Blogs by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage
Before the cock crows thrice...
8/21/2008 10:32:04 AM
excerpted from 'PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale'...
The big man ran hard down the street and into the bulging light. He put his sunglasses on to protect his impossibly dilated eyes. His veins swam wide with Plata. His head was filled with bad ju-ju.
The big man faced east and slowed to a stop. He watched the horizon give birth. He stayed where he was a moment, simply taking in the fiery ascent. Warmth rose with the sun. He heard it then as it came to him from afar. The sound was distinct and unmistakable. The sound was a reminder for him. It was a rubber band on his wrist. It was a note written on the palm of his hand. He heard it three times and as clear as a f***ing bell.
I told you so.
Pedro was finally as high as a kite.
The smoky half-light in his head was perfectly matched by the smoky half-light of the drug dealer’s living room. Ten or twelve addicts were nodding off in varying degrees. They had spread themselves around the room, lounging on old couches and recliners, lying on the floor. Some others simply paced back and forth while they rushed their balls off.
Pedro was pacing. He was working his way through the first punch he’d had in three long years. It was almost more than he could bear. He knew it would fade with time and level off to the heavenly hum the couch-bound enjoyed.
Pedro tried to take pleasure in it. He knew from experience the speed rush would cease with continued Plata use. Do enough Plata, and you can have the rapture phase still, but the pacing and tweaking would end. One has to accept the ending of the heights the rush would give you. Those who refuse, die quickly seeking the crawling out of your skin blast-off. You can only chase the dragon for so long, before it turns around and devours you.
Pedro wanted to relive the entire cycle. He wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could draw it out. He knew neck-banging would come again in time. There was no reason to hurry it along.
Suicide did not have to be sudden.
The little nigga was eyeballing Pedro closely. It was as if he was trying to fix Pedro’s face in his mind, like he knew him. The little nigga smiled now, pleased as punch. He knew something, or thought he did. He smiled as though he’d caught you jerking off to a photo of your Auntie.
Pedro didn’t want to know, so he paced out of the living room and into the kitchen. These lights, also muted, were just enough for the small band of card players. They were grouped around a three-legged table. A dumbed stereo speaker held up the remaining corner. The Plata induced card play was sloppy and slow.
The group glanced his way as Pedro entered the kitchen. He stopped by the sink. He ran the tap and, with cupped hands, splashed cool water on his face.
“I know you,” Pedro heard from the table.
“Doubt it,” Pedro replied, drying his face and neck with paper towels.
“Sure I do,” the card player insisted. “You were with the preacher in the park.”
“Wasn’t me,” Pedro told him. He discarded the paper towels in an over-flowing trash bin.
“Yeah,” the card player insisted, “what was her name?” he asked, directed at Pedro.
“No idea,” Pedro replied and left quickly the kitchen.
Pedro went outside to the dealer’s backyard where it was dark and quiet. He sat on a swing in the overgrown yard and welcomed the hum. It was a continuous near-orgasmic state. He closed his eyes to greet it head on; to keep the cloak of dewy-lipped kisses tight around him. He shivered with pleasure and scratched lightly at ghostly itches. Angels moaned softly in his breast and butterflies flitted as his neuro-receptors fired a tympani of enchantment. He smiled to himself, sunshine and God’s love pulsed delightfully behind his eyelids.
Pedro rocked slowly, back and forth, building motion shelter for his high. Bouncing smoothly and happily within a bubble of bliss, Pedro was unaware he had company.
She placed a hand on his thigh. She massaged it and Pedro’s bubble was punctured by the interruption, joy leaking out. He reluctantly opened his eyes, saw his visitor.
“Hi, handsome,” she cooed, “wanna date?”
Pedro thought about it, decided he was ready for that. He asked her price and she gave it. It was, not surprisingly, part cash and part Plata; if he was holding. He had more than enough dope and money to cover it.
She wanted to get blasted first and tapped one of her nostrils. Pedro cut her out two nice lines from his stash, right on the seat of the bench. She bent right to it. He rose to his feet and thumbed out three twenties and a tiny foil. She pinched her nose shut and held her head back.
