Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I

by Athanasios

  He stopped at an unmarked door and knocked twice. From within, a voice bade him to enter. He twisted the brass doorknob and pushed the door open. Given its location the room seemed totally out of place — it belonged in the back of a bar. Bright banners of holiday cheer were draped around the room and a decorated pine was in one corner.

  Deep, brass-headed leather sofas lined walls, and on each of them sat men and women of varying ages. Most had the same air about them and looked up from their reading, but only for a second. In that brief time, they registered annoyance, irritation, suspicion, exasperation and acceptance. The sound of large sheets of paper, crisply turned, was wave-like, as many returned to their reading. There were over twenty people in the room, reading stacks of newspapers, one person for every major city in the world.

  They weren’t searching for anything specific. They simply read, suspicious of the most trivial story. Their minds read into dark, fiscal or bureaucratic conspiracies. Some spoke openly about the Bilderburg Group, and Dark Nobility. They described members of elite families who were part of secret fraternal societies from Harvard and Yale. These men were also involved with other exclusive organizations with innocuous titles: the Council of Foreign Relations, Trilateral Commission and British Royal Institute of International Affairs. All were publicly benevolent.

  Some of the conspiracies were even true. They saw correlations between cosmonaut Titov’s motion sickness in space and worldwide Vodka distilleries. Some of the conspiracies were obscure, without credibility, while others already had legions of believers. The construction of the Berlin Wall, begun on the East side of Germany, was finished scant days later. Lines were being drawn in brick and mortar. England was expected to join the European Common Market, fulfilling prophecies from Revelation.

  Each of the seated patrons scribbled in the spiral notebooks beside them. Three women in their forties, walked among the couches, serving coffee, cleaning up and collecting pages. They were pleasant, professional and comforting, like the best waitresses; they made this place hum.

  “Father Quentin.” A measured tone brought Quentin to attention.

  “Sister LaParee. What news of the world?”

  Sister LaParee had been a waitress in a small town outside of Montreal, Canada. St. Pie de Bagot was a small change from her native New Brunswick. Until her man died of cancer, the town had kept her interest. Bob was everything to her, so when he passed, Rita entered a nunnery on Iles des Soeurs — the Island of Sisters.

  During her time in St. Pie and Montreal, she began to suspect some people were able to see beyond the news in the papers, to truths — either real or imagined. She started discussing various patrons with Bob, a bartender. Now, Bob was gone and no one else seemed to see these special readers in coffee shops, restaurants and bars. At the Iles des Soeurs, she spoke of her life, as did most everyone. She recounted her past, the lessons she learned and what mattered to her.

  One day, after a number of years, she was asked to speak to the mother superior. She had only spoken to her once, when she entered the order. Since then, she barely even greeted her in passing. To be specifically called upon was quite odd, indeed.

  The old dear said that Rita was requested in Rome. She would be leaving the next morning. When she arrived in Rome, Rita was introduced to Father Quentin, who explained the unusual task for which he requested her.

  He described what Rita and Bob had known all along. He stated there had always been very special people, drawn to news events and stories. They stayed in bars, restaurants and coffee shops, because public places were safer. If they weren’t alone, their theories seemed less fantastic and less plausible. If they were lucky, they found someone, like Rita or Bob, who would listen — someone who wouldn’t throw them out because all they ordered was coffee, soda or, even worse, water. Invariably, they never drank liquor. The scenes in their heads were engrossing enough, without the addition of alcohol.

  Rita listened as Father Quentin described how the Church gave shelter, newspapers and information to the most gifted of these exceptional people. He asked if Rita would like to listen to and help them. She was overjoyed at this opportunity. She thought that this was something she was only able to share with Bob. Now, she found out that there were others who knew about these people. In the process, she would even be doing God’s work.

  Bob would have been so pleased. Everyday, Rita fondly remembered him as she talked to these special people about how Chubby Checker’s Twist was rotting the brains of Russian officials, to the point they were sending dogs, mice, even people, into space.

