Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 2:19:52 GMT
The Broken God
“This is Deus speaking—“
It was nighttime. The deep, unearthly pitched down voice on the tape echoed, carried and haunted through the wide open, dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of Chinle, Arizona just outside the painted desert.
Ch-Chik.
“This is Deus speaking—“
Ch-Chik.
“This is Deus speaking—“
Ch-Chik.
The mini-recorder kept getting stuck on playback in Jerry Simons’ hands.
“This is—“
“Cut that shit!”
Clarence Darnicke’s hand violently smacked the recorder out of Jerry’s hands, much to Jerry’s chagrin. Jerry stood there staring down sullenly at the now smashed recorder on the dirt floor with his hand still open like he’d lost a lifeline, the metallic Deus mask pulled up like a hat on his hooded head to reveal his gloomy features.
“Damn, son, ‘sthat like the last damn recording in existence? Do you have to keep PLAYING it? Shut the damn thing off, already! Bitch died or some shit. Let it go for Chrissakes.”
The two exchanged glares jockeying for supremacy in the flickering firelight. Clarence threatened with a clenched fist still at his side. Jerry Simons rolled his eyes at how not worth it Clarence was and muttered,
“I’m going to take a piss.” Clarence eyed Jerry with derision as he sulked off, kicked through the dirt and grime on the floor, nearly tripped over a loose plank of wood and disappeared out the door.
“Who uses ‘mini cassettes’ anymore, anyway?”
Clarence shook his head with a snicker, looking to the so-far silent companion, Michael Anderson, on the other side of the barrel fire for silent consensus, but he looked drugged and zoned out into the flames. Clarence snickered at his own thought, and took a nasty swig from the bottle of whiskey in his hand.
Each of them looked as beat up and run down as the locale.
Twenty-five year old Clarence used to work at a 7-11. To this day he wasn’t sure what made him quit with a hefty F-U to his boss while hiding behind that souvenir Deus mask he’d picked up at a wrestling show.
“DOOSE says ‘Go To Hell!’“ and he gave the double middle finger for emphasis then walked out. He couldn’t remember when or where he’d first met up with the others, he just knew it beat working for a living. Sheer anonymity. He still didn’t know Michael’s name and Michael didn’t care.
Michael ruminated into that fire glumly and remembered the wife he’d left behind, the job at a bank, the security of not feeling like a criminal. He fingered the Deus mask hidden away inside the pouch pocket of his hole-ridden hoodie and contemplated chucking it into the fire if he wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t burn.
“What a mistake.” Michael whispered to himself under his breath and got lost trying to remember why he’d gotten here in the first place, taking a ginger sip of his bottle of Colt 45. Meanwhile, Clarence took another joyous chug of whiskey and wiped the spill from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.
“So, I heard another group met out in Espanola, New Mexico a couple nights ago.”
“Oh yeah?” Michael replied with disinterest, eyes never leaving the fire.
“Yeah.” Another swig. “Something about It being back. Vague shit. Sounded fake.”
“You mean her.” Michael glared at Clarence across the barrel fire with misdirected hostility.
Clarence scratched his chin
“Whatever. Who gives a fuck anymore.”
Clarence shrugged after another fierce chug.
“Haven’t heard what happened, though.”
“Probably nothing.” Michael sighed feeling decidedly wasteful with his life. “When was the last time anybody saw—HOLY SHIT!”
Michael flinched when he looked up through the fire and saw the mask standing stoically immediately beside Clarence who did his own startled double-take at the silent entry.
“W.T.F, dude!” Clarence breathed heavily, clutching his chest. The fire glinted ominously off the seemingly disembodied, ghostly metallic face hanging in the darkness of the warehouse.
“Take the damn mask off, Jerry.” Michael commanded, head leaning to one side. The mask slowly shook from side to side in response. Clarence rolled his eyes.
“Figures. You’re like the one guy who’s still hanging on to it, man. Still playing at the creepy bullshit like it meant something.”
The mask stared forward into the fire without response. Clarence relaxed and took a calming shot.
“The last time I saw that bitch was here,” Michael recounted, his gaze returning to the fire.
“Haha. I remember that. Right after the big loss. Saw her tits and everything.” Clarence snickered boyishly. “’Member, Jer? We all got a piece of that ass that night, amiright?” Clarence nudged the silent figure beside him and chuckled ignorantly. Michael watched the mask slowly turn to steadfastly regard Clarence.
Michael frowned and swallowed, not liking the stir of memories Jerry’s return was inciting.
“Hey Jerry, take the mask off, okay?” The mask ignored Michael. Clarence didn’t notice he was being stared at, the buzz in his body left him rocking out to music only he could hear.
“Where is here?” The deep voice felt like it was coming from the entire room. Michael stiffened. Clarence kept jiving.
“What are you talking about, dude? Chinle. This is home, bruh. Same as it ever was.” Clarence remained grooving to inaudible dance music as the Mask shifted focus away from him. Michael watched with narrowing eyes as the fire reflected off the metal, the dead eyes of the mask scanned the warehouse.
