your continued obstinacy only makes this worse. I planned to be the only one to assault you, but you need much more correction.” Balzeer’s voice continued to come in short gasps and grunts. “Each of these, who now force you into submission, will further their efforts in that regard. They will continue your subjugation by each taking turns, for as long as required, until you become a good little soldier.” Balzeer ceased his efforts and came around to face Mordecai.

  “I cannot end this. The enchantment, which gave me this erection, cannot allow me finish. The others, however, will be able to, as often as needed.” At this, another took his place behind Mordecai. The intrusion forced him forward, despite his restraints. This assailant was thrusting with more enthusiasm. He did not grunt, but bellowed in an almost inhuman manner.

  “They all have quite uncanny stamina. You’ll see.”

  “Ugh, oooh, oooh, ugh. Balzeer, please, ugh. Stop this. I’ll do anything you want, oooh, ugh. Anything.” Mordecai implored.

  “Yes, I know that you want to, but this will continue until I know, without assurances, that you will.”

  TIME: OCTOBER 31ST, 1962. SOMEWHERE IN BRAZIL

  Kosta reached forward and took the dark green aviator glasses from the dashboard. The sun was just coming up and hit him squarely in the eyes. The glasses, alone, did not offer enough protection, so he also lowered his sun visor. Seconds later, he lowered the visor on the passenger’s side, an unconscious gesture of protection for the sleeping Antichrist. His thoughts turned to those whom he had killed in Sao Paolo.

  How had an avowed Luciferian and a Catholic cardinal known the location of the changed birthplace? Over the centuries, the Jesuits had been in league with many distasteful forces. Could they have been aligned with their enemies? There were few other reasons why they had been in the same place, at the same time, as the one who changed destiny.

  Kosta marveled at the fact that the earth-shattering soul, sitting silently beside him, was such a blank slate. This was no malicious or evil individual; this was an infant, albeit the size of a four-year-old, who could also walk and feed himself.

  He had to imprint his beliefs, before anyone else could get a hold of him. If he could shape his mind, he could decide his own fate. The Luciferians already tried to take him, and the Christians tried to kill him. One wanted to solidify the foretold destiny, while the other was simply terrified. Both were unaware of Kosta’s involvement, and ignorant of his motives.

  He changed Revelation and as a result he was now outside it. He was separated from fate, the collective mind. Most people did not even know about the prophecies, now playing out. Those who did called them ancient superstition, while the few active participants had no idea about his efforts.

  Kosta snuck a peek at Nino as he stared out the window. The child instantly turned and met his gaze. His eyes showed interest and confidence; his face was calm and searching. Kosta decided to see if he was equally advanced, mentally. He didn’t know about his abilities, which led his parents to surrender him to the mercy of the Church.

  “Do you know what is going on?”

  There was silence.

  Maybe, Kosta thought, the question was too broad. A more direct and simpler question might be appropriate. He believed that the child could speak.

  “Do you want your parents?”

  Again, there was silence.

  Tears rolled down Nino’s face, yet his expression was calm and unmoving. As the child looked up at Kosta, he realized that he wasn’t aware of the tears. He wiped the left cheek and Nino leaned into his palm. He wiped the right cheek and felt the same insistent pressure. The child felt a gentle touch. It was too good to be true; he mistrusted it, but could not help but follow it.

  “What’s your name?” Instantly, Kosta felt like an idiot. He had forgotten that he was speaking to a child. “What do they call you?”

  “Nino.” Instantly, his eyes darted up to see if Kosta would turn away. Everyone else was terrified and would not come near him. This was the first time he spoke out lout. He had been able to speak for about a month, but didn’t want to drive his parents away. All he saw on Kosta’s face was surprise, followed by acceptance. Kosta was not a parent. He had not considered that enormity when he began this work. Now, he would take care of a child and save the world from Luci
ferians and Catholics.

  TIME: NOVEMBER 20TH, 1962. QUIBDO, COLUMBIA

  Kosta picked up a crusty, cellophane-wrapped pastry and a cola and continued through the small grocery store. He looked for the bread aisle, also scanning the small meat section for cold cuts. He didn’t know anything about nutrition and wasn’t about to hazard a guess as to what a child — chronologically, six-months-old, but physically, five-years-old — should eat. He asked the butcher for a pound each of salami, bologna, mortadella and cheddar cheese.

  “Mortadella? Que?” the butcher asked.

  Kosta looked up from his assessment of the dead things under glass in front of him and held up his right thumb.

  “Salami?”

  “Si, salami.”

  “Bien, salami.”

  He now held up both his thumb and index finger.

  “Bologna?”

  “Si, bologna.”

  “Bien, salami, bologna.”

  Now, his middle finger joined his thumb and index.

  “Cheddar?”

  “Si, cheddar.”

  “Muoi bien, salami, bologna, cheddar. Uno poundo, por favor.”

  The butcher looked like he had solved a crossword puzzle, and with a wide grin, turned to carve slices of the requested cuts. Kosta’s answering smile was appreciative as he returned to his survey of the items under the butcher’s glass countertop.

  A pig’s eyes stared at Nino, whose own eyes read the surroundings. He showed no wide-eyed awe of the place, filled with brightly colored packaging and even brighter lights. He held onto Kosta’s hand with ease. Whenever he looked at the boy, he saw a reassurance in his eyes. This comforted Kosta.

  Kosta yearned for a life of quiet boredom. Excitement was for people who didn’t know what excitement actually involved. At this point in his life, Kosta had had his fill. He wished for an uneventful life, both for himself and his charge. They deserved it.

  Kosta did, at least. As for the boy, time would tell.

  He followed Nino’s eyes as they kept careful watch over a woman, buying her groceries. She had a plastic mesh bag, into which she put a box of cereal, two cans of refried beans and a box of crackers. More items followed, but Kosta stopped paying attention to what the items were. Instead, he pictured what she would do with them.

  He imagined a small, one-room apartment where the woman lived alone. She would go home and unpack her groceries, placing each in a specified place. Occasionally, she would alternate, or replace, each item — saltines for the crackers, oatmeal for the cereal — but apart from the little variations, things remain in their rightful place.

  The apartment was tidy, if not clean, and a small television was positioned before a well-worn couch. The television rested on the kitchen table. It faced away from the two chairs, in which she alternated eating her breakfast. It faced away, because she watched it every night. Kosta felt an urge to ask the name of her favorite program. She could’ve watched as Andy Williams introduced people on his variety hour. Or, better yet, she looked like a country girl, who delighted in the hayseed, transplanted, millionaire Clampets of the Beverly Hillbillies.

  Kosta didn’t believe in this world that he created, any more than he did the truth. Boring was good; boring did not have to be bad. It was not painful, and comfort brought a measure of joy. Kosta never wanted to be a glutton with that emotion. Too much joy could easily turn into despair and pain. When you’re up, the only place to go is down.

  The butcher handed him his package and Kosta accepted it with a nod. He walked to the front of the store, and as he got closer, he recognized the background music. They called the vocalist the Wanderer, because he wandered round and round and round. Two people were in the checkout line ahead of him, so he stopped to wait his turn. One patron, placing his parcels on the counter to be counted, was matching the beat from a small transistor radio the cashier had playing. The song finished and was identified by the announcer as Dion.

  The next selection was from Roy Orbison. A falsetto voice described thinking about dream babies the whole night through. Behind the cashier, he saw through the window and across the street, to where an older woman was walking. He absentmindedly took note of her drooped shoulders, underneath a long, thin coat and tan shawl, tied around her down-turned head.

  He didn’t think much about it, until not twenty seconds later, she walked towards him on a sidewalk, perpendicular to the grocery store. As she came closer, he saw that, though her eyes were downcast, she stared at him. Her arms were tucked and folded beneath her purse. He couldn’t see her pupils, hidden beneath heavy brows. She came within half a block of the store, then turned past the edge of the window frame through which Kosta looked.

  Five seconds later, she walked past the store again. This time, she came from the left, on the same side of the street as Kosta. She walked very close to the window and Kosta paid careful attention. He switched Nino’s hand to his left and protectively pushed the boy behind him.

  After placing his groceries on the counter, his hand went to his pocket and closed on a wooden gripped revolver. Its barrel and cartridges were modified to blow fist-sized holes into anything that came within three feet. It would just badly maim anything more distant.

  The shabby old woman walked past the middle window, shuffling at a contrived pace. With her head still down, she turned; Kosta saw a burning glare from under the side of her shawl, though it flickered off as she continued walking. He moved forward in the line as one of the two people ahead of him walked out the door and onto the street.

  Kosta’s eyes followed the man who left. He watched him cross the street and put his groceries in back of his pickup truck. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and drove left, disappearing past the window frame. He did not see the old woman again until the truck was out of sight. She walked out of a clothing store across the street and stopped, just as she reached the edge of the sidewalk. There was no way she could’ve entered that store without Kosta seeing her do it. She checked traffic on both sides before she crossed the street and turned out of sight.

  She appeared again, walking from the left side of the window. She passed the store that she just exited and continued, without looking at the grocery store. Seconds later, she appeared again, walking out of a doorway a block away from where she had just been shuffling. She stopped and took a seat on a bench. It seemed as though she was waiting for something. She did not need to look at Kosta for him to know that she was watching.

  He continued forward and waited for the cashier to tally up his order, watching the old woman more intently. The edges of her body were blurred where they met reality. She was entirely real, but her presence disturbed the air through which she walked.

  A Plymouth Fury drove past the seated woman and blocked her from sight. It did not slow down, but drove at a moderate pace. Once it passed the bench, she was gone again. Out of the corner of his eye, Kosta noticed she was now behind the wheel of a car, parked almost out of sight. She opened the door, nudged it closed, then walked into the doorway behind the parked car.

  Painfully slow, she opened a glass door and walked into a shadow, obscuring the interior of the department store. He almost lost her in the gloomy interior, but she stopped, half in shadow, turned and stood. Her face and upper torso stayed hidden in the gloom, but he could still see her legs, under wrinkled support hose and laced-up, black leather shoes.

  Kosta handed the cashier a ten-dollar bill and felt the change fall onto his waiting palm. He never took his eyes off the old woman, standing in the twilight. He picked up his groceries and walked out of the store, Nino still clasping his other hand. The gun lay still and expectant in his pocket. Thankfully, he had parked right in front of the store, so he put the food in the rear, scooting Nino ahead of the bags, motioning for him to lie on the floor.

  He walked around to the front of the 1958 grey, dusty Checker cab and got behind the wheel. He saw that the shoes remained, unmoved, in the department store. He kept his eyes on her as h
e started the car, put it into reverse, then backed out and turned to drive past. He wanted a closer look at his watcher.

  The checker cab rolled forward, but Kosta took his foot off of the gas pedal as he approached the glass doors of the department store. He was close enough to see the old woman had been standing the entire time, her hands folded over her purse. Aside from her stillness, nothing seemed strange about her. She was as motionless as the mannequins, posing beside her. At the very moment this thought entered his head, she faded and became just another mannequin.

  Kosta’s eyes darted left and right as he frantically searched for her. He saw no sign of her anywhere and his heart raced with the checker cab, out of town.

  He stayed on the main road. For a second, he thought he saw her in his rear-view mirror, but when he looked again, she was gone. As he neared the edge of town, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, she was no longer there.

  When he realized he had been tricked with the mannequin in the department store, he pulled out the gun and laid it on the front seat. Now, he placed a reassuring hand on it and slowed to a stop at a flashing red traffic light, just before the main road joined the highway. He took extra care, not only looking for other traffic, but also for wayward, unexpected geriatrics. Not a soul was in sight, but to his left, a black speck appeared. He squinted at it, but it was too far away for him to discern anything.

  He pulled out a pair of binoculars from a box on the floor, put them to his eyes and adjusted the settings. The old woman came into focus.

  All pretence of frailty was gone; she was walking fast, heading straight for him. When Kosta put the binoculars to his eyes, her head jerked to her right, her lips pulled back to a grimace. She increased her pace, until Kosta didn’t need the binoculars to see her.

  Immediately, he floored the gas pedal and the car took off like a rocket. He turned to look out the back window and saw her disappear in the dust. When he looked in the rear-view mirror, she was gone. He frantically swiveled his head, trying to find her, but all he saw was blurred scenery, farmhouses, distant branching roads and endless fields. His heart, as well as his foot on the gas pedal, just began to settle when he finally located the old woman — five feet in front of the car.