  “Some news out of Argentina, Father. The unidentified body of a Caucasian male was found. The strange thing about it is the body bore the clear markings of a satanic order in San Francisco.” Rita related all the details as though they were perfectly usual and mundane.

  “San Francisco?” Father Quentin continued, taking the notes Rita offered. “LaVey isn’t part of it, is he?”

  “No, Father. Anton LaVey continues to be a very vocal entity in the true church of Satan. Much as we would like to find a reason to move against him, he is just a poser.”

  “Are there any pictures of the body?” Quentin asked.

  “The Sao Paolo police are eager to help, sir. At our request, they are sending full body pictures.”

  “Has anybody seen a connection to any other stories?” Quentin believed that this must be significant. What was a Luciferian — a westerner, at that — doing in Argentina. During the past year, most of them were tracked all over the Middle East. Had they found what they were seeking, they would’ve left by now.

  “Sister, I will bring some texts to you. Please distribute them as you see fit. Make it a top priority.” Now, Quentin was drawing his own conclusions. Nostradamus wrote that he would be born in the Middle East. “Space the texts so that there won’t be any cross-correlation of individual readers.”

  “There is something else, sir, but very coincidental. It is quite odd. Cardinal Colletti was murdered in the same city as the Luciferian’s body was found. That is why the authorities are so eager to give us anything we request.”

  “Colletti’s dead?” Quentin couldn’t believe this. There must be some connection. Even his superiors, the bureaucrats, would see that. “Sister LaParee, I want you to tell me when the pictures from Sao Paolo arrive. I will need to know immediately.” Quentin turned and was about to leave when he was stopped short by the sister’s response.

  “Father, this has to do with the Beast, doesn’t it?”

  Quentin turned slowly, not wanting to heighten the alarm he heard in the sister’s voice. “I believe so, Sister. Now, I have to convince those whose authority will move our church to act.”

  “Whatever you need, Father Quentin, you just ask and I’ll see that you get it. If there is anything, just ask.”

  “Thank you, Sister. It’s good to know I have your support.” Quentin turned again, and on his way out, added, “As much as you can, keep this to yourself, Sister. We live in a very secular world. We do not need to fight the skeptics about this.”

  TIME: DECEMBER 26TH, 1962. STAN’S SLOP SHOP, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A

  Mark Warner sat alone in the rear of a coffee house. He nursed a cold cup of java, ignored the suspicious looks of the owner and waited for two friends to join him. The tinseled decorations were replaced with pronouncements for the coming new year. Mark made a conscious effort to ignore the way they loudly reflected the light. The waitress came by again, the third time in the last thirty minutes. She hummed Moon River under her breath. Mark wondered if she knew that it was part of a very sappy film.

  “Are you gonna eat something? Do you want to see the menu?” She offered him the folded cardboard.

  “Alright, I am getting pretty hungry.” He took the printed cardboard and saluted the owner. The tension was finally diffused and he earned a smile of delight from the waitress.

  “Why don’t you give me a few minutes? Two friends will be joining me and we�
�ll order after they get here.”

  Just as Mark stated his culinary intentions, he was joined by a duo of kinetic lettermen. Both were yearbook pictures come to life. One had a brush cut and a varsity jacket covered his athletic form. The other wore a school sweater with a letter for football.

  When they entered, they were discussing the latest episode of Bonanza. They continued, arguing over who was cooler, Hoss or Little Joe. Mark didn’t join in the discussion, ignorant of the full extent of the debate. He was sure both parties had valid points, but ever since Marilyn was found dead and in the nude, Mark felt downbeat.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t watch television; he preferred books and movies. He liked a definite beginning, middle and end. Television kept going on and on, week after week. Implausibly, problems were always solved within the span of a single episode. In books and movies, life was portrayed more believably.

  Seated on either side of Mark, the two secondary scholars provided a contrast, bookending his still, coiled presence. They smiled and joked as Mark waited for them to be still.

  “She’s quite a lovely girl, isn’t she?” Mark turned his attention to the waitress. Her form reminded him of Marilyn, but much fuller and rounder.

