History

He never thought about that first night. He allowed very little of the past. The stereotypical childhood of a career criminal with one fundamental difference, his past hid in fear. There existed, somewhere, a sick, warm place of abuse and defilement straight from the Hollowood movie factory, except there was no retaliation, no release into psychosis.

He didn't tick or hum like a bomb. He didn't fume and plane. He didn't obsess. He didn't kill. He made a clear and rational decision to purchase the skull mask for a party. He bought it early. He bought the black duster coat and top hot from a consignment shop.

None of his friends thought him unusual because he studied various martial arts forms. His generation sought out that sort of thing at the prodding of television, comic books and video games. Hell, everone had been bullied in school. Everyone came from a broken home. There was nothing unusual at all.

That night, the mask went on. The sick, warm feeling returned in his own breath under the mask. The smell of saliva, and soon the taste of his own blood, created a hole and he fell into it. His training took over and it was done. No, not done.

Once the trembling subsided and the novacaine of brandy and ginger ale took hold, he knew he liked it. Every part. The killer came accidentally.

He fought the urge to repeat for two weeks. The news hollered at him, "Save us! Save us!" He saw a priest who barely listened. He bought a Bible and tried to read his mind back to right. Inside its pages he met Kings David and Solomon, and the prophets Daniel and Isaiah. Empires rose and fell at the whim of the Lord.

Save us, he thought. Save us. But no one answered his call. He opened a notebook and wrote for two days straight. His thoughts never cleared.

He put the mask back on and entered a place where the past existed only as smell, moisture and temperature. A place where the War Kings lived in blood and spit. A place for prophets to rail without conscience.

He beat men women and children to death, and was beaten to death in return. Now, in the fever and sweat of Ghenna, there was no difference between him, the criminals, the victims and Belial himself.

"It was an accident," he said.

"He speaks," Belial grinned.

"An accident," he repeated.

"I know," Belial said.

"Are you satisfied now?" St. Michael asked.

"Very," Belial said.

Issue Two: Part 10 | Issue Two: Part 12