The Sentinel I: Heaven and Hell

"Sam," she said, her dark hair spread over my abdomen, looking up at me, almost a whisper, "There is a heaven and there is a hell."

I gazed down into her olive eyes. Each, I thought as she sighed, must decide.

I asked her if she wanted a story.

"I do," she said.

So I started. "One," I said:

David Sentinel was assured he was going to hell. Of this he had no doubt. The master had given him a choice:

"David," he had said, "the path to heaven is forgiveness. Condemnation to hell is assured through vengeance. Vengeance is mine," the voice recited.

"Sentinel," he continued, "for whom do you serve? For whom do you swear your allegiance?"

"I swear," David Sentinel dryly throated, "to avenge the rape and murder of my mother."

"Thus is your fate," the angel replied and vanished. For a time, time and time and a half.

II

It wasn't a fair fight. There were three of them. Against one Sentinel.

It wasn't a fair fight. The three prayed for redemption. Their adversary, to speak of, had no soul. It wasn't fair.

III.

The once prosperous city of Oceania called all of its streets "avenues." Its' mayor, Johnny Cash, insisted on such. Johnny had a big dick and got what he wanted. But now all Johnny had was a dead dick. His precious "avenues," now dirt roads by any other name, were deserted on this particular October night, Cash long since passed away--no good streetlights--in 2032. No gas, no electricity, just the acrid smell of resentment, like a sour orange, ruined Tesla vehicles upside down on their roofs, "FASCIST" spray painted on their sides. David didn't give much of a fuck who was Mayor of this shit city or, for that matter, President of what was left of the States. David, as it turns out, was sworn to avenge.

IV

There was slime and crap and garbage, piss and syringes down there in the sewer system that Johnny Cash no longer cared about. It oozed out a pink and green steam from the sewage system straight into the sentinel's nostrils. He stared down the alley--oh fuck--"avenue," and saw the three of them, a father and a son and a ghost. Sentinel grabbed his balls and tucked them tightly into his already tight underwear. He had chosen his Power Rangers underwear this morning, whispering I Love You Amber to a woman who forgot he existed.

This is about to go down, I thought, as I observed the combatants at a safe distance from my front porch, puffing a Winston and drinking a Four-O. Too bad they don't make popcorn anymore. Plenty of butter--just no popcorn. No farmers, no fields, no corn. Just synthetic coke. And decades of boredom.

Like the legend David and his five smooth stones, this new David, this other David, had been throwing knives since he was a kid. Since before the rape. Before the murder. Before the bullshit.

He saw them down the avenue.

Was there time for forgiveness? Absolution?

V

The three men stopped walking. Had they seen me, David wondered. His body stiffened. This was not a fight or flight response. This was fight. The three men braced also. They calculated one would die and one would kill David, each side prepared for a quick surprise from the other side. What was not a surprise to the trio was that David was alone. Expressionless.

Behind David, in front of me, a dog whines.

A pink and smelly mist blows in front of David's face, momentarily obscuring the three.

The bell at Our Lady of Sorrows, just off Navarro Avenue, begins a prolonged chime.

Rain, portent of a coming storm, falls upon all the good and evil in my little town.

Johnny Cash doesn't care. The upturned Teslas--fascist or not--don't care.

Each side has chosen their weapon.

The three amigos on the far side of the avenue have chosen iron bars with which to kill The Sentinel. For his part, David has placed across his chest scabbards filled with rows of throwing knives, known to have left many a widow, like a winnowing fork on judgement day. Hours he spent sharpening blades just blocks away from my house on Revolution Avenue, a street that criss-crossed Navarro and a lady of sorrow.

Much less time passes than it seemed.

The dog quiets, the coming storm calms and the church bell ceases its chime.

From a lawn chair in the front of my yard, I see all, inhale, drink and swallow. The back of The Sentinel, the faces of the three.

VI

A

The Sentinel yells from hell, the battle is drawn and his arms and legs move fast--so fast--with unnatural vengeance, each flying dagger leaving his hands, cutting the air to find its target, first the one on the left, then the one on the right and finally with delicious flavor the one in the middle. Sentinel must have had three rows of ten knives each across his chest and as he used each one, he ran and screamed the name of his mother toward his victims, yelling torment over the agonized screams of the three. He did not stop throwing, even as they were falling to the ground.

In the middle of the dying bodies, their blood runs everywhere, covering Navarro, creeping toward Revolution.

B

The Sentinel, exhausted, turned around  to look at me, his only witness. I mean, his only live witness. I think I hear him say, "I thirst."

VII

He stands, looking at me, next to Our Lady of Sorrows, quiet now. She looks down on him, blank and  unforgiving. For him, there is only a darkness of emotion, a passivity, non-movement in his heart and soul, (no joy in his victory. Condemned to hell.

But I have compassion, Sentinel, empathy and understanding. I join with you in the regret of our lives.) Perhaps I would have done likewise under the same circumstances. Perhaps not. Maybe I feel my own guilt over my own two tombstones. Maybe it's just an unsure shuffling of the angels' feet that Johnny Cash surely heard.

One of Mr. Cash's streetlights flickers. David Sentinel looks at me in its brief flash, a portent of things to come, without emotion, as he walks past me, away from the destruction that has been wrought. I acknowledge our variegated sin as he walks past me. I am unrecognized, perhaps unseen.

Lady of Sorrows, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

VIII

There is a heaven where there is forgiveness and there is hell where there is not. Each, I think, decides.

IX

A light mist begins to fall. Tonight, there will be a ferocious storm and flashes of light will penetrate the darkness.

X

The screams of pain and agony have surrendered to the quiet that always folllows. Honor thy father and mother, a king once said. Amidst the dying bodies, blood and water flows everywhere as The Lady sheds a tear. How many more sons must I lose?

XI

The Sentinel walks alone, misunderstood. Foxes have dens and birds have nests but the sentinel has no place to rest his head.

There is a twelve but, alas, Amber has fallen asleep, resting her head upon my naked chest.