The Fist of God

Chapter One: Death to Stoners

The Wrath of God filled me. Inflamed with fury, I sprinted across idyllic lawns, startling students with the zeal exuded by my fearsome body moving at full throttle. Before me, Melchizedek strained on his leash, a fell light gleaming in his coal-black eyes. Our predatory impulses merged into one murderous hormonal urge as keen as the teeth of my comb. Night was falling all about in sullen gloaming, but my spirits soared. Rage is great when you're strong, righteous, and, most importantly, armed. I was angry, and I had a God-given right to be so. My Noble Hound and I were on the trail of our lawful prey: the depraved and detestable vermin known as stoners.

We halted before the closed doors of the men's dormitory. Melchizedek whined and pawed at them, but it is hard for a Pomeranian, even one as great-hearted as he, to budge such mighty doors. I, however, had no such difficulty, for I work out as often as I read my Bible, which is seven times a day, seven days a week. With one swipe of my right hand I demolished the doors like Samson demolished the Gates of Gath. Into the lobby I strode. The front desk worker's jaw fell to the floor. "Peace be upon you, son of Adam," I said to him. "Let your heart be glad, for your hour of judgement is not yet come. It is others who should fear; soon they shall feel the full force of the Fist of God!" And with that impressive introduction, I swaggered off down the hallway. Melchizedek was pulling so hard against the leash that he lifted his forepaws off the ground.

Immediately I smelled what my hound's keener nostrils had detected earlier: the deleterious reek of the poison weed. Oh! Damned are they that smoke its intoxicating leaves! If the drug does not kill them, I will! My heart burned as I proceeded down the corridor, the stench growing with every step. Suddenly I halted, arrested in mid-stride. In the corner of my eye I caught a vision of sublimity encased in humanity. On the left wall was a mirror. In the mirror was I.

How can mere words, instruments of this profane world, describe with any justice the divinity of form fashioned by the Creator God? Words cannot but fail to convey the sacred splendor of my being. But, being by my noble nature inclined toward deeds deemed impossible by lesser mortals, I shall essay to capture with this humble pen some degree of my corporeal glory.

As foundational as the Rock of Ages, my masculine feet were encased in masculine boots of white leather. My legs, those powerful pistons sculpted by tens of thousands of jogged miles, were clad in white track pants. Above them my naked torso gleamed, bronzed by the sun and buffed by weights: my abdomen was as hard as the hide of the crocodile, my chest as broad and deep as a Spartan's, my biceps were bulging like engorged anacondas. From a tree-trunk neck hung a huge golden crucifix. My head was that of a Nordic Caesar's: a hard chin, a hawk nose, sapphire eyes, and, crowning all, a close-cropped crewcut of blonde hair spiked with the blood of slain sinners. In my left hand I held Melchizedek, the White Hound, on a golden leash. In my right I gripped a golden double-barrel shotgun. Such was the grandeur of the Lord's Harbinger of Doom!

For a while I just stood there, dazed by the vision of my own majesty. It was my comb that brought me back to life. Digging its teeth into my muscular calf muscle, it called to the most intrinsic quality of my being: my vanity. I whipped it out of my boot and flicked it through my hair. Waves of conceit washed over me. Then, in a gesture of selfless humility, I combed Melchizedek's long white fur as well; his little, lithe body was trembling with bloodlust. Our grooming over, I returned the comb to its booted sheath. "Forward," I shouted, and the Noble Hound yelped assent. "To the minions of Satan, we take the battle!" We charged.

And burst through a door four rooms down the hall. Melchizedek had halted in front of it, his little snout quivering in agitation, and I battered it down with the butt of my shotgun. Carnage ensued. Heads burst, splattering brain matter; wounds poured, gaping in ravaged chests; mangled bodies twitched like crushed insects in their last agonies. It was over in seconds. I stood in a pool of blood, the double-barrel warm in my hands, the smell of gunpowder strong in my nostrils, the sounds of canine feasting creeping into my ringing ears. I glanced at Melchizedek. He was devouring a roast-beef sandwich that had fallen from the lap of a recently deceased pot-fiend.

Something was wrong; something was really wrong. I surveyed the room. On the walls hung motivational posters. Strike one. The beds were neatly made. Strike two. And in the far corner, gleaming with regular use, stood an exercise bike. Strike three. I groaned and beat my right pectoral with my left fist. "May the King of Heaven have mercy upon you," I said to the White Hound, "for in your lust for roast-beef sandwiches have you led me to wrongly slay these hapless innocents." He paid me no heed. He was, you see, wholly absorbed in devouring the roast-beef. "Their blood be on your head," I said sternly, but the obstinate beast remained oblivious to all beside the sandwich in his jaws. Only after he had finished the last bite and had licked the grease off his fur, did he allowed me to cajole him out of the room and back to the hunt. And then he took a completely different approach, prancing daintily from door to door, primly sniffing with feigned indecision, as if he struggled to scent our quarry. In the end it was the promise of sausages, a promise which I delivered on my knees and in a supplicating tone of voice, that persuaded him to recommit to our quest. With infinite nonchalance, Melchizedek trotted over to the last door at the end of the hallway and gave a noncommittal bark.

This was it. I could tell by the overpowering reek of cannabis fumes. But still, this time I would be more cautious. There might be, after all, an abstaining Jehovah's Witness amongst them, and it would behoove me (and him) to warn him away before outpouring the Wrath of God. So, I knocked, three times for the Holy Trinity.

"Yo," came a low response from behind the door. I said nothing. "What's good?" inquired a louder, though sleepier, voice. I cocked my shotgun. The door cracked open half an inch. Wisps of thick smoke curled out. "Who the…" began the degenerate and got no further, for at that moment I punched the door straight into his face, dropping him to the floor. Within lay a seething murk, a coiling darkness. I entered.

This time I had come to the right place. There could be no doubt about that. Jamaican flags and portraits of crowned lions hung from the ceiling and draped the walls. Dubstep pulsed faintly in the background. In the center of the room a lava lamp bubbled silently, surrounded by empty potato chips packets and drained smoothie cups. A couch was set against the far wall. In the weak light cast by the lamp I could barely make out two listless seated figures, stunned by weed and, doubtlessly, by the sight of my magnificent physique. I raised my shotgun at them and commended their souls to the Devil, for they were beyond God's redemption.

The one on the left roused; yelling hoarsely, he sluggishly rose and started to swing a pipe-like object at me with the speed of a sloth. I lowered my weapon and laughed. Ages later, when he finally managed to bring the bong down on me, I (moving with the speed of a mongoose) effortlessly plucked it out of his feeble grasp, smashed it on his mongoloid face, and slammed its jagged, broken base into his throat. He fell gurgling and grasping at the air. I considered the other one. He seemed to be emerging from his drug haze. "Hey, bro," he said thickly, "just, like, be chill, man." I grabbed a sheaf of his greasy dreadlocks and mashed his face down a couple of times into the surface of a nearby desk. When his face had been properly ironed, I tossed him beside his fellow fallen sinner. Turning to leave, I found the third stoner, the one who had opened the door, wrapped around my foot, arms clinging like a squid's tentacles. He was sobbing.

"Why?" he spluttered pathetically. "Why are you doing this?"

I smiled.

There are three things I live for. The first is working out. The second is annihilating the wicked. The third is preaching. It seemed that I would have the chance to do all three in one day. I gave thanks to God and spoke.

"The world is full of darkness. Satan has hordes of sinners marching under his black banner. Shackled by debauchery, they are his slaves, the tools of his evil will. And with every passing day their numbers grow, covering the face of the Earth like a pestilence.

"In times like these, God raises up a hero. A single man, with nothing but the strength of his arm, the fire of his faith, and the blast of his double-barrel shotgun, to defy the forces of Satan. But the sins of this eclipsed world are myriad. Who can strive against them all? Therefore, the Lord God Almighty has directed me to raise my hand (and my shotgun) against the worst offenders of them all: the wasted, the wicked, the worthless Weedians. It is my solemn duty to rid the world of their pernicious presence: they will fill the Lake of Fire to the brim!"

The stoner at my feet was whimpering. What a pathetic worm. I spat contemptuously and flexed my chest.

"Who-who are you?" whispered the craven addict.

"My name is Christian White, the Fist of God." I shook the piece of human excrement off my boot and, stomping the life out of him, I crowed: "Death to stoners!"

Chapter Two: For God…

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

The music reverberated in the sanctuary, uniting the congregation in its melodious harmony.

"Praise him all creatures here below."

On either side stained glass glowed fervently, and behind the podium shafts of gold streamed in through a cross-shaped window.

"Praise him above ye heavenly hosts."