  “Yeah, I guess. If you like ‘em roomy,” one of the guys agreed.

  “If she let me, I would go all the way with her, no hesitation,” the other said.

  “Mmmmm. A good idea gone and lost, I’m afraid,” Mark continued, “now that you two showed up, wearing your identities for anyone to see.” As he indicated their clothing, they both hung their heads in defeated irritation. They silently cursed each other and themselves. None of their illegal hijinks could go on now that they could easily be recognized as local high schoolers.

  “You know what I like about her?” Mark continued. “She’s sturdy. She looks like she could take a good pounding. There’s meat there, all over her body. More cushion for the pushin’.”

  Mark’s eyes followed her every move, though no one could tell, his dark glasses completely hiding his eyes. The glasses matched the rest of his somber garb — a black buttoned-down shirt and trousers.

  He reached for a cigarette and lit it. He didn’t offer the pack to the two men beside him.

  “She’s a little big though. Don’t you think, Brad?” Brad gave this question the same consideration he would a math problem. He looked at his friend, blinked a few times and nodded. He took that as a sign of agreement, not being able to see the vacuum that inhabited his jacket-clad form.

  Mark saw it and smiled inwardly. Someone began playing Neil Sedaca on the jukebox. For old Neil, breaking up was hard to do, but Mark couldn’t care less.

  “And for whom would you go?” he asked.

  Brad’s friend answered instantly. “Cindy Cooper. Man, she’s hot to trot. Boy, yeah.”

  “Cindy Cooper. Yeah, I can see that, but I prefer our lady here. Let me explain why. Cindy looks like she would break after a decently harsh humping. She’s small and petite. That’s short and tiny. On the other hand, our girl here is tall and robust. Look at the way her rump shifts as she walks. Look how the muscles roll from left to right. Those legs look like there’s a wealth of power in them. When I have her, I’ll be between twin engines of power. Cindy is a lawnmower engine. What we see before us is a Cadillac. She could go for miles and miles. Do you two understand?”

  Brad’s eyes showed disappointment. Mark knew that he wished to be looked at in the same way. His every gesture betrayed it. On the other hand, Brad’s friend was confused. There was no surprise there. “I would let her go down on me, but she’s not hot enough to go all the way.”

  “I can’t explain, any further than I already have, why she’s a much better fuck than Cindy.” As he spoke, Mark’s contempt for Brad’s friend rose. “You would have to understand what I’m talking about, and you obviously don’t. Your experience in this field is mainly between your right and left hands.”

  Brad’s friend reacted with further confusion and an irritation that quickly vanished when he looked at Brad. Mark took note of this and continued.

  “But do you know the difference between the right and the left? Have you ever experimented? I very much doubt it. Even in your imagination, you’re limited to a lawnmower over an eight-cylinder. It’s your loss.”

  Brad’s friend got up and left, without incident. The sturdy waitress returned.

  “What do you boys want?”

  “If only I could tell you,” Mark replied. “But let’s just start with a couple orders of French fries.”

  After she left with their order, Mark flicked a string of ash from his cigarette. “Do you have any money on you?”

  “Only about a buck,” Brad offered. “My parents haven’t given me my allowance yet.”

  “It’s ok, I’ll pay then. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Mark continued, “Well, for what it’s worth, Brad, you’re a bulldozer. Isn’t that right?”

  “I guess.” Brad’s face dropped coquettishly.

  Mark smiled at him and noted Brad’s reaction and the way he smiled at the waitress when she brought their fries. Brad could’ve smacked her without any qualms about who saw.

  The waitress also noted this reaction and smiled, first at Brad, then raised her eyebrows at Mark. She turned and walked away, her bottom rolling from left to right, right to left, like puppies under a blanket. Mark sighed and then looked at Brad, who stared at him. A few minutes later, after they finished their fries and stood up from the table, Mark stretched his lanky frame above Brad’s boxy shoulders.