“How much is in there?” she asked, indicating the foil.
“Oh, I’d say about a quarter tee, give or take,” Pedro replied, feeling himself go hard.
“A fourth of a teener,” she replied, seizing the cash and the dope and stuffing it down her pants and up her snatch quicker than you can say: what-the-f***. “That’s not very much.”
“Yeah,” Pedro agreed, “but you’re not very pretty.”
“Used to be….” she mumbled, Pedro undoing her blouse. She smiled up at him, revealing teeth darkly stained at the gum line, “Hows about one more, daddy?”
Pedro was cool with it and laid her out another line. She sucked up the third line and her pupils blew. She was spacey and mumbling. Pedro beginning to think his generosity just cost him, but he was hard and ready.
He thought she best pull it together lickety-split, and get to gobbling dick. Otherwise, Pedro would have no problem with dog-f***ing her drooling, slack face if the bitch couldn’t comply. It was up to her.
He positioned himself in front of her as she settled back on the bench. She rubbed dregs of Plata on her receding gums as she squinted up at him. She weaved and giggled drunkenly as she recalled where she saw him, the proper church boy.
“Did you ever f*** her?” she asked, reaching for his belt buckle.
“Fuck who?” Pedro asked. He brushed tendrils of greasy hair from her used to be very pretty face.
“Aw, you know,” she continued, struggling with the loops. “The little pastor girl, Emmaus, or something like that.” She closed one eye and tugged at the belt. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t know any pastors,” he told her and worked the top button of his pants his damn self.
“The one at the park,” she continued, but stopped when she had the zipper pressed between fingers. “You know; the one you work for.”
Pedro took a fearful step back. He quickly buttoned and re-buckled the belt. He shoved his hand down the front of her pants, popping the sixty bucks and dope foil out.
She shouted around a mouthful of marbles as he walked away from her, calling him names. She didn’t even thank Pedro for the lines.
“I was gonna suck your dick, you limp f***!” she hurled at his back. “That’s my shit yer taking, you asshole!”
“Sorry, bitch, not in the mood,” Pedro replied as he reached the back door. “You talk too motherf***ing much.”
Pedro opened the door and went in. He stormed past the card players in the kitchen. Pedro kept his eyes forward, not wanting to reignite any more questions.
Pedro went back to the living room and searched for a place to sit. He found an unoccupied recliner and sank into it.
The little nigga sidled up to Pedro and dropped to his haunches beside the chair.
“You’re Pedro, right?” he asked softly.
“Yeah, what of it?” replied Pedro.
“You must be in on it,” he said, “if you’re here.”
“What’re you talking about?” asked Pedro.
“Your boss,” he replied. “She was turned over to Herod. Everyone knows. Pilate did it.”
Pedro hesitated then asked in a lamely squeak: “What boss?” Pedro’s heart began to riff like a double-bass drum.
“The little shit, the minister, the cute one,” the little nigga told Pedro, “The one from the park.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about!” he yelled. All eyes were on him now. “I don’t know who the f*** she is!” he shouted. “I just came to get high!”
People squeezed into the living room and those already there came to. They all stared at him. Accusations unspoken and Pedro feared right through the Plata. He was afraid of what they would do to him, for all Plata flows from Herod. He was the big bad drug daddy in these parts and addicts are loyal as hell to the motherf***er holding the key to their high.
Pedro panicked and went to the front door, closing it behind and making himself quickly absent.
“I don’t know her!” he declared as he ran away, into the pre-dawn darkness.
The sun rose before him. Somewhere a rooster crowed from afar. Pedro slowed to a stop as the tears filled his eyes. Pedro clenched his fists and faced the dawn. She told him he would do it and he did. Just as she said he would. He felt like such a coward. He stared at the rising sun as it began to dominate the sky.
“Immanuel,” Pedro said to no one. “Her name is Immanuel.”
Pedro shoved his hands in his front pockets and fingered the two grams of shit. He was going home, not to Herod’s compound or to see the disciples. Pedro, instead, was going to go home and get more high.
Immanuel was on her own.
I told you so.
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