All hearts were filled with the joy of belonging to a Heavenly Father. All hearts were content in the assurance of belonging to the right community.

"Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

We had risen as one. We had sung as one. Now we sat as one to listen to the Word.

The first inkling I had that something was terribly wrong was the gender of the speaker. She was terribly female, and that was terribly wrong. Now, rest assured, I am not one of those humorously harmless conservatives who believe that women should be confined to kitchens and bedrooms. In fact, I pride myself on having a very open mind on the societal roles available to the fairer sex (for example, I see nothing wrong with a female secretary or a washerwoman). But the line must be drawn somewhere, or soon the world will consist of eunuchs and lesbians. God forbid! And Holy Scripture is clear when it comes to preaching the Word: males only.

I leaned forward in my seat in the front pew to get a better look at the shameless hussy. I recoiled with a hiss of disgust. It was not the gaudy jewelry, or the fierce make-up, nor even the length of her dress, which was nowhere near her ankles, that repelled me. No, as villainous as her inappropriate attire was, it could not compare to her heinous state of mind. She was altered, chemically, and standing, stoned, at the pulpit of the Most High God. I could see the drug in her eyes: crimson orbs under reptilian lids. She had smoked the Devil's Weed, and then gone up to give the Lord's Word. Horror and loathing seized me.

I sat and seethed. Here, in the House of God, in full view of the community of believers, this Whore of Babylon stood at the consecrated pulpit like the Abomination of Desolation on the altar of the Temple. This could not be borne. My heart rent, sending a dire groan out through clenched teeth. I heard a cracking sound and found my hands full of splintered pieces of wood. I had broken the pew beneath me. An apocalypse of anger took possession. I leapt to my feet and sprang up the seven steps to the podium in a single bound, landing silently in my white leather boots. The congregation gasped. The false preacher gasped. I took her by the throat and choked the blasphemy out.

There I stood in statuesque manhood, a champion of light. The stoner writhed in my iron grasp like a transfixed eel plucked by the merciless hook from the safety of the slimy depths to expire in the litten realms. The more she struggled to get free, kicking and clawing, the more I tightened the bands of my fingers around her neck. Her eyes were dull and shuttered no longer; now they darted panicked looks out of wide lids. But her helplessness did nothing to lessen my outrage. She had transgressed. She must be punished.

I surveyed the assembly. They too were transfixed by the unexpected spectacle unfolding before them. I pitied the poor lambs. They were clean, respectable, proper folks. They had come for the weekly affirmation of their way of life, only to be confronted by the ugly sight of sin standing brazenly at the pulpit. The unconditional trust they had placed in their minister, the messenger of God, had been broken. They had been betrayed.

But even before a sin is uncovered, yes, even before it is committed, God in His wisdom provides a means to the attainment of justice. I, the divinely appointed redresser of wrongs, was there to ensure the eradication of the wicked. With these lofty sentiments scintillating in my mind, I turned my attention to more sordid matters. The moment of reckoning had arrived. The stoner's doom was upon her.

"Brothers and sisters in Christ," I cried out, the microphone bursting under the force of my demi-godly voice. "I hold here before you a base sinner, a female-Judas, who has betrayed both the Church and God by taking to the pulpit under the influence of that vilest of drugs-marijuana!" Their collective gasp was like the sound of the retreating sea gathering itself before the rush of a tidal wave. "She has dared to deliver the Word with an unclean heart." A sepulchral silence had descended on the sanctuary. "Turn with me in your Bibles…" As I spoke, I opened the scriptures with my left hand. "…to the book of Revelations, chapters 17 and 18." A mass rustling ensued, like the fluttering of a hundred bat wings. "Come, I will show you the judgment of the harlot who sits on many waters…" The stoner had ceased struggling. She dangled, limp and lifeless, in my grasp. "…with whom the kings of the earth had committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth were made drunk with the wine of her fornication." I paused, not for breath, but for effect. The congregation gazed enrapt, each face hanging on to my every word. "Come out of her, my people, lest you share in her sins, and lest you receive of her plagues." I raised my voice to thunder for the grand finale. "For her sins have reached to heaven, and God has remembered her iniquities. And she will be utterly burned with fire, for strong is the Lord God who judges her."

I flung the pothead down the steps of the podium and raised the Word on high. "Fallen!" I exulted, and the flock of Jesus took up the cry. "Fallen!" they roared, surging to their feet like the vanguard waves of a flood. "Fallen is Babylon!" we shouted together. Many of them were foaming at the mouth and shaking their Bibles in a paroxysm of rage. On the floor the wretch lay in a disheveled heap. She was moaning in fright. A yellow pool widened around her. She cast a beseeching look at me and found no mercy. She tried the crowd. They were a wall: cold, hard, impersonal. In desperation she raised her eyes heavenward. Faugh! Better for her to look downward, for that was where she was headed and that very, very soon.

In my upraised right hand, the Word of God loomed heavy with truth and justice. The light from the cross-shaped window behind me fell on the set shapes of the lettering on the Bible's cover, transmuting them into molten streams. A flash of mystic insight darted into my soul. I knew what to do. Summoning all my strength and righteous indignation, I hurled the Holy Book down, striking the head of the fallen one.

An extremely short lull followed. Then the storm broke, and the Bibles dropped; they rained; they hailed. With solid thuds they fell upon the prostrate form: bruising, wounding, and crushing. The harlot began screaming, but the organist hit a chord so deep and so loud that it drowned her cries out like a hurricane blasting a candle. The scriptural lapidation continued, until the gore besmirched pulp of the sinner lay hidden under a mound of Bibles.

And I bowed my head; and the congregation did the same; and with our hearts united in worship and vengeance we gave praise to the LORD with a single spontaneous "Amen!"

Chapter Three: …And Country

"Welcome," I announced, "to the first gathering of the AAAAA, the All-American Association Against Aliens." I addressed an empty room. Or rather, a nearly empty room. In the front row sat Melchizedek panting feverishly. In the last row sat an obese man also panting feverishly. All about them, the folding chairs that I had unfolded and arranged were arrayed: empty. I must admit that my heart quailed. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and speech deserted me. Where were they, my countrymen? Where were the patriotic defenders of the Nation? Why hadn't they come?

With a loud whirring sound, the obese man rolled down the narrow center aisle, scattering folding chairs like ninepins. He reclined on a decrepit electric wheelchair that was decorated with support-our-troops and God-bless-America stickers. A miniature Stars-and-Stripes waved from its pop-bottle vase, and his shirt was decorated with screeching eagles wheeling over an aircraft carrier. The man was a mess. He wore threadbare pajama pants and rotting sneakers. His body was all mounds and folds. His arms flapped at his sides like manatee flippers, and his legs dangled uselessly. His face was unshaven, his hair was uncombed, and brown drool oozed from a sagging corner of his breathing mouth. "Howdy," he slurped as the wheelchair shuddered to a stop by Melchizedek. "The name's Purvis, Purvis McCullough. I saw that there flyer you put up by the Veteran's Hospital, and since I do love my country and sure as heck hate me some foreigners, I decided to join the rally."

I had to steady myself and not only from the overpowering stench of his breath. Was this it? This sorry excuse for a man was the only one whom my flyers had reached. What was wrong with this world? I looked down at the flyer I held. I had worked so hard on it, and all it had brought me was this one buffoon. Had I written it wrongly? It read:

"Do You Love the USA?"

(Beneath this was a pickup truck painted with the Stars-and-Stripes.)

"Do You Hate Foreigners?"

(Beneath this was an Arab with a towel wrapped around his head.)

"If You Do Then Come This Sunday at 1:00 PM to Room 7 of the First Baptist Church"

(Beneath this was a cross superimposed on a barbwire-topped wall.)

I shook my head. Surely it couldn't have been the flyer. It was perfect.

"Howdy," said Purvis again. He was holding out a grimy hand. I shook it reluctantly. "Damn, son, you've got a firm grip," he marveled. "You work out?" Instantly my depression dissipated. I puffed out my chest and flexed my buttocks. "Why, yes," I purred. "I pump iron every day to the sound of Positive Life Radio." He nodded in imbecile admiration.

"Allow me to introduce myself," I carried on, my confidence fully restored. "My name is Christian White. Mostly, I work out. When I don't work out, I hunt stoners. When I don't hunt stoners, I worship God." Purvis nodded again and fished out a wad of chewing tobacco from a plastic bag he had slung over the side of his wheelchair. Pulling down his bristly lower lip, he stuffed it full and sighed lugubriously.

"Lately," I continued, "I have considered the problem of marijuana infiltrating our great country. Where does it come from? From Mexico. And who brings it here?" I paused to give Purvis a chance to get involved.