  As they walked past the bar, they gave the owner a nod, though they did not see the object of their interest. Her shift must’ve ended, Mark thought. As they walked out of the front door, past a garish “Happy New Year 1963” tinseled banner, they saw that the sun had almost descended behind the distant hills.

  “Hey there.” To Mark’s surprise and delight, the robust waitress stood behind him, dressed in black, short heels and stockings. A run extended up the length of her left ankle, from just above the top of her shoe. Mark’s breath quickened, the run in the stocking giving his fantasy a sense of perfection. It was a descent from the perfect, which made her all the more desirable. Mark walked forward and knew that Brad would follow.

  “Hi, yourself. Is there an out of the way place around here?” He exhaled with each word.

  “We can go behind here. It’s out of the way. What do you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Oh, I think you know what I’ve got in mind,” Mark said.

  “What about your pal there?” She indicated Brad, who joined them and looked at Mark with the imploring denial of a child who didn’t want his new playmate to be sent away.

  “If you don’t mind, he’s welcome to join,” Mark replied.

  “Hell no, I don’t mind. He’s awful cute. Why would I mind? Come on, honey.” Her hand cradled Brad’s face and she brought it up to look at her. “We can share him, sweetie. I’m sure there’s plenty for everybody.”

  The trio walked to the back, hidden from the street by a number of bins and boxes, left out for trash collection the following day. Mark felt a rush of breath as hands and lips were all over his body. Kisses were being placed on his chest and back as she hiked up his shirt. He closed his eyes and gave into the pleasures he felt on his flesh.

  When he opened his eyes and looked toward the mouth of the alley, he saw a dusty cab come to a halt. The unzipping of his pants brought his attention back long enough to see that both the waitress and Brad were sharing and manipulating his dick. His eyes shut as he felt one mouth, then the other, close over the shaft — one after the other, back and forth.

  Finally, he remembered the Chevy and craned his neck to see a tan man opening the trunk. A small boy, with brown hair, stood beside him. The man wasn’t very tall or very big, though he wasn’t skinny. He moved with precision — a precision like he’d seen in the career soldiers who knew his father.

  The boy was even plainer than the man.<
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  Tongues, stroking the length of his shaft, brought Mark’s attention back to the two faces bobbing up and down and around his balls, eliciting a long sigh.

  A metallic clunk brought him out of the swoon that the ball and dick licking produced. With two eager mouths, concentrating on him, Mark was beside himself. If that wasn’t enough, they were out in the relative open. They weren’t behind closed doors. Who knew who might be watching from some of the windows that faced the alley?

  He smiled and arched his back into the enthusiastic duo that clung to him. He weaved the fingers of his left hand through the waitress’ long tresses, as well as the spiky top of Brad’s head. As his hand continued to alternate between the two, he glanced back at the Chevy. The man and the boy stopped, not thirty feet away.

  “How many does this one make?” the boy asked. His head was now at the same level as the man’s belt as he struggled with a burlap sack from the trunk.

  “There was one in Columbia. Two in Utah, three in Washington, and this one makes seven.” He straightened and a foot emerged from the side of the bag.

  “They weren’t all old ladies though. The first one was. One in Utah too, but the other one was a little guy. The other three were little kids, a little older than you, and this one was…”

  “A fat businessman,” the boy replied.

  “That’s right, very good.” The tan man grunted, unceremoniously dropping the sack beside the other trash. The burlap shifted enough to reveal a mouth, pulled back in a grimace, showing ragged rows of beastly teeth. He repositioned the trash, covering the exposed contents.

  “Do you think there’ll be more?” the child asked.

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Yes, I do, but with what we learned from this one, we’ll be able to do something.” He walked around the boy and opened the rear door of the cab, helping him in. “We’ll have to stop it at the source.”

  Mark’s attention snapped back to the couple, hanging off of the end of his dick.

  “Why don’t you hike up your skirt and bend over the side of the trashcan over there?” He motioned with his head and the waitress complied. As the skirt rose above her quivering thighs, Mark bit his lip at the frayed garters that wrinkled her stockings. He walked forward and entered her with a liquid, forward motion.