The Mallard God Complex (7-2)

Sorry, apparently this chapter is too long for the word count. Now it has to be in two pieces. Hope you can still enjoy the flow!

          And now, the 'thrilling' conclusion of this chapter.

           “PRAISE THE LORD!” chants the entire congregation, including Snake. What the preacher lacks in volume they compensate for in blind obedience. Spittle flies from the mouth of a man to my right. He is very large and it appears that at any moment the pew beneath him might give out from the sheer stress of his weight. Shouting to the Lord seems to be the only form of exercise he gets, and he does that with a zest I could only assume was usually reserved for meat products laced heavily with melted cheese.

            Sweat runs down the center of his white tank top, making a disgusting drip canvas. I can’t look at him, but as I turn away I lock eyes with the preacher. There is a fire there, and it scares me. My bowels quiver slightly as I imagine all of the horrible things he is going to do to me. Right arm reaches out, picks up a bible, throws it at my face. As it hits me it bursts into flames, repulsed by my lack of religiosity. The hillbillies around me go crazy. From the back of the room someone screams “WITCH!” I want to correct him and tell him the masculine form is warlock, but by the time I open my mouth I am being beaten to death. They drag me outside and hang me in front of the church as a warning to other atheists.

            While an interesting scenario, the preacher opts for a tamer approach. Rather than throwing the bible, he reads fervently from a passage. I wish I could hear it, as I imagine it to be something epic, like most of the bible quotes read before fights often are. Instead there is only the blood pounding in my ears as my heart tries its best to burst forth from my chest and run away. There is humor in that image. Gruesome humor, but humor nonetheless.

            The passage ends with the word “sinner”. It echoes off the walls, reverberating back to me several times like the whispers of a thousand passive aggressive cherubs. They want to make sure that I hear it, that I know they know who I am, and that they know what I know about them, and that they want me to be scared. It’s all rather convoluted, but who can blame them? They’re only statues based off of infants. I’m fairly confident that if I hid my keys under a blanket they would think that they’d gone and disappeared forever.

            Walking towards the man feels as though I am floating over an ocean of uncertainty. My feet continue to propel me forward as if they hadn’t even given the slightest thought to doubting the path. Damn my motor cortex and its ability to coordinate rudimentary physical actions! The preacher is only ten feet away now, and everyone in the church has gone silent. They see me approaching and are waiting for a reaction. In mobs it is the actions of the leader that are key. If he reacts violently, then they will too, which makes the next move all the more critical.

            I haven’t really thought of myself as a clever person, but in the few seconds before I reach him, a basic plan begins to form. It’s not good by any stretch of the imagination, but it might just be enough. It always seems to work out for the plucky action hero. The plan which is so simple that any seven-year old child could have thought it up wins out the most frequently. With that in mind, I take the final few steps toward him.

            His eyes are grey. They look endless to me, like tiny galaxies swirling around two, symmetrical black holes. It’s as if he knows me and everything that has been me for my entire life. The stare goes through me like an x-ray, and I wind up feeling even more exposed than before. I am conscious of the thousands of eyes currently locked on my position. The silence has become absolute. There is nothing but his stare, and my, less impressive gaze to meet it. In our eyes a battle rages, and one side is clearly winning.

            “How can I help you my child?” His voice is deeper now than it was. The preacher is no longer in front of me; instead there is coiled a viper. The words he speaks have venom in them, conveying to me a clear message: Tread lightly, or you will tread no more.

            I don’t have long to think of a response. The plan that has formed in my head seems stupid now in the light of day, but there isn’t much else, and I go with it. In one motion I drop to my knees and bend my back in the most sincere prayer I have ever even thought of engaging in. This is partially due to the fact that I am actually praying. No part of me wants to die in this hole, staring down the eyes of an angry flock of sheep. I

            “Please, fill me with the lord’s healing light. I’ve been lost, and I need him to guide me back to the righteous path.” Equal parts Pulp Fiction and Exorcist. At least my frightened mind didn’t try to quote Dogma. Something tells me that a satire on religion wouldn’t do me much good at this point. The eyes of the priest seem to have softened a little. He doesn’t trust me any more than he did, but he sees an opportunity to create a new follower. Priests, always weak to those who submit to their will.

            “The Lord is willing to accept any and all into his kingdom. There is no sin too dark for his light.” His voice is sonorous, resonating with the fibers in my heart, making me feel as if I am actually having a religious experience. “Stay before me my son and tell me of these things that have taken you off his path. Confess to us and be healed, begin your life anew in the unending valley of his greatness.”

            My head is swimming. Am I actually feeling this right now? Why is his voice so deep? Why do I want this so bad? I could leave my life behind, start over; try something simpler, farther away from the city. These are good people here, they know the way of the world, they could teach me how to live properly. I could be happy here. My brain is no longer functioning on cynicism; there is warmth in it. I have never felt it in my life. In this moment I am happy. Everything is how it should be. I start to tell him my sins, and the sadness pours out.

            As I start to feel like a new man there is a noise behind me.

            “Alright reverend, I think you’ve done enough damage. Cut the shit and give me my god-damned money!” Snake has stood up and is pointing a hand cannon at the priest’s face. For a moment I wanted to dive in-between the reverend and the hand cannon. In his words there had been comfort, and something that I felt I had been missing for a long time. It only took moments for me to fall from my religious experience to the ground. The ground: A cold, hard, lecherous beast, always aiming to return dreamers to their rightful place among the depressed skeptics that society lauds.

            “You should leave here. I have nothing for you.” His voice is deadly soft, the viper is back. Fear eases its way back into my mind. The reality of the situation has become apparent, and I think I’ve found myself in the middle of it.

            Snake begins to laugh. It’s a chuckle at first, but he’s soon bending over in hysterics, gun still pointed strait at the reverend’s face.

            “You’re crazy. Leave my church and never return. There is nothing here for you but pain.”

            “You’ve got one more chance Reverend. Give me the money or you’re going to find out your mistake a lot sooner than expected.”  He says, still chuckling at some invisible joke. The churchgoers are all deadly silent, watching in anticipation. I can’t blame them, the situation would be fascinating, that is, if I wasn’t on the ground smack in the middle of them.

            “I haven’t got anything—.” There’s a crash and the hand-cannon roars to life in Snake’s hand. Fire spreads from the tip, blooming into a momentarily beautiful flower, followed closely by black, acrid smoke. A second after the initial bang there is a silence, and then a soft thud from behind me, and then a spray of what I can only assume to be blood. Then the ringing begins, adding a new layer of surrealism to the situation. It’s a high-pitched whine, deep in my eardrum, piercing my brain. I look up to the reverend to find that something else is piercing his brain.

            His mouth opens and closes in shock, and then he falls to the ground. Where one of his eyes had been there is now only a red crater, leading into his skull. I don’t have to be a medical expert to know he’s dead. “Time of death Michael? Call it.” Snake says, cheerfully. The people around him are all wearing the same expression of shock and anger. The hate is flowing freely from their eyes to mine. The heat is almost palpable, but the humidity manages to drown it out.

            “Uh—.” I manage, as Snake walks up to me.

            “Come on then, we should get the money before these jack-asses figure out what’s happened and grab their pitchforks.”