"Jewish Al-Qaida terrorists," he slurped brightly, spurting out tobacco juice in his excitement. Catching the strong emotion, Melchizedek yelped and turned around several times on his chair.

"No," I checked them both. "That's wrong. It is Mexicans who bring marijuana, along with AIDS and a bad work ethic, from Mexico. Mexicans from Mexico. Got it?"

"Oh," said Purvis, wonderingly. "I mean yes," he slowly corrected himself. I frowned and folded my strong forearms across my chest. They were quite impressive, my forearms, when folded across my chest, which was also impressive. Both Purvis and Melchizedek were silent, awed by my forearms.

"Listen," I said. "Our great white Christian nation is under attack from the south. Tons of drugs and millions of Mexicans pour across the border every day. I try, but I cannot kill them all. Fortunately, our President has come up with a brilliant plan to stop this influx of undesirable substances and even more undesirable individuals. A wall, with towers and barbed wire and machine guns. A wall from the Pacific to the Gulf. A wall to keep us safe and to keep them out."

Purvis was grinning and flapping his flippers enthusiastically. "Yeah," he said, "that's goddamned right…"

"Silence," I snapped at him. "Have you forgotten the fourth commandment, here of all places, in the basement of the House of God?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, shamefacedly. I sniffed contemptuously and turned my head to the side. Melchizedek also sniffed contemptuously and turned his head to the side.

"Er," said Purvis after a long moment of awkward silence. "What I wanted to say was that our President, God bless him, is right." I sniffed again, but allowed my head to return to its normal position. Melchizedek did the same. Purvis gained a little courage, spit out a clump of tobacco into the plastic bag, and refilled his lip with a fresh batch.

"But I tell you what," he spoke, "that wall is just a start." I sniffed at him, but this time only with the faintest trace of contempt. Melchizedek had lost attention and was licking his private parts.

"See here," said Purvis, "this gosh-darned great land of ours has a whole lotta borders. Build a wall in the south, sure it'll keep them beaners out, but then them Canucks'll bring the wacky-baccy down from the north. So we need a wall up there too." I rubbed my thrice-shaven chin thoughtfully and nodded.

"And then there's the coasts, orientals from the east and Frenchies from the west. We'll jest have to build a couple a walls on each side as well."

I did a dozen squats to keep my thighs limber. "Yes," I said to Purvis, "that is a foolproof plan. I see you've given this some thought."

"That I have; that I have." He smiled a brown smile full of tobacco clots. "But it ain't foolproof, not yet." He pointed down with a stubby finger. "Ya know what's down there?" he asked.

"Hell," I said, and Melchizedek growled.

Purvis chuckled. "Yeah, sure, but I didn't mean it like that. China. Down there's China. We'll have to build a wall underground, to protect from tunnels being bored from one side of the earth to the other."

I slapped my freshly stretched thigh. "By Jehovah's Throne, you're right," I marveled. "There's no telling what the soldiers of Satan will do to bring drugs into our precious land."

"Yep," said Purvis, swishing tobacco juice around in his pouchy cheeks. "Build a wall to the south, they'll come from the north. Build walls on the coasts, they'll come underground. There's only one way to stop 'em, and that's to build walls around, under, and over everythang."

"Around, under, and…over?" I marveled.

"Heck's yes," grinned Purvis. "We'll build a dome of concrete on top of the walls, like a football stadium dome, only ten times as big and made of concrete. It'll cover the whole United States and keep us safe from them Jewish Al-Qaida terrorists and their drugs."

"What about Alaska?" I pointed out. "And Hawaii." Purvis shrugged his lumpy shoulders.

"Alaska's got nothin', a barren wilderness I hear. No big loss. Might as well give it back to the Russkies. And Hawaii's full of heathen Orientals. Good riddance to 'em both."

While I pondered his sage advice, I did a quick, short set of 300 one-handed push-ups.

When I got back up, I was breathing hard, and my hard body was glistening with sweat. Purvis lay back in his wheelchair and looked me over. "Son, you remind me of a soldier," he said reverently, "a real-deal modern-day Christian-Rambo like warrior."

I looked at the patriotic stickers and the flag that adorned his chariot. "Are you a veteran?" I asked.

"Nope," he said shamefacedly. "I smoked so much dope in college they wouldn't draft me for 'Nam…" he trailed off in fear. My golden shotgun stared him straight in the face. "N-now l-look here," he blubbered, flapping his flippers in agitation. "I made up for it, honest I did. All my sons, all three, I sent off to them wars."

I slowly lowered the weapon. "Really?" I said in an ice-cold tone.

"Really," he said, and sadness brimmed in his eyes. "My eldest to Iraq; my middle to Afghanistan; and my youngest to Iraq again. None of 'em never came back."

I put the shotgun away and laid my hand on his head. "Purvis," I told him, "the sacrifice of your sons has atoned for your past pot smoking. Father Abraham himself would be proud of you."

"Thank you," he spoke in a maudlin voice. "God bless American," he whispered.

"Yes," I concurred, "God bless America."

"Hola." The muted salutation came from the door at the back of the room. A shy brown face peered at us. My ears stung as if drain-o had been poured into them. "What in tarnation," exclaimed Purvis, and wildly swung his wheelchair around. Melchizedek sprang three feet straight up. I cocked my shotgun.

"Lamento interrumpirlos, caballeros. Podrian decirme donde esta el bebedero?" The man, dressed in dirty overalls, started walking towards us. Purvis spat a long string of tobacco juice at him. Melchizedek launched himself at the man's throat, missed, and settled for gnawing at his ankles.

"Buen perrito," said the man, reaching down to pet the White Hound and hastily regretting his action.

"What is the foreigner saying?" I asked Purvis.

"Darned if I know," said Purvis. "Sounds like straight gibberish to me. I don't speak no Muslim."

"He's not an Arab," I said, extending the shotgun gripped in my right hand, "that's a beaner, and beaners speak Mexican."

The man's eyes widened with fear at the sight of the twin golden barrels bearing down on him. "Senores, si los he ofendido, me disculpo," he said hurriedly. "Yo estaba en camino del trabajo a casa y estaba sediento, entonces pensé…"

"A wall to the south," I cut in, "and a wall to the north." The man had gone mute.

"A wall on each coast and a wall underground," supplied Purvis, rocking his wheelchair from side to side. His face frozen with fear, the man stepped backwards. "And a wall overhead," Purvis and I finished in unison. The shotgun spoke. "God bless America," someone unseen said. I'd like to think it was the Holy Spirit.

Chapter Four: Death to Stoners, Part Two

It was springtime. Songbirds trilled sweetly from blossom-laden boughs. Butterflies danced with fluttering wings on a balmy breeze. A doe lovingly licked the face of her newborn fawn. All creation rejoiced in the rejuvenation of the year. In the midst of a forest glen sat a young man with his feet in a brook and his head in the clouds. A book of poetry lay neglected by his side; by the book was an empty wine bottle. The youth was smoking a pipe. He inhaled deeply and exhaled with evident pleasure. A dreamy smile drifted across his face. He fiddled with an MP3 player until the hum of New Age synthesizers emanated from the headphones hidden in his long, tangled hair.

"Son of Gomorrah," I said in a low voice to the White Hound, who growled in concurring disgust. The two of us were stationed in a thicket some ten yards away from the scene of debauchery. We had tracked the stoner from his high school to this forest haunt and were now waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Melchizedek was ready to kill; that much was evident from his slavering jaws. But I held him back. Something (probably the Holy Spirit) told me that the time was not ripe. There was still an element missing; the scene had not yet been fully set for the final act in this to-everlasting-hellfire-and-damnation-damned stoner's life. To help pass the time, I contracted my biceps and patted them lovingly. I also stroked Melchizedek's fur, which was bristling with bloodlust. "Patience, my Noble Hound, patience," I murmured. "Soon you shall taste the sweet life-blood of the condemned sinner."

And then came the change. It started with sound. From the stoner's headphones, harsh down-tuned chords of heavy metal pealed. The birds stopped trilling. The butterflies stopped dancing. The doe and her fawn ran away. The killing time had come. I released the White Hound. He shot from my hand like a bolt from a crossbow, like a falcon from the wrist. I leapt out of the thicket after him, brandishing my shotgun in both hands and singing out my battle-cry: "Death to stoners!" A wolfish howl burst from Melchizedek.

What followed was surely too shameful for words. The ink in my pen would rather dry, the paper in my notebook would rather crumble to dust, than to record the cowardice of the Weedian. The first thing he did upon noticing our ferocious charge was to throw up his arms and shriek, "Stop! I'm a pacifist! Please don't hurt me!" I nearly fainted with contempt. Then the craven proceeded to try to protect himself from Melchizedek's savagery by swatting at him. I repeat, the pothead tried to swat the White Hound away. This formidable defensive action was accompanied by a panicked bleating sound, similar to that made by an infirm wildebeest surrounded by hyenas. I stopped charging and sat down in the fragrant grasses to enjoy the show.

