The Good Book

It all started with an opening creak. Hasty, desperate scratching, the turning of something thin, but sturdy as a whisper. The closing thud mimicked the sound of body hitting the floor.

Standing, was a fierce man who would let you have your way, for a price. Looking down on all those people who paid their life’s wages fighting participation-was, for him, pleasing as sin. Inside his book bounded with a black cover-the color used to hold power, were words interpreted as law, belief, and capital.

This man- Paradise James, wanded words. Changed and stole hearts as he parted his lips and flashed his pearly whites. He pointed as if waving righteous lust. Catching women’s eyes as they squirmed, sliding like loose panties away from their husbands.

You ever wonder why Holy men slam, thump, bump, caress- (the thrusting is hidden)- against the barrier giving them the most comfort? You don’t get the goods by being good. Confidence of confirming a created truth allowed him to see past his assaults and manipulation. He acted out of goodness to make everyone feel the ecstasy of their lord, so grievances were forgiven.

“And it was written.”

Paradise looked out and caught the eyes of his bait before continuing his sermon.

“Thy women tricked me. I devoted my life to her pleasure, as she claimed to do mine. Giving ALL that I cherished. Then greed, changed her-heart and mind. One day, her seduction became wicked. A trap disguised as the grand performance no man of flesh can denounce. Forever cementing man’s attraction to ignorance.”

“So, I, a man of flesh, stand here before you with the blood of sin coursing through my veins and the heart of the almighty to purify, and guide your fate and open” … He paused to find faces stuck with pleasure- “your minds in ways you could never imagine. But first, you gotta Lehht meee eennn.”

On cue, the choir continued, and his converts followed.

He descended. Walked the aisles, bending at the waist to shake and caress hands.

Later, under different house rules, extra dishes were made to keep husbands full and happy. Paradise spread legs, layed lumber and planted seeds with those he felt were worthy.

A rich man makes himself needed in many places, so he is bound by none.

Sons were born to him. When daughters arrived, a vibrating fear sent him away. Eyes and souls that saw and felt what a man would kill to hide. Two were born to him. Lyric and Syren and were more than he planned to handle.

A convert across town, Luna Blythe, one of his most devout worshipers adopted Lyric. Paradise told their son, Mecca, who whined for his father to stay as the muscle to fight nightmares-“Monsters are what you make them. Only think of the dreams you want.”

Paradise left the boys light on but closed the door as he slid into Luna’s bedroom. He placed a cover over the gifted daughters’ crib, dimming her light, then slammed their mother into the television showing a movie made to give nightmares. Her first scream forced brought a suffocating choke.

“You won’t reach me by repenting-you better submit.” He growled as she struggled.

Eyes glossed from choking. She kneeled and reached up for his pants. A knock at the door, halted his rise. She lowered her gaze. Paradise opened the door. Mecca struck with a broom. Paradise caught it, then yo-yo’d the boy until he lost his grip and fell.

Paradise stuck out his hand.

He said, “pray with me for forgiveness to rid ourselves of madness.” He held out a hand and snapped for Luna.

Paradise only answered to Father under roofs providing him praise and pay. His black book swelled like his ego, and depression from mothers hiding the real father of their conception. So, when husbands returned home, love was given, wanted, and needed at the threshold.

His favorite saying was “The wages of sin strip youth.” He was an enlightened man- a psychic of fate when written by the hand of others. He orchestrated scenes. He assisted his followers with Interpreting his recital as commands of power.

The magic of this book’s worth has carried man into the greatest, deepest, elaborately decorated halls and dens.

Paradise began limiting his extra services to towns where he was a guest speaker. As his word said, “those providing comfort to strangers will be thoroughly fulfilled and blessed.”

An abrupt visit from a husband named Civil, permanently altered Paradise’s path. Civil had no need for church. He believed-praying (babbling to ghost’s) didn’t amount to nothing but sore knees, a bad back, and empty pockets. He was suspicious of any man smoothly pleading his way into people’s hearts. It was the first step of control. He also wanted to see first- hand what he could add to his own game. When Civil arrived home, strange voices chilled his spirit. It doesn’t matter which tongue or dialect; this type of speech was recognized universally. —Slamming, thumping, bumping, caressing, praising, pleasing, pleading, calling for that feeling provided by a man with that rare, special name.

Civil was an adopted name, given to himself, to escape from his past. it’s savill like the car, he would explain to some, others-more understanding to circumstances-he would add-“not like those goddammed rights they still fighting not to give us”.

Civil strolled quick and calm to his terrarium. He armed himself with a dog training suit and gloves, then grabbed vipers, red bellied black snakes, and cobra tanks. As he walked, the banging and hissing worsened the poison in his mind. He opened the door, and locked eyes on paradise before releasing the snakes.

“There ain’t nothing but bullets waiting for you outside this door.” Civil said, before slamming it shut behind him. He listened for a moment and heard panicked, aggressive whispers. He ran back outside and grabbed a gas can. He took a searching glance when he went back inside, then grabbed and swung paradises’ travel bag around his neck and said goodbye to his house.

The screams coming from upstairs were fragile now, a momentary antivenom. But when he heard a man’s cry, Civil hardened and became at peace watching the house fill with warm comforting wrath.

Civil found paradises’ car parked two blocks away from his house. Civil himself didn’t own one but knew where he could make another even trade.

He rented a hotel room in another town and studied the dead man’s belongings to become familiar. He emptied the travel bag onto the bed. He pushed the Bible as far away as he could. (He thought right now I’ll be damned to face any sentence I can’t transform at will.) Then rummaged through the paperwork he grabbed before trading cars.

Civil found Business cards for a PARADISE CHURCH stating, “Let us help you find your way”, but the rest-everything else- was scriptures, scribbled on the backs on envelopes and napkins.

He tried to drown his sorrows in pragmatist’s holy water from the hotel mini-bar before they morphed to anger. But the images and voices of FUCKING… DEATH… Fucking death. Being Fucked… To Death! Boomed in his head like they were stuffed behind clogged ears.

He leaned back on the bed and spread his body, accepting fate. “I am so fucked.” His fingers brushed something small and swollen. He jumped, then stood over the Black Bible, found in all places lonely souls need comfort. Rubber bands were wrapped around the back half, holding another little black book inside its pages. He opened it and smiled at the faces staring back at him, providing the riches he needed to renew his faith.

G.