“I remember.” The mask settled back on the fire, on Michael who felt uneasily caught in its gaze. He tilted his view over the barrel fire to make sure the mini recorder was still busted. Michael pulled his hoodie in tight to his face and felt a chill. He looked back into the fire and sipped his Colt 45, wincing at the flavor.
“That’s how failure tastes, Michael.” Michael blinked, eyes lifting to regard the Mask staring coldly at him. Clarence shifted his hand lovingly at the Mask and corresponding form beside him.
“Nah, bruh, that’s not—“ The gloved hand moved fast, smacking Clarence’s bottle of whiskey suddenly into the fire with an explosive SMASH. The fire roared up just as Deus kicked the barrel over onto its side, right at Michael. Fire spilled out onto the dirty, dry wooden floor and ignited the kindling making Michael fall backwards at the unexpected violence. He landed into a sudden escaping crawl away from the impromptu blaze. Clarence had little time to react to his wrist being grabbed in that same gloved hand and found himself flung onto the heated barrel, letting out an agonized, blistering scream. Clarence tried to sit up just as the boot pressed down hard on his chest, pressing his back tight to the barrel like searing steak to a grill, the pain spread across his body, and the glint of fire reflected off the mask as it zoomed in to hover over Clarence’s frenzied, pained face.
“Do you know what I hate?” Furious, deep rumbling shuddered through that boot into Clarence as he struggled and squirmed. The boot pressed tighter against his chest. The mask got closer, inches from Clarence’ face. The mask tilted to one side to regard him with paused contemplation.
“You.” The gloved hand gripped Clarence by the neck, heaved him off the smoldering barrel and chucked him off to the side. The fire roared. Deus straightened as Michael was standing some ten feet away watching. Fire separated them. Michael looked behind him and knew he was trapped on the back half of the warehouse. The voice boomed over the raising volume of what was becoming an inferno.
“I hate you more today then I did the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. And tomorrow, I’ll hate you even more.” Deus stepped without caution through the flames towards Michael. The movement surged Michael to life, he rushed into the fire-alighted warehouse looking for a fire exit.
“I’m not here to lecture you.”
The deep voice raged alongside the fire. Panicked, Michael found himself against the back wall, his back to the fire and his ever-present assailant, stepping sideways, his hands frantically searched the old bricks blindly for a door.
“I’m not here to teach you a lesson.”
Michael turned back to see the fire raging, but he’d lost sight of Deus. Sweat stung his eyes, every spike of flame looked like it hid that ominous shape in the blackness, the dance and flicker looked like the figure was moving closer.
“I’m here to punish you.”
Michael bit his lip and recognized in a shot of quick thinking that he wasn’t going to happen upon the fire exit by chance in the state he was in. He wondered what had become of Clarence.
“All of you.”
Michael swallowed hard and moved back into the warehouse, fearing a sudden encounter with Deus lost among the flames.
“For what you didn’t do.”
Michael shielded his face and stepped over some flames and changed his mind.
“For what you did.”
The voice echoed through the warehouse and formed a filthy, angry cadence with the fire and it made Michael’s ingress that much easier to fearfully avoid.
“And for what you’re going to do.”
Michael felt the firm grip on the back of his pants, the presence beside him suddenly and gripping the hood of his sweater. Michael had time enough to close his eyes as he felt himself flung face first into the fire.
Jerry Simons felt the cold yet gentle tap of a gloved hand on his face. He could smell smoke, feeling a sand as his pillow he could tell he was laying on the floor of the desert. The sound of fire roaring a ways away. He opened his eyes in the moonlight to see the Mask staring down at him.
“I don’t know your name.”
The deep voice registered, and Jerry recognized it instantly. A steep inhale.
“Je—Jerry.”
He winced and sat up on his elbows and looked up at Deus standing over him, near blocking out the moon. He blinked and rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head where something hard had struck him, then turned his face to the warehouse blaze.
“Forget them, Jerry. I sent them to a deep, dark place, and I had fun. Like wheat from the chaff. You want to be wheat, don't you?”
“Wha—“
Jerry blinked his eyes tight and shook his head, disbelieving he was awake. Deus glanced away from him onto the horizon.
“There are others.”
“Uh….. Huh?”
The mask glanced down at him.
“The ones that failed me. You know where they are.”
It’s not easy to recover from being brought to unconsciousness forcefully. Jerry’s headache smoldered like the fire he’d luckily escaped.
“I--.. I…”
“You do. I have places to be, Jerry. Important things to do. First I need to put my house in order.”
Jerry rubbed the back of his head and carefully sat up fully. Deus once again glanced into the nighttime horizon contemplatively.
“I'm going to need a driver.”
The mask tilted back down at Jerry.
“That can be you. Unless you want to be chaff.”
Jerry shook his head wide-eyed.
"That's what I thought."
And then Deus stood him up, and Jerry found himself once more in Deus’ presence with both their backs to the blazing, toppling warehouse.