After about fifteen minutes of the fun, the stoner had shredded strips for fingers, and the White Hound resembled more of a red one. "Down," I commanded, and Melchizedek obeyed. I rose to stand over the stricken sinner (I am a tall and, if I may add, exceedingly well-formed man). "Your judgement is come," I said to him. "God has chosen to pour His Wrath on you through me, His Consecrated Vessel of Doom." He was still bleating and staring with unbelieving eyes at his ruined hands. "However," I said in a reassuring voice, "there is still time for repentance. You may still salvage your soul, though perhaps not your fingers." The bleating subsided, and he looked up, blinking tears from his eyes. "God (and I) are willing to forgive you, if only you will do two things." He nodded hurriedly, brokenly, and bleated a plea. "Good," I said, placing my arms akimbo with my hands on my trim waist. I also threw back my burly shoulders.

I spoke: "First, you must solemnly swear to forever renounce the smoking, eating, and thinking of marijuana." The stoner nodded with great vigor. "Second, you must confide unto the Servant of the Lord (me) the whereabouts of the vermin who supplied you with the vile weed." "It was Barry," he blurted out almost before I finished speaking. "Barry and Jimbo, they run a small grow up by Mill Creek, not far from the broken bridge by the old park." That was all I needed to know. "Thank you," I said and shook him by the arm since the hand would not do. "And God bless you." He nodded dumbly, fell to his knees, and burst into sobs of relief. I snapped my fingers at Melchizedek. Pathetic spurts issued from the stoner's torn jugular.

Let me pause here for a moment to address the more morally squeamish of my readers. How, they ask, could you order the stoner's death mere minutes after promising him forgiveness? To this question, I have a succinct answer: with ease.

You see, the enemies of God are beyond the bounds of the law. They serve Satan and are as evil as their master. Therefore, the deceitful may be deceived. Robbers may be robbed. Murderers may be murdered. This is a war, and all means are acceptable to the achievement of victory. God must prevail, no matter the cost. To lie, to steal, to kill: all these and more are allowed when dealing with the Forces of Darkness. God will prevail! Amen.

But I digress. After the sinner had bled out, and his soul had started on its precipitous journey, I emptied his pockets of marijuana, throwing it into the brook. Then I ground the pipe into shards with my boot heel. Having thereby ensured that no unwary youth might stumble upon the leftover drugs and be led down the same dark path recently trodden by the recently terminated stoner, I pondered my next move while doing pull-ups on a nearby branch. Clearly, it was imperative that I attack and destroy the weed farm as soon as possible. To track, catch, and kill all the stoners in town and the surrounding countryside was surely a lofty goal, but some would inevitably escape my grasp. If I struck the farm, I would be hitting the head of the snake. No farm, no weed. No weed, no stoners. It was that simple. But before battle could be joined, I had a task to perform: the dedication of my corporeal form for holy war. Whistling to Melchizedek, I set off out of the forest, heading for home.

It was a short, seven-mile jog through the suburbs to the church where I dwelt. As always, I relished the opportunity to publicly exercise and ran down the middle of the streets, exulting in my virility with every stride of my long, strong limbs. As always, cars honked and people yelled, roused to admiration, I am sure, by the stirring sight of my athleticism.

When we arrived at the church, the front doors were locked, but I had a solution to that. A key protruded from the base of the ornate gold crucifix hanging from my neck. That key fit the locks of all church doors, and when I say all church doors, I mean all-every church under the sun: be it Catholic or Orthodox, Mormon or Lutheran, Adventist or Anglican, all churches open to me, and I call them all my home. The key also opens the doors of synagogues and mosques. A Stoner Hunter, you see, is always welcome in the Houses of God.

Up in the gallery was a little door that opened on to a janitor's closet. In the ceiling of the closet was a trapdoor. If you opened the trapdoor, you would find the knotted end of a rope hanging in a vertical shaft. And if you had muscles such as I did (which I highly doubt), you would be able to jump, grab the rope, and lift yourself seven yards up to the top of the shaft. All this and more, for Melchizedek's added weight was slung from my belt, which he clenched in slavering jaws, was I able to accomplish with ease, being in perfect physical condition. Thus it was that I reached the top without loss of breath or the shedding of sweat. Have I mentioned that I work out?

My room was small and spartan; it was within the rhombic base of the steeple. Tucked into one side was a humble pallet laid atop a heavy chest. The opposing corners contained two shrines dedicated to my ruling passions. One held the bench, assorted weights, and dumbbells of a workout station. The other boasted a large, blood-red cross at the foot of which was a pad set with upturned nails. It was for kneeling. There was no visible ceiling. The sides of the hollow steeple rose until they converged tapering in darkness. I liked to spend the hours of night vigils staring up into that higher dark, directing my will heavenward, following the iron phallus that leads to God.

Shedding my forest hunter garb (hiking boots, camouflage pants, bullet-belt and Rambo headband), I kicked the dirty things into a pre-existing heap under the workout bench. I would do the laundry later, there where I always did it, in the baptistery. It is downright miraculous how well-equipped a church is for the quartering of a holy warrior. It meets all my needs. To eat and drink, there is the communion bread and wine. To bathe in and do the laundry, there is the baptistery. To stretch my mighty limbs, there are the aisles, perfect for cartwheels. To practice yoga, there is the pulpit upon which I regularly perch, loin-cloth clad, balanced on one foot. But I digress.

Stark naked, I shaved my muscle-bound body from the tips of my toes to the roots of my crewcut. Then I anointed myself with oil, singing softly an ancient hymn sung by the soldiers of Joshua before the battles in which they exterminated the men, women, children, and farm animals of Canaan. My body thereby consecrated, I turned to my attire. Foremost I bound my loins in a pure white thong. I will not dwell further on this article of clothing, nor on this area of my manhood, lest I inflame some of my female readers with inappropriate and wholly unchristian desires. Up over my terrific legs, I drew a pair of pure white track pants and stepped into a pair of pure white leather boots. These symbolized the purity of my soul. Then I poured into my hand a little blood from a gold flask and drew a cross on my chest. Over the cross I hung my gold crucifix. A gold cross over a cross of blood symbolized the blood of sinners shed to usher in the golden Kingdom of Heaven. I poured a little more blood out of the flask and styled my short blonde hair into fierce spikes. Fortunately, there was no mirror in my room at the base of the steeple, or I might have spent all day gazing into the glass, enthralled by the sight of my own majesty.

My dressing ceremony concluded, I knelt on the nails before the red cross to worship the LORD. When I felt that the Holy Spirit was with me and that the Wrath of God was flowing through me, I rose, seized my shotgun, called to the White Hound, and set off on my errand of destruction.

Three quarters of an hour later, I was seven miles away, lying flat on a low ridge overlooking a shallow basin. The ground at the bottom of the basin had been cleared, and neat little rows of green plants stood in a rich soil. There were no stoners in sight, but at the far side of the field slouched a dilapidated shed, a perfect hiding place for marijuana-cultivating insects. My abhorrence must have translated itself to Melchizedek, for he growled and bristled as he crouched next to me.

Across the vale the sun died behind drab hunkered hills. The cloud-clustered sky turned to the blue, black, and purple of a deep bruise. In the gathering gloaming, the White Hound and I descended, bringing with us death.

Cries of laughter and other sounds of happiness suddenly assailed me as I stood at the edge of the field. They came from the rundown shed. The frostbite of loneliness seized my soul. I slapped myself hard and shook the cowardly feeling off. The Devil is never far off. He is always on the prowl, seeking to devour the righteous. Let him who would work the Lord's Will be ever vigilant! I walked over to the nearest little green sapling, pointed my golden double-barrel at it, and blasted the vile weed out of existence.

The echoes of the shotgun's shout reverberated against a backdrop of total silence: the sounds of happiness had ceased. Melchizedek dashed off through the green field in the direction of the shed. He was thirsty for the blood of sinners. The screen door banged open. A man staggered out. "Hello, Barry," I said and shot him square in his beer gut. A second man stumbled out shouting. "Hello, Jimbo," I said and blew out his brains. The door opened again. This time it was a woman, wailing. "Good-bye, Mary Jane," I said and sent a slug through her wicked heart. This was good hunting.

