Authors: Borne Wilder
“If you needed an Anti-Christ, who would you pick, your
brother, you, or the idiot running around in a diaper?”
“Fuck him, take Nolte, he’s the one that started this shit.”
“Fuck you Cupcake, we wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t
for your greedy, thieving asses.”
“Yeah, he did start the ball rolling, but his entire
reasoning is based on avoiding hell, he’s not going to trade into it.” Michael
scratched the tip of his nose. It didn’t itch, but it gave him a second to
think of a
more gentle
way of saying, Charlie’s
brother was going to be fucked for eternity.
“Damn straight I’m not trading into it, my goal is pussy and
pussy forever, I don’t need that yellow piece of shit over there. I have a
‘Vette.”
“I’m not here to
Judge, but no one pushed Ron into anything, he was given a choice.”
“How in the fuck would you know what he was given, you’ve
never left my sight?”
“Everything works around the free will of humans, even the
liars won’t cheat this rule, will they Baal?”
Baal grunted and looked out the window.
“We are held to a higher standard than humans, because we
have seen the truth, therefore, our punishment for breaking the rules is much
harsher. Hell is not the worst place to be, believe me. Ask Baal, it’s the
reason he’s keeping his mouth shut right now.”
“Fuck this shit, I’m stopping him.” Charlie opened the car
door.
Baal laughed.
Michael put his hand on Charlie’s arm. “Have you ever heard
the verse, ‘put on the full armor of God’? It may sound cliché, but unless
you’re wearing it, you will more than likely, end up fighting Ron to take his
place.”
“So I’m supposed to sit here, while my brother sells himself
to eternal damnation, or whatever the fuck it is?”
“I can’t tell you what to do, and I can’t judge you, I’m
just informing you. You have free will.” The lights in the Walmart and
throughout the parking lot dimmed and the ground rumbled.
Baal laughed again.
Michael looked Charlie in the eyes, “I think you no longer
have a say in the matter. Follow me.” Michael got out of the car and pulled
Charlie’s door the rest of the way open. “How would you like a Lamborghini?”
Charlie followed the angel over to the Diablo. Michael ran
his hand over the rear window and the supercar came to life.
“How did you do that?”
“Remote start, the stupidest idea man ever thought up. Their
laziness makes their, half a million dollar cars completely vulnerable.”
Michael smiled. “I’m just showing off, if he would have left it in gear, it
wouldn’t have worked.”
“These fuckers cost a half a million?”
“They’re a little south of that, but for all intents and
purposes, yeah.” Michael walked around to the driver’s side and ran his hand
across the door. The door slid up and open. “Same thing on the doors, I mean
how hard is it to twist a key?” The angel asked incredulously. He reached into
the car and opened the glove compartment. “Look at that,” he showed Charlie the
spare key and stuck it into the ignition. “Now you don’t have to break the dash
open to shut it off. Plus, these little gems like to rip through the fuel; it
would drink a lot of cash if you had to leave it running.” Michael stepped out
of the way and gestured to the car. “Get in. I know this is hard to understand,
but there is and always will be things that we can’t change the direction of,
once they take a certain path. I’ve been tempted to step in tens of thousands
of times, but I couldn’t. Go back to your car in New Orleans, I’ll meet you
there tomorrow and let you get your money.”
“What the hell will Ron do without a car?”
“He doesn’t need cars anymore. I’m sure he’s already
forgotten about this thing. If you don’t take it, some asshole, tow truck
driver is going to tow it, and they try to hurt these on purpose.”
Charlie pressed on the accelerator, and the engine roared.
“Shit.”
Michael smiled. “Yeah, this is one of the Jotas, only
fifteen of them made.”
“How does an angel get to know so much about cars?”
“I take them on joyrides all the time.”
Charlie looked at the Walmart. Not only was he being told to
bail on his brother, but leave him without a ride, as well.
“Hit the road, Charlie, there’s nothing you can do at this
point. Just a heads up, watch out for reverse, they geared it way too high.”
Michael shut the door and stepped back, spinning his finger.
Charlie looked down at the shifting paddles. “How in the
fuck do you drive this thing?” The Lamborghini jumped forward and shot across
the parking lot. He pulled out onto the street and headed north until he
thought the angel could no longer hear him (of course he had no idea how well
an angel could hear), and turned around. He wasn’t going to let his brother
fuck up.
Michael listened to the Diablo fade into the distance then
turn around. He couldn’t blame the guy; if it were him, he’d do the same thing.
***
“S
o what do you do, Jerry?” Nolte asked, trying
to sound whimsical. “Believe it or not, I’m interested in this Heaven shit. I
might even be persuaded to switch teams.”
Jeremiel turned to look the foul little man directly in the
face. “You have no idea what you’ve given away.” Part of him felt a seething
anger toward the skinny human, yet, another part felt extreme pity. Jeremiel
felt sorry for even the worst of humans.
The softening of the angel’s demeanor was not lost on Nolte.
“So, do you live in a big mansion beyond the pearly gates, with little cupids
flying around?”
Jeremiel shook his head. How did humans conceive such images
of Heaven? “It’s beyond your comprehension.”
“What’s the pussy situation like up there in the clouds? Is
it all young and tight?” Nolte stuck a dog-legged Pall Mall in his teeth. “I do
like me some young pussy. Yep, if they’re old enough to pee, they’re old enough
for me. If they can sit on the curb and their feet touch the street, they are
old enough for my meat. Yep, I do like the young pussy.” Nolte noticed the
angel’s expression was anything but soft at this point. The extra-dimensional
grip the fag had on Nolte was slipping; the poof was having a hard time keeping
both him and Baal pinned down. “Yep, I do like___”
“Not one more word Dog. Not one more word.” Nolte leaped as
far away from Jeremiel as the Prius would allow.
Baal shook his head. “You have no understanding of who or
what he is, do you?”
Nolte adjusted his bug shades and grinned around his Pall
Mall. “Shut the fuck up, Runt.” Nolte looked out the window. Across the street,
to the north was The Liquor Box. Nolte’s mouth watered, he was tired of tiny
bottles. He wanted a slug, not a sip. Across the street to the west, was St.
Something-or-Other, obviously Catholic. To Nolte, Catholic churches always
stuck out like a sore dick, with their pompous stone and choddity-cha. He
thought all Catholics were show-offs. In fact, he thought all Christians were
show-offs, they all seemed to know that what they had was off limits to him and
wanted to rub his nose in their stink-less shit, every chance they got.
This church stuck out like a wart on a sore dick, with a
Walmart parking lot for a front yard. Serves those haughty cocksuckers right,
he thought, even God couldn’t stop the American dream from taking a shit on
their front steps.
“I don’t know why you're letting yourself get upset, Jerry,
unless...unless you’re a virgin. Are you a virgin, Jerry, no stinky on your
pinky?” Jeremiel got out of the car and opened the door on Baal’s side. Nolte
felt the angel’s hold slip completely away.
“Keep an eye on Shorty, Jerry, I’m blowin’ this popsicle-stand.”
Nolte vanished.
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.”
N
olte
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.”
***
J
ust 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.