HOME | DD

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Prologue

The plain, blank white masks are a great psychological tool. They provide a sort of detachment from what must be done while wearing them, and transform men I've known my whole life into faceless, emotionless enforcers.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 1

The phrase "quiet as a church" has taken on new meaning for me tonight, as all is indeed silent save for the sounds of traffic beyond the chapel walls. From my vantage point behind the pulpit, I see three heads bowed in prayer within the sparsely populated pews, all of them white-haired and balding. It's three more than the usual Tuesday night crowd, but low attendance is nothing new. Not in this rotten town.

The pure suspense and tension in the air is almost palpable, and it seems that all living things on planet Earth are holding their breath, silently bracing for what comes next. I check my watch and glance towards the heavy wooden doors. He did say 10:30, right? Then, nearly half an hour past when he promised to arrive, the doors finally fly open for the fourth time that night.

He's sweating profusely despite the chill of the night air, and his left hand clutches his side in a tight death grip. I can take a few guesses as to what he's concealing under his zipped jacket, but it's probably best not to speculate. I step down from the pulpit to meet him as he teeters through the pews and lunge forward to catch him as he pitches forward. "Father...You gotta help me, Father, I...I'm in some deep shit..." That's the most disturbing thing about this little job for me, the possibility of my being mistaken for a priest. I'm no man of God by a long shot, and certainly not who the exhausted man in my arms believes me to be, and there's a part of me that feels like I should be concerned more about what's in store for this poor guy than the fact that I'm impersonating a holy man in stolen robes. But I'm not.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 2

He's barely conscious by the time we stagger over to the office door, and I ease him into a chair across from the desk as soon as we've made it inside. Two men in deacon's robes ease the door shut behind us-he doesn't seem to notice.

Darting pupils eye a nearby water cooler thirstily, and one trembling hand snatches a cup and fills it with cool liquid. I slowly walk around to the other side of the desk, resting a hand on the Bible that only I know contains a lot more than the holy word.
"What troubles you, my son?"
He slurps down the last of his water and crushes the paper cup with one hand, gasping for air.
"I...I done a real bad thing, Father...And I'm sorry to bring that shit here, but...I didn't know where else to go."
Behind him, my comrades slip on their blank white masks, and I run my fingers along the book's cross-adorned cover. He keeps talking, oblivious.
"This is really the only safe place I could think of-"
"Wrong on both counts."
"Wh...What do you mean?"
I flip open the cover and smirk at his surprise and fear, shooting a quick glance down at the pistol concealed in the Bible's carved-out pages.
"There are no holy men in this room...And there is nowhere on Earth where you will be safe from us."

A shotgun blast shears his forearm free at the elbow, a discreetly drawn pistol still clutched in the twitching fingers. His mournful wail resonates through the office before I jerk the book up and fire a single shot through the pages, silencing him permanently.
"...Let's go, fellas. I gotta get out of these robes."