The White Hound burst out the far side of the field, flung himself through the screen of the door, and disappeared into the shed. Seconds later he was back, dragging inch by inch a small dark bundle that silently thrashed with desperate fury. I walked over across the rows of weed, crushing the tender young plants with my boots.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" I squatted down for a closer look. "A little hell-spawn." Red light from the doorway illumined the small bundle that thrashed so furiously. It was a girl, as black as sin and as fierce as a snake. Melchizedek was trying his utmost to get at her throat, but she fought him like a demon, pulling out clumps of fur, poking fingers into his eyes, even biting him back until blood flowed. The will of Satan was strong in this child. I would have to tame her myself. "Down," I commanded Melchizedek, and he slunk off into the growing shadows to lick his wounds.

The girl lay in the dirt, breathing hard and glaring at me with pure hatred. "In the name of the Father," I said and slapped her. She said nothing. "In the name of the Son," I slapped her again. She bit her lip. "In the name of the Holy Spirit," I concluded and slapped her a third time. "Fuck you," she said softly. "You killed my mother." Then she spat in my face.

I beat her. I beat her until the world turned from ashen twilight to sooty darkness. I beat her until my rage turned to joy. I beat her until she broke. Afterwards I went into the shed, washed the blood off my hands in a rusty sink and filled a bucket. I threw its water over the unconscious form. She revived. That was good. I wanted her to witness what I did next.

I went back into the shed. From the rafters hung branches of drying marijuana, and bales of cured weed were piled along the walls. There was also a kerosene lamp. I lit it, smashed it on a bale, and walked outside to stand by the girl. The shed roared into flame. A black pillar of smoke spiraled upwards to join its cloudy brethren.

I took the child by the throat and showed her the conflagration. "Behold the Fires of God's Wrath," I said to her. "Thereby is the world cleansed of sin. Beware, lest you someday sink down to the eternal fires where your mother now burns." The girl said nothing. I carried her to the field and threw her down.

"Dig," I said, pointing at the nearest pot plant. "Dig it out by the roots. Kill it." Dazed by death and battered by beatings, the child obeyed. She dug. A plant lay in the soil, broken, its roots torn out of the life-granting ground. "Keep digging," I said. Behind us the fires of hell burned like a nightmare.

Plant by plant she dug them out with her weak child's hands. When she would halt, from exhaustion or shock or pain, I would goad her on with a kick in the back. Hours passed. Slowly the fire subsided. When the last plant had been wrenched from the soil, the blackened beams of the shed collapsed on the last embers. Sparks flew into the starless sky and rained down on us in a stinging shower. "Remember this night," I said to the little one. She was shaking silently. "You have been forgiven," I told her. "Go and sin no more."

But it was I who left first, walking out of that ravaged field beside the corpses and the burned-down shed. She stayed, as mute and vacant as the grave.

Chapter Five: Contemporary Christian Carnage

It had been a dry season. In fact, it was a positive drought. There were no stoners-none in town, none in the country-to hunt. They must have all run away, or gone into hiding, or perhaps they had been raptured by Satan to hell. Whatever the reason, I had nothing to hunt, and it was driving me mad.

I worked out. I lifted weights until the bench broke beneath me. I ran marathons until the asphalt melted under my boots. I worshipped. I read my Bible until I dream read it in my sleep. I praised God until the angels turned emerald with envy. But it was not enough. Working out and worshipping are but two of the three elements that make me whole. The third is wrath. And there was no one to pour my, I mean God's, wrath upon.

I tried hunting alcoholics. They reeked and tended to fight back. They also tended to vomit on me right before I sent their souls to the underworld. I turned to junkies. It was awful. I couldn't bear looking at them and their thin, wasted bodies pitted with sores and encrusted with scabs. And to kill them, I had to look at them. In desperation I went after shopaholics. But they sinned in public places, full of tireless, vigilant cameras and beefy security guards. And there is nothing more shameful than being chased by a horde of enraged Macy's shoppers for something as trivial as putting an elderly coaster-collecting addict out of her misery. Oh, how I longed for a stupefied, isolated, slow stoner to shoot. But they were gone, and their absence had bereft me of my calling. A stoner hunter with no stoners to hunt-what misery!

For counsel, I turned to my sole human friend, and made a call from the phone in my church's lobby. "Purvis at yer service," said a squishy voice.

"It's me, Christian," I said.

"Well, I sure do hope yer a Christian," he said, "otherwise you might as well git yer ass up on outta this great Christian nation."

"No, I mean my name is Christian," I explained. "Christian White, aka the Fist of God. We met some months ago."

"Oh yeah, right, pardon me," said Purvis in between slurps of what I assumed was tobacco juice. "'Course I remember. Yer that strong fellah with the shotgun. Good lookin' too, though I don't mean it like no Sodomite."

"Thank you, Purvis," I purred and stuck out my chest even though there was no one to admire its shapely contours.

"Tell me, brother Christian, what can I do you for?"

"I'm calling an emergency meeting of the AAAAA (All American Association Against Aliens). Can you get here fast?"

"You can bet Obama bin Laden's carcass I'll be there in jiffy. I live jest three blocks up from the church. I'll see you in no time."

No time turned out to be quite a lot of time; for though he did live nearby, Purvis's health was so bad that he had to come by wheelchair, and his had lately been experiencing technical difficulties. Several hours later, he jerked down the handicap ramp into the church basement, wheels fitfully starting and stopping, gears groaning and screeching. "Sorry 'bout the delay," he said, wiping a brown sheet of tobacco bile off his chin. "The ol' gizmo's almost gone." He lovingly patted the wheelchair's armrest.

"Never mind," I said, "though next time it may be more expedient for me to trot over to yours instead. Three blocks should take me no more than twelve seconds." I flexed my thighs for emphasis.

Purvis meekly nodded and stuffed his lower lip full of dip. He didn't look too good. He had dark pouches under his eyes and several new hernias protruding from his lower abdomen. Nevertheless, his battle spirit was undiminished. "What's this here emergency?" he inquired. "Are we under attack? Is it that gosh-darned Jewish Al-Qaeda?"

"No," I told him. "Well, I mean yes, of course our blessed white nation is constantly under attack by foreign terrorists. But that is not my most pressing concern." As I spoke, I sat down on a folding chair backwards and did a short set of three hundred gravity crunches. "What is troubling me is a lack of prey. All the pot smokers seem to have vanished. There is no one for me to kill in the name of the Lord."

Purvis rubbed his sticky, stubby fingers on his sticky, stubbly chin. "Hmm," he ruminated, his beady eyes constricting in a concentrative effort. "No stoners to hunt… a frustrated hunter… have you checked the community college?"

"It's closed for the summer," I answered mournfully.

"Skate park?"

"The kids stopped skating a decade ago."

"Bars?"

"Really, Purvis," I chided, "you should know better than that. Respectable citizens go to bars, where they consume socially acceptable alcohol and then drunkenly drive their monster trucks and SUVs back home late at night. No dangerous marijuana addicts there."

"Sure 'nuff," said Purvis, "I 'spect that's right. Well, you could always try one of them music concerts."

I perked up instantly. "You mean something really dark and satanic, like a death-metal concert, or a punk-rock concert, or a hip-hop concert?"

"Well, I dunno 'bout all that," said he. "We're out here in the blessed boondocks, remember, so there's none of that crazy liberal voodoo snake worshippin' stuff going on 'round hereabouts."

I had to admit he had a point. "What about a country-rock concert?" I said.

"Nope," he shook his head, swinging a beaded string of drool from his breathing mouth. "There ain't no country concerts until the fair, and that's another three months away."

I was stumped. "I'm stumped," I told him.

"But I ain't," Purvis grinned brown slime. "I happen to know of a reunion concert in the Tri-Cities that's a-happenin' this very night."

"Excellent," I half-shouted. "That's only forty miles away. If I start running now, I should make it just in time. Who's doing the gig?"

"DC Talk."

The name hit me in the gut like an Evangelical sermon. "DC Talk," I repeated in amazement, "but, but that's a Christian band. They get played on Positive Life Radio all the time. I love pumping iron to 'Jesus Freak.' "

Purvis jerked his wheelchair over and placed a fatherly hand on my thigh. "I know, brother," he said. "They act and sing like Christian folks, but the stone-cold truth is that they're about as Christian as the Pope. Behind closed doors they do what all them rock stars do: sexin,' and druggin,' and Satan-worshippin.'"

Gradually, my shock gave way to rage. A molten tide rose up in me. "Hypocrites," I spat. "Yep," Purvis folded his hands over his belly.

"Whitewashed sepulchers," I seethed.

"Yep," Purvis closed his eyes in accomplishment.

"Brood of vipers," I foamed venom.

"Yep," said Purvis. "And their concerts attract lots of other charlatan-Christians, praisin' God while smokin' drugs."

"Damn them!" I exploded. "Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!"

"Yep," said Purvis and opened one little satisfied eye to watch me race off toward the highway that leads to the Tri-Cities.

At first, things got off to a smashing start. Immediately upon arriving in front of the venue, slightly winded by my forty-mile jog, I was accosted by a scalper. He was a dirty man with shifty eyes who waved a pair of tickets in my face and asked for three times their price. With every wave of the tickets, he sent the stench of stale marijuana and cigarette smoke wafting over me. I glanced around us. The street was deserted except for a couple of hardcore DC Talk fans who had camped out on the sidewalk for no reason known to man and were now comatose due to over-exhaustion, over-exposure, and over-anticipation. I looked back at the stoner-scalper. He was desperately selling the band. "They kick ass, bro," he whined, assuming a familiar tone. "They rock so hard they almost make you forget they're lame-ass Christians." As if I needed an additional reason to terminate his insect existence! I plucked the two tickets (one for me and one for Melchizedek, who had joined me during the forty-mile jog) out of the scalper's hand, thanked God for His Providence, and poked the sinner's eyes out with my thumbs. I left him there on the street, screaming wordlessly and groping blindly for his eyeballs.

There were still some hours left until the show, so I sprinted to a nearby park and did pullups on a monkey-bars set until the poles bent from my relentless display of athletic prowess. After that I recited the entire book of Job to Melchizedek, who would bark at dramatic passages. Job is my favorite book of the Bible. I favor it because it keeps sinners in their place: at the bottom.

The venue opened as dusk settled like a shroud over the town. The ticket collector at the door frowned at Melchizedek and gasped at my shotgun, but one dart from my piercing blue eyes silenced him for good. The two of us rolled in like a couple of Old Testament judges, eager to find Philistines to deprive of their sinful lives. Alas, we found none.

I couldn't believe it. Everywhere I looked, I saw decent, clean Christian folks. The crowd was composed of crewcuts, polo shirts, and corduroys. The air was sprinkled with cologne. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was wholesome. Everyone was drug free. In one corner a youth group stood in a circle, holding hands and softly singing about salvation. My spirits plummeted like Jezebel from the window.

I went over to the bar. They were selling fruit juice and water, exclusively. Next to the bar was a fake tattoo booth. Next to the fake tattoo booth was a prayer booth. A prayer booth! Under my breath, I cursed Purvis. This was the most un-satanic concert imaginable. What was I doing here, with loaded shotgun and itching trigger finger? I ordered a kiwi shake and drank it down in between heavy sighs. On the stool beside me, Melchizedek hunched down between his paws and whined sorrowfully. He too was disappointed to find no lawful prey.

The concert began in an extremely unpromising manner. A band member prayed for the audience, all of whom closed their eyes and bowed their heads. The first song kicked off. It was a ballad about repentance and forgiveness. The three lead singers of DC Talk glided about the stage, their hands upraised in worship, pouring out compassionate melodies. My heart went as cold as my shotgun. There was nothing here for me. I desperately wanted to leave and roam the streets looking for random stoners. But instead I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd to watch the show. They were, after all, one of my favorite bands, a classic Christian-Rock group, I reasoned with myself. And the music was good, though it did little to raise my spirits, which required the spilling of heathen blood for a full revival. All around me, heads bobbed, enthusiastic but not out of control, and peace and love signs were flashed. Occasionally, someone would shout "Jesus!" or "Hallelujah!" and my gloom deepened.

And then it happened, the flip of the switch that launched the nuclear strike. The band had just performed the last song of the set, the rouser "Supernatural," and had gone backstage for a breather. As I waited amid the cheering, clapping throng, a wolfish howl cut through the cacophony. Goosebumps rose on my skin. My crewcut prickled. It was Melchizedek. He had scented sin. Then I smelled it too-a faint, yet unmistakable, pungency-the weed stench. At that moment the band returned to the stage. The first two singers were clearly stoned, and behind them the third took a furtive drag off a joint, flicking it to the side before taking his mic. They were high as hell, and I was mad as hell.

The world turned red in my eyes. My head was on fire. The band ripped into the encore, their classic hit "Free at Last," and suddenly smoke billowed up about me in torrents. A dense fog wrapped itself around everything and everyone; marijuana fumes choked me in mid-breath. Gasping, reeling, my mind collapsing, I turned from the heresy on the stage and found the man beside me casually puffing on a blunt. I recoiled in horror and rushed the other way. A woman stood there, nonchalantly stuffing a pipe with weed. I tried to shake the shock from my head and turned my back on the band. In front of me the crowd milled. It emanated clouds of pot smoke. Every single one of them was smoking: some puffed on joints, others lit bongs, a few sported chillums. Dream had turned to nightmare; heaven had turned to hell. The unthinkable had happened. This was madness. The ceiling cracked; the walls buckled; the floor heaved. I fell to my knees, cowed by the magnitude of the sin.

There, on the floor, struggling to find solid ground, I felt a soft whisper, like the flutter of dove's wings, caress my ears. "Arise, O Christian," it said, "and strive against the Foe and triumph!" My shock crystalized into grim determination. Gripping my shotgun in both hands, I rose, tall and stalwart amongst the horde of Weedians. "The time for repentance has passed!" I cried, my voice elevated above the noise like the angel's trumpet on the Day of the Lord. "Judgement is come! Now perish!" I fired directly up, bursting the great strobe light into a million sparks.

Chaos descended on the crowd. Panic-stricken, they trampled each other in their haste to escape the Wrath of the Most High God. Laughing, I fired at random repeatedly, gouging wounds of gushing crimson in the wall of writhing bodies. Terror and pain swirled with the smoke, mingling punishment with sin. I spun in a circle, blasting sinners like a child blasts monsters in a video game. They fell, scores of them, until the floor was slick with blood and littered with heaps of bodies. Melchizedek, caught up in the killing frenzy, bounded from maimed stoner to maimed stoner, leaving corpses in his wake.

Still I fired, until all the shapes were still, until all the sounds were silenced. A searing burn scalded my hands. I dropped the shotgun, which was glowing like steel in a forge, into the gore. The stage was quiet; the traitor-Christians stood shell-shocked, eyes aghast at the carnage I had unleashed. A groan of profound dismay forced its way out of me: I was weaponless, and the chief sinners remained unscathed. How was I to finish the Lord's Work?

"Howdy, Christian," slurped a voice from the main doors. With a strident buzz, an obese figure recumbent on a gleaming new wheelchair zoomed into the mire. "Purvis at yer service," he said, and pointed a rocket launcher at the stage. An inferno erupted, consuming the false prophets of DC Talk and their backing band in its cleansing flames.

"Nice ride," I said to Purvis. "And perfect timing."

"The Lord provides," he said to me, and together we bowed our heads in a prayer of thanksgiving for a full harvest.

Chapter Six: From Shame to Savagery

We were in the gym, Melchizedek and I. This was a rare event for, being humble in heart, I usually built my strength and sculpted my muscles in the privacy of my own quarters, tucked into the base of the steeple of the Church of the First Assembly of Christ. But once in a while the Spirit of the Lord would compel me to exhibit my corporeal splendor in the public arena, thereby giving glory to God, whose temple my stunning body is. So, we were in the gym, Melchizedek and I. On the treadmills, to be precise.

What a spectacle the two of us were! On his own treadmill, Melchizedek dashed as furiously as the steeds dashed before Jehu's chariot. His little feet blurred out of sight, and the long wisps of his white fur whipped about as if he was running within a whirlwind. Around his neck I had put a tiny gold crucifix on a gold chain in imitation of my own crucifix and in commemoration of the White Hound's ruthless annihilation of the false believers at the DC Talk concert. The gold of the cross lay nestled in the white of his fur, symbolizing the Kingdom of Heaven, which can only be found in hearts as pure as snow. From the treadmill's control panel, I had slung another chain: this one was of sausages, and whenever Melchizedek bounded over the distance of a mile, I would reward him with a link.

There are no words in the English language, nor in any other tongue of men, to aptly describe the divinity of masculinity on the treadmill next to Melchizedek's. So keep in mind, dear reader, that however impressed (or aroused) you may be by the following description, the reality was infinitely more impressive (or arousing).

There I was, the Fist of God, with head held high in the self-assurance of the righteous, and body functioning with the smooth effortlessness of the well-endowed. Praise God! My legs, those twin pillars of might, Boaz and Jachin, pumped like a thoroughbred's. Above them my torso gleamed with sweat; sparkling rivulets coursed down my pectoral hillocks and through the channels cut into my immaculate six-pack. I had made sure to shave and anoint myself with myrrh immediately before coming to the gym, and the effects were spectacular. My being radiated strength (reserved exclusively for exterminating stoners) and beauty (reserved exclusively for wooing maidens).

But as otherworldly as my figure was, it was my posture that set me apart and above my exercising peers. Now most prosaic mortals, when treading the treadmill, content themselves with swinging their arms by their sides or setting their hands on the panel bars. Not I. Mine is a higher order, and I behave accordingly. Noticing that my arms dangled idly while my legs toiled away, I chose to correct this lopsidedness by adding weights to the equation. Thus, while I ran, I held in either hand a seventy-pound barbell, and stretched out each arm horizontally, assuming the pose of the crucified Christ. This feat of prowess was no mean one, and to spur myself on I would occasionally utter a rousing shout. I trust that I am not boasting when I say that never in the history of working-out has such a splendid pose been struck.

To the side of the treadmills, up against the wall, was a set of exercise machines. An attractive dame, blonde and in yoga pants, started using one of the machines. She strained; she breathed heavily; she bent over. I immediately perked up. Thrusting my chest out as far as it could possibly go, I turned my face toward her and beamed a smile like a lighthouse signaling a mermaid. She ignored me. I sped up my treadmill to twice its previous rate and began lifting the barbells above my head, clanging them together and showing her the power of a man ordained by God. She turned her back on me. This only served to inflame my passion. Leaping from the spinning treadmill, I tossed the barbells aside with a catastrophic crash and picked up the entire rack of weights. Raising it to the ceiling, I casually sauntered over to the reluctant vixen and made my sally. "I bid thee good eve, fair damosel," I spoke with mellifluous tongue. "I pray you will forgive my forward approach, but upon seeing thy comely figure, I could not restrain myself, much as King David could not resist the soft curves of Bathsheba, who was honored to become the matriarch of the Judean Dynasty."

She stopped exercising, eyed me contemptuously and said, "Get away from me, you weirdo." Laughter. Some of it low and snide; most of it high and raucous. Laughter all around me. A few hid their faces as they laughed; most openly derided me to my face. I put down the barbell rack, walked over to Melchizedek, picked him up, made my way to the exit, realized I had forgotten the sausages, went back to retrieve them, and made my way out the exit. All of this with burning face and sinking heart. The shame was unbearable. Right before I walked out the doors, a man wearing a Rolex, a Nike track suit, and a conceited smile, came up to me and put a friendly hand on my shoulder. "Here's a hint, buddy," he said, his smile widening. "Before you talk to the ladies, get a job. And a life." Peals of laughter broke out from the others. I shrugged him off and fled the scene.

The lonely night outside offered scant relief from my humiliation. There was no one to laugh at me, but what did that matter when I could hear the jeers in my head and see the mockery whenever I closed my eyes? I took deep draughts of the cool air, but that only served to fan the inner fires.

In front of me was the gym's parking lot. A row of luxury vehicles stretched by the sidewalk, the vehicles of the town's elite, who had gym memberships and prime parking spots reserved. I hit the cars at a sprint, plucking the three-pointed-star and jaguar logos with devastating precision. By the time the first car alarm went off, I was already at the end of the lot, with a handful of amputated logos. I kept running, my emotions in turmoil. The revenge I had taken was small in comparison to the wrong I had sustained. My temper still flared brightly. Only after a half hour of sprinting did I realize that I still held Melchizedek in my hand. I dropped him and flung the car logos away. Then I cast myself to ground and gave vent to my anguish. I am, you see, a proud man.

"Hey there. Are you OK?" A tiny voice floated out of the darkness. I sat up and managed a gruff affirmative. The source of the voice materialized in the haze of a streetlight. It was a young woman. She was smiling shyly and looking at me strangely. "Are you sure that you're all right? You don't look too good." I scrunched up my face and, trying to act as if there were no tears, shrugged my shoulders stoically. Melchizedek pressed against my side in an offer of emotional support.

The girl was still smiling shyly. "I'm Kayla," she said. "Me and some friends are hanging out in the park downtown. It's just a couple of blocks away. You wanna come chill? We've got beers and hotdogs. That'll cheer you up." At the word "hotdogs" Melchizedek whined a whine of deep desire. Rudderless and adrift in a sea of self-loathing, I followed his lead. He followed Kayla. She led us to the park, talking the whole way and laughing nervously. Something made her excited.

There was a fire in the park. The fire was in a metal barrel, and around it clustered a group of scruffy youths, roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. They welcomed me, introducing themselves and handing over a beer. I did not hear them and held the beer without drinking it. I felt numb, like I was insulated against reality, like there was a buffer between my being and the world. The beer in my hand felt vaguely cold, like ice held in a worn-out mitten. The flickers from the fire appeared broken and disjointed, as if someone was pausing and playing them at random on a screen.

"That's a cool cross you're wearing." It was Kayla. She was feeding hotdogs to Melchizedek. He didn't seem to have any trouble dealing with reality: he was wolfing the dogs down, devouring each one in a single gulp. His little eyes bulged with greed and his little belly bulged with gluttony. "I said that's a cool cross you've got," Kayla repeated. The others around the fire grunted their approval. I looked down at the gold. It glinted dully in the weak firelight. I didn't know what to say. I had nothing to say.

"Well, this is awkward," Kayla giggled. "Let's not all start talking at once."

"Think we need an ice-breaker," said a young man from the other side of the fire. "Something a little stronger than beer." There was a low chorus of assent from the others. One of them pulled out a short white stick and passed it to Kayla. She lit it and inhaled deeply. Melchizedek choked halfway through a sausage, scarfed down the rest, and let loose a chilling howl. The world around me, formerly so distant, suddenly zoomed in upon me, pressing heavily on my senses. A dire groan forced its way out of my throat.

"What-" began Kayla. I slapped the words and the joint out of her mouth. A red rivulet trickled down her chin. She stared at me with round eyes, as if she had just seen me for the first time. I slapped her again, hard, so hard that it knocked her out. Then I turned my attention to the other sinners. They were coming at me, mad at the violence done to their accomplice, but also hesitant to engage a superior specimen such as me. I tore off my crucifix and stuck its end into the first assailant's eye, through the socket and into the brain. The next one I kicked in the testicles and crushed his face in with my fist. The third I fed broken pieces of beer bottles. I don't think he liked the taste very much.

After I had finished with the rabble, I returned to where Kayla lay unconscious. I could just make out her still girlish face in the glow of the fire. She seemed peaceful and innocent, her hands folded together as if she were praying in her sleep. There was a pang within me, something sharp like barbed wire in my guts. I extinguished it and dismissed the Devil's Wiles. A true soldier of God must be ever vigilant against temptations in the guise of compassion and tenderness. I snatched up the fallen joint and threw it in the fire. And then I snatched up Kayla and threw her in after it, headfirst into the barrel. That woke her up. She could not get out, for the barrel was just wide enough for her to fit in, and her arms were pinned helplessly to her sides. Trapped in the fire, all she could do was kick uselessly from the top of the barrel and scream into the barrel.

Laughing, I strolled away from the carnage, her muted, metallic screams echoing in my ears.

Chapter Seven: The Woman in Purple

Merry bells pealed, and triumphant trumpets rang. Clouds floated and sunbeams cascaded down blue skies. Angels fluttered into view bearing a coat of arms emblazoned with a cross flanked by rearing unicorns. The dazzling image lingered on the screen, radiating beams of heavenly glory, then faded out to transition to the feature presentation. Two handsome persons sat on thrones surrounded by an array of flowers in full bloom.

The persons were well-dressed, like royalty. The persons were good-looking, like models. The persons smiled, like floodlights. "Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the news presentation of the Trinity Gospel Network." said the man. "Hallelujah!" said the woman. They both looked immensely pleased with themselves.

"Before we begin," said the man, "I want to thank all our Christian viewers for their continual support in the form of thanksgiving offerings." "Praise God!" said the woman. The man was stuffed into an elegant designer suit. The woman was weighed down by gaudy jewelry. "It is only by the Grace of God (and your monetary donations) that our evangelical effort has been able to successfully broadcast the gospel." "Glory to God in the highest!" said the woman.

"Today I want to encourage the rest of you to do the same, so that by blessing us, you may in turn be blessed by the Lord." "Amen!" said the woman.

Golden numbers scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The man read them out. "To make a donation, please call one-eight hundred, seven-seven-seven, seven-seven-seven-seven. And if you make your donation in the next hour, before the end of our feature presentation, you will receive a complimentary bottle of Holy Water from the Jordan River." "God is good!" said the woman. They cranked their smiles up from ten to eleven, a modern miracle.

Dolorous organ chords signaled a shift in mood. The presenters assumed a downcast air. "Our headline story is a terrible one," said the man. "We urge our viewers to clasp their Bibles close and to ask God for strength as we share this distressing development." The woman produced a Bible as big as a tombstone and wrapped her arms around it. "We regret to have to inform you that a key battle has been won by Satan in the state of Washington." The woman groaned softly. "Earlier this morning," said the man, woe rounding his eyes and glooming his words, "a law was passed legalizing recreational marijuana." "Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed the woman. She then proceeded to fall off her throne in a dramatic fainting fit, taking care, however, to keep the Holy Book safely clasped to her bosom.

The man carried on gravely. "Indeed, this is a most cruel blow to all the God-fearing folks in our godly nation. Surely this betokens the onset of the Apocalypse and the ascendancy of the Beast. For now this terrible weed will be freely distributed by evil ones to our precious children, corrupting our Christian society, undermining its foundations."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," I cried and blasted the television set into smoldering bits with my golden double-barrel shotgun. Then I anointed myself with frankincense, dedicated myself unto the Lord, and headed towards the heart of darkness: Washington State.

We ran, Melchizedek and I, across plains, over mountains, through deserts. We passed by nameless towns; we talked to no one; we left them all behind as they were before: strangers. I had no definite plan but ran trusting in the Holy Spirit to guide me to the place appointed for the outpouring of God's Wrath. And the Spirit led, and the Wrath was outpoured.

Several miles deep in Washington State, I came across the guidepost. It was in Mormon country, not far from the Idaho border: a billboard brazenly offering sin. "All wholesome herbs God hath ordained for the use of man. Doctrine and Covenants 89:10," it proclaimed in great green letters. Next to the great green letters was a great green marijuana leaf. I screeched to a halt, astounded by the temerity of the dissolute. Surely, as the Trinity Gospel Network broadcaster had said, the Apocalypse was nigh. After some moments of heightened blood pressure had passed, and my eyes resumed their ability to relay images to my brain, I noticed an additional text beneath the scriptural passage. "Elevate yourself," it read, "take exit 17b to the corner of Morton and Alder." The mile marker closest to the billboard read 11. It was perfect, just enough distance to wind down from my nationwide marathon and switch into stoner-exterminating mode. Whistling to Melchizedek, I sprinted off towards exit 17b and glory.

The store on the corner of Morton and Alder was easy to spot. There was another billboard towering over its parking lot, flashing a neon sign that boasted "C-A-N-N-A-B-I-S" in a groovy, '70s-style font. The store windows were shuttered by blinds and decorated with green Christmas lights. As I made my way across the parking lot to the entrance, the rank odor of the vile weed assailed my nostrils. Melchizedek growled. We were in the Devil's dominion.

"Sorry, man, but we don't allow pets in here," said a slit-eyed reptile from behind the front desk. "And we have a 'no-shirt, no-business' policy," he added, staring at my unsheathed torso. I contracted my pectorals, causing my golden crucifix to catch and flash the bright light streaming down from ceiling lamps. The reptile fled, blinded and dismayed by the light of the true cross. We entered, Melchizedek and I, into that den of dissolution.

Every ingestible form of THC filled the spacious, well-lit room. A fridge crammed with THC drinks stood nearest to the entrance. Beyond it stretched shelves of edibles: THC candies, THC cookies, THC extracts, all crowded in bewildering profusion. Against the opposite wall were pipes and bongs and vaporizers of every shape and size conceivable. And at the far end of the room, showcased in gleaming glass counters, was the offending herb itself. Suffused with Heavenly Wrath, I strode over to the counters with destruction in my heart.

The salesperson was a post-modern abomination, a female wearing men's clothing and sporting a heathen hairdo. Her face was punctured by numerous hooks, pins, bolts, and rings. Each fingernail was colored in a different hue. I glared at her. She glared right back. Her appearance was almost as nauseating as the weed stench. "You need to leave," she said to me. "You've violated two of our policies."

"Pshaw," I scoffed, "you're the one in violation. You've broken two of God's policies: thou shalt not change thy sex and thou shalt not smoke weed." She flared up and opened her mouth to reply. Before a word could get out, I crashed both fists into the countertop, shattering it in an explosion of glass. You see, I had flared up too.

Alarms whooped, and customers screamed. I seized the salesperson with both hands, lifted her struggling high over my head, and smashed her down into the spiked glass jaws of the ruined counter. The screams intensified, rising above the emotionless alarm. Heavy steps stomped behind me. I turned to find a large man charging. He was covered in tattoos and gold; his eyes were wide with cocaine and anger. "What the hell are you doing to my store?" he yelled. "I've called the cops. You're going to pay for this!" I took him by the head and shoved his face down into my upraised knee. He went down hard, his nose gushing buckets of blood.

There was a commotion at the entrance. Panic-stricken, the customers had stampeded to the exit at the same time and had blocked it with a thrashing congestion. I strolled over, picked up the massive refrigerator full of THC drinks, and dropped it on the mob like a bomb. Melchizedek finished off those who weren't completely crushed to death.

After I pulled down the shelves of edibles, I turned my attention to the shelves of glass pipes and bongs. A small stoner knelt before me and clasped my knees. He was a tiny man, the size of a child, with puppy-dog eyes and gauges stretching out his fragile, paper-thin ear lobes. "Please," he blurted out, shaking with terror. "Spare the bongs. I made them myself. They are artworks, the pride of my life." I took him by the ankles with one hand and used his soft little body to brush off the pipes and bongs in a splintered cacophony. When I was done with him, I threw his body against the wall, breaking his back.

I went into the stockroom, heaped a pile of plastic-wrapped marijuana to the ceiling, and started dashing lighter fluid on it. There was a crate of lighter fluid canisters, so I got that pile of weed as soaked as Elijah's altar on Mt. Carmel. The sound of police sirens piercing through the store's alarms told me the time had come to make a grand exit. Calling to Melchizedek, I walked out the rear warehouse doors, swung my shotgun up and backwards over my shoulder, and sent a blind parting blast at the soaked pile. A roar burst out behind me, searing my back and singeing the ends of the White Hound's wispy fur. Strutting away in my white leather boots, I allowed myself a chuckle of contentment. That was easy. If all the other dispensaries went down like this one did, I was going to have a pleasant romp of it in Washington State. But I laughed too soon.

A withered meadow (it was Autumn) lay behind the dispensary. I crossed it and settled down between the roots of the husk of an oak. Immediately I sprang back up. Something small and hard had poked me in the back. Searching in the sere grass, I found a snail. Its shell was dark purple. Laughing, I tossed the snail into the air and took a shot at it. It fell back down on me, sliming my face. I had missed. Cursing, I threw the snail into the raging inferno that was once the dispensary. Then I settled down again and watched the burgeoning flames.

The fire thrived, devouring the walls and the roof of the building. It billowed outwards in crimson spasms and licked the sky with black tongues. Behind it, the heat was so great that the cop cars exploded, sending up fireballs in a hellish background to the main conflagration. I stared deep into the shimmering scarlet heart. An undulating form was born, a darkness amidst the destruction. I blinked. It was gone. Above me dead leaves caught fire and turned to ash on the wind. Strips of bark peeled and curled off the oak. Melchizedek whined apprehensively. Firelight glittered in his coal-black eyes.

I lay there until the fire burned itself out. It consumed everything, down to the cement foundations. A bed of coals sparkled in the weak wind. As I watched, entranced by the devastation, the coals swelled slowly, rose into a mound, and split and spilled to release a gigantic figure. A turtle the size of a behemoth waded out of the fire's grave, crawling on monstrous flippers. As it moved, it churned the earth like loam. The mountainous carapace was the color of deep-seaweed. Rumbling bellows issued from the gaping beak. I lay helpless, as if in a dream, stunned by the incredible manifestation. And then I saw her.

She rode on the top, standing at the zenith of the carapace. She was clothed in purple, hidden from head to toe. Her braids were green snakes, and they reached down to her ankles. In her right hand she bore a staff. It was inlaid with a silver number. It was six-hundred, three-score, and six.

With an arcing leap, she sprang off the back of the beast and landed in the dust before me. A wave of fear ran through my paralyzed body. She stood over me, put her bare foot on my throat, and pressed down, choking the life in me. I could not resist. She leaned over, gazing into my soul with midnight eyes. A vision burst in my mind, and I remembered: a little girl, crying in the dust, pulling up saplings to die with their roots exposed. Horror took hold of me. The woman in purple stooped low, her green snakes lashing my helpless body. "Fuck you," she said to me. "You killed my mother." Then she struck me on the forehead with her staff, and I knew no more.

THE END

Bio: My name is Jonathan Stefanovic, and I am a student in Orlando. In the past, I have been lucky enough to have published several short pieces at Aphelion (poem, "Below the Purple Waves"; short story, "Mormon Zombie Apocalypse"; etc).

E-mail: Jonathan Stefanovic

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.