Dead Nolte (27 page)

“I think you are bat shit crazy.”

“We shall see.”

“F
or,
lo, thine enemies make a tumult; and they that hate thee have lifted up the
head.” Sweat ran in rivulets from the preacher’s brow and clung in droplets at
the ends of his long hair. His mind was given over to the Lord, but his body
was given over to skag. Sometimes it was extremely difficult to tell which one
had his heart.

At times like these, when he was dope sick, he could barely
hear the Lord. At times like these, he questioned the Lord’s decision to have
him bear witness. It really wasn’t that he doubted the Lord; it was just that
he was sure; there was someone out there more worthy of his role. His stomach
boiled; soon he would be blowing chunks. “The Lord will provide.” He said
aloud, to himself.

Tay-Tay usually brought him a bag of dope at night, on his
way back from his drop. It was unclear to the preacher if Tay loved the Lord,
but it was clear, that Tay needed something from God. For a few lines of
scripture, he traded his wares with the preacher. A bag of skag for a chapter
of the Word, the preacher couldn’t beat the price with a stick.

Tay-Tay saw himself as Job. Territorial beefs and payback,
had pretty much taken away all Tay’s family, he needed to hear, even if he
couldn’t be certain, that the light at the end of the tunnel, wasn’t the light
of an oncoming train.

Cramps knotted the preacher’s guts. “The Lord will provide.”

“Sheeet Preacher, the Lord ain’t gonna provide you with
shit, he got you stove up like a mauffaucker.” The preacher turned to see
Cleotha standing directly behind him. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh
away, mauffaucker, Tay-Tay ain’t slingin’ dope no mo’. He got his ass shot full
of holes last night. Mauffaucker had short eyes. He got caught with a little
kid on his dick.” Cleotha laughed through his nose, snorting. “Can you believe
that shit? You Bible thumpin’ mauffauckers are all hypocrites.” The preacher
lowered his eyes and turned toward the street.

“Then he said to me; "Son of man, these bones are the
whole house of Israel. They say, 'Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone;
we are cut off.' Therefore, prophesy…”

“Shut the fuck up, mauffaucker, I gots yo’ shit.” Cleotha
dangled a small bag of heroin between his finger and thumb. “Only thing you got
to do, mauffaucker, is tell me yo' name.”

The contents of the bag offered relief, and the price was
barely above free.

From just under the preacher’s skin and to his core, his
body jerked. Though it couldn’t be seen by looking at him, his soul felt like
it was in a sustained, slow-motion seizure. It would get worse, much worse, he
needed his dope. “Therefore prophesy and say to them: 'This is what the
Sovereign LORD says; O my people, I am going to open your graves and bring you
up from them; I will bring you back to the land of Israel.” The preacher wiped
the sweat from his lips with the oily sleeve of his shirt. “The word of the
Lord…”

“What is your name, Preacher?”

Tears mixed with the sweat on the preacher’s face. “The
flesh is weak.”

“What is your name, Preacher?”

“I am Ezekiel.”

Cleotha tossed the tiny bag at the preacher’s feet. “Wake
the fuck up, Ezekiel.”

“I am awake; the bowls are being gathered and filled. I saw
the one that is going to kill me and leave my body lay in the street for three
days, over there, across the street, this morning. He was pumping gas.”

“You better hope not, you know how bad the rats
is
around here, they will pick your bones.”

“I will be raised on the third day. I will prophesy against
you and emit fire from my mouth.”

“Sheeet Preacher, your God done give the fuck up on you. You
should see Enoch; he’s got his shit wired tight. White wