D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (17 page)

He said he got into a fight with his old man. I guess his daddy wanted him to come down here with some Old Testament fury and wipe out the world and take
his people
back to Heaven, leaving the Earth and us sinners to the Devil and his buddies to fuck over. But Jesus wasn’t feelin’ that. According to ol’ J.C., both the Bible and the history books portrayed him all wrong. Sure he was the Son of God, and true, he was meant to be the savior, but what they didn’t fess up to was that Jesus didn’t
want
to be a savior. Once he got a taste of the good life—drinkin’, bangin’ bitches, snorting lines off of Mary Magdalene’s ass—Jesus wanted no part of martyrdom. Why should he? Why die a painful death and give up all of the pleasures Earth had to offer? Why give up being the rock star of his day? Hell, everyone worshiped him. All the dudes wanted to be him and would do anything he asked. The ladies all thought he was a pimp. If you could miracle booze out of water, would you let the party die so the miserable pricks who couldn’t be cool in the first place—who don’t deserve redemption—could be forgiven and go to Heaven? Hell no! You wouldn’t wanna give it up, I wouldn’t, and neither did J.C.

So, his old man was like, either you go down and fulfill your destiny or I’ll turn this car right around, and when we get home you’ll be grounded for a month. Nah, dude. I’m just playin’.  He didn’t say that. But he did say his dad would only let him come back in spirit form until he decided to grow up, take his responsibilities seriously and perform his duties. He said Jesus had abused his flesh privileges, that
his
flesh wasn’t to be used for sinning.  Finally, Jesus got tired of his old man’s shit, told him to go fuck himself and split. Before he left, J.C. told the old man he’d get his own flesh. And that’s where I come in. 

Why me? That’s what I asked. You know what he said? He said,
why not me
, and left it at that. Talk about Jedi mind tricks, right?

What? No, dude. He’s not gonna possess me. That’s demon stuff. He wants uninhabited flesh, not flesh with somebody already living there. Nah! Check it out. Jesus told me he went down to see Satan for two reasons. First: Satan had the pull to help Jesus get flesh; two: Jesus knew how pissed his dad would be if his own son asked the help of his number one competitor and rival, plus, he knew Satan would help because it would humiliate the old man. 

Jesus said Satan gave him some sort of incantation to recite. Said he had to get a hunk of flesh, read the spell over it and everything would be kosher. Huh? No, dude, he’s not gonna sacrifice me. He just needed a little hunk of skin, nothing major. Here, look!  Let me roll up my pant leg and show you my calf. See! It’s nothing. Naw, I’d say it’s about a five by five-inch patch of skin, that’s all. Oh, now, c’mon dude, you promised me you’d be cool! Let me finish, ok? I told you I’m not nuts, all right! Just chill, ok. Can you do that for me? Thank you! Now, where was I? 

Oh, yeah, before I cut the skin off, Jesus wanted me to get a tattoo on it first. He said the flesh would need a form, an identity. So the next day, I went down to O’ Toole’s and had him stitch me the picture Jesus gave me. You know what that weird fucker wanted? He gave me a picture of himself, buck-naked! And he was hung like a Shetland pony! He was all spread out, lookin’ like a six-pointed star. Do you realize how hard it was to go down to O’ Toole’s and tell him I wanted a tattoo of Jesus Christ with a huge swingin’ dick? Any idea how embarrassing that is? Well, I did it. I just told them I was a priest new to the area and left it at that.

I know I’m not priest, dude. It’s just a joke bro. Anyway, when the tat was done, he said he needed me to free it from the prison it’s bound to. Meaning I had to cut it off. I used the filet knife from the cheap set my mom bought me last Christmas to do it. Man, it hurt like a motherfucker. But the cool thing was, Jesus miracled up some good ganja and lit me fatty after fatty until it didn’t seem to hurt anymore. Once I finished skinning myself I gave the liberated tat to Jesus, he held it in his palm and read the incantation. No sooner than he finished the last word of the spell, the dude disappeared. 

Now this is where the story gets a little hard to believe.  You still with me? Cool. 

After the patch fell to the floor . . . it stood up!

The naked Jesus-thing stretched out its appendages until it resembled a man shape. The tattoo half was facing me so I could see how the picture grew with the skin: how his new face lined up on what was to be the head, how the blue arms followed the patch’s arms, as did the legs and its donkey cock. Like I said, he looked like a six-pointed star. A very angry star, though. He was cussing up a storm in his tiny Jesus voice. He was like,
mother fuck
this, and
lying piece of shit
that,
you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me
! He said he was gonna go see that goat fucker and kill him! I didn’t know what the hell he was crying about. I was like, problem? He told me to shut the fuck up then stormed off.

Once the dude got back from Hell, and had time to cool down, he came to me and gave me the skinny. It appears El Diablo played a big joke on him. You see, Jesus, in all his infinite wisdom, was in such a hurry to taste pussy again, he didn’t think about what he was asking. He told Satan he wanted to be bound to the flesh once more, meaning he wanted a body, but he didn’t clarify that. So, when Satan wrote the incantation, he used Jesus’ lack of specification against him to bind him to a hunk of flesh instead of a full-fledged body. What’s worse, according to Jesus, since Satan didn’t exactly lie to him, and Jesus willingly participated in the deal, there’s some kind of bylaw or treaty that prevents his father from intervening. If he did, he’d lose his God license or something. 

What’s that? Where would Satan find a lawyer in Hell? Oh, jeez man. Real fuckin’ funny. What’s that? The point? Man, don’t rush me. I’ll get to it. ‘Ere, have another toke. What was I sayin’? Oh, yeah, Jesus is fucked. He told me his daddy wouldn’t help him even if he could. Said his father was so pissed off, he pretty much disowned him. Said he’s on his own now and he doesn’t care what he’d become. But man, he should.

Why? Cause he’s not just some hunk of animated skin, dude. He’s something worse. You see, the way Jesus explained it, there are actually two creators: God and Satan. God creates all the flowers and kittens and good shit you see on Earth; the Devil creates all of the fucked up, evil shit that runs around in Hell. Jesus went to Satan for a body, instead he gets put into a hunk of flesh. Now, since Jesus did not actually possess a full-fledged body—and a human body is considered a creation of God—J.C. is now
not
considered a creation of his father. Instead, he is a creation of Satan; since, technically, an animated hunk of flesh is not a complete human being it is considered a creature. This creature, which was produced by black magic, is the direct product of Satan, and therefore everything within said creature belongs to its creator.

Does that make sense? In a nutshell, Jesus is now reborn in the image of Satan, kinda. Since Jesus is now a new creation of Satan, one that has never before existed, it states in some kooky bylaw, the creator has the right to decide how it eats, if it sleeps, if it can think, whatever. This creator has full control over his creation, but once said creator decides how the thing is gonna exist, those decisions are set in stone and cannot be undone. If Satan wishes Jesus to be an animal with chronic flatulence, three eyes, green skin and feed primarily on cock, then that’s how he’ll be for all eternity. There’s no do overs.

So what did he decide? Glad you asked. Turned out, Satan doesn’t have much of an imagination. He left Jesus as he was, but with one small hitch. You see, he’s just a small patch of dying skin, and to keep that skin from drying out, Jesus needs to keep himself wet. That is where you fit into the picture. You see, he needs fresh flesh and blood to maintain his vitality. Yesterday I had Cheryl over. You remember Cheryl, from high school? She’s always calling me for weed. So when she called yesterday, I tell her I’ll give her some killer weed for free,
if
she gives me a blow job. Being the gutter whore she is, she agreed. She gets here and I sit her down right where you’re sitting now and wait for J.C. to unfold himself from under the couch cushions. Dude, it was disgusting to watch. He kinda stuck to her back like a cartoon starfish and kinda...absorbed her.

You could see his shape growing larger as she imploded. I’ve never seen anything like it. He just sucked away all the blood and meat until she was a dry husk of skin and bones. Man, the sound it made was gross. What’s worse was the look on his tattoo face. He looked fuckin’ wild, man. Then he was like, get me more. So I called you. Tomorrow I’ll invite Mike over.  

Uh oh! The look on your face tells me he’s already got you. Oh please don’t give me that look, bro. You’ve got to understand, either I bring him people to feed on or he eats me. What would you do? Whoa, dude! Your eyes just popped out! Well, look on the bright side, at least you didn’t go from being the Son of God to being a fuckin’ vampire.

Digital Media

Michael Cieslak

“Wake him,” a voice said.

The body lay slumped in the chair, unconscious. Its head lolled back and to the right. One of the men stepped out of the shadows. A vicious slap to the face did nothing. A bucket of cold water was fetched and dumped on the figure, who came to life with a sputter. 

The man, now fully awake, struggled briefly against the bonds which held him to the chair. After a few moments he stopped, hanging his head in defeat. The light from the bare bulb overhead illuminated the man’s bald pate.

“Look at me,” the voice commanded.

The man in the chair sobbed once, but kept his chin tucked against his chest, either to avoid seeing the surroundings or as a defensive posture.

“Head up, Sunshine.” The words seemed warm, but the voice was as cold and dark as the inky blackness which surrounded the small circle of light.

The man in the chair raised his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh light.

“Open those eyes,” the voice said. “Remember, you asked for this.”

“I never—,” the man in the chair started to protest. 

A hand shot into the feeble light and caught him, open handed, along his jaw. His head snapped back, teeth clacking shut audibly.

“Do not contradict me, Mr. Johnson. 

“But I, I didn’t…”

“No, of course you didn’t.” The voice had moved slightly in the darkness. Johnson, the man in the chair, thought it was coming from his left side. He turned his head to follow it, but he could see nothing outside of the light bulb’s illumination. 

“Where am I?” he asked. He couldn’t remember anything beyond leaving his office that evening. Or yesterday evening? He was not even sure of the time. 

From where he sat, the room he was in was utterly featureless. The darkness could have hidden a warehouse, an airport hanger, or a closet-sized kitchenette. His whole world was defined by what he could see, what was directly below the bulb. Existence was reduced to his own body, naked except for brightly striped boxer shorts, and the chair to which he was bound. The chair was wooden, sturdy, with wide set legs. His arms were bound at wrists and elbows to its wide armrests. Other straps, which felt like leather, bit into his legs, chest, and waist. That was everything.  That was his reality. A chair, some leather straps, and the ridiculous boxers he wished he had not worn.

That… and the voice.

“Do you think that rules are important?” 

The voice was definitely coming from the left side of the chair now.   

“Um, rules?” Johnson was unsure how to answer.

“Yes, Mr. Johnson, rules. Do you think that rules are important?”

“Sure, some rules. Others... I don’t know.”

“An honest answer, therefore a good answer.” The voice continued to move—behind him now. Johnson tried to turn, but the high back of the chair prevented his head from moving very far around.

“I think that rules are very important. They are necessary, essential. Without rules, all would be chaos. Rules are imperative for the existence of modern society.”

The voice was still directly behind him.

“Laws, on the other hand, can be corrupted. They tend to serve the strong and the powerful, to the exclusion of the weak and powerless. Good laws are based upon accepted rules. As such, if one follows the rules, one is safe. Do you agree Mr. Johnson?”

“Yeah, right. Rules are important.” He whipped his head from side to side. He craned it to the right, but still could not make out the source of the voice.

“I am glad you agree.”

The voice paused. In the silence which followed, Johnson thought that he could detect movement at the edges of the circle of light. Were there others in the room?

“The application of rules allows us to chart our way through life. They define what is permitted and what is proscribed. Of course, there is a dark side to the application of rules. It allows us to punish behavior which breaks the rules.”

There was a scraping sound directly behind the chair. Johnson felt someone grab his hair tightly. His head was slammed into the chair back.

“I am glad that you understand the importance of rules, Mr. Johnson.” The voice whispered into his ear. Johnson could feel the hot breath on his skin. “Now pay very close attention. I am going to tell you the rules of the most important game of your life. Are you listening closely?”

A squeak slipped from Johnson’s throat. He nodded as best as he could with the hand twisted tightly in his hair.

“Good.” 

The grip on his hair relaxed. The voice began moving again.

“We are going to engage in a game somewhere between Jeopardy and Truth or Dare. The questions may be hard to answer, but I guarantee you will know the answers. There is only one topic—your life. You must answer truthfully. There is no “dare” option. You must also answer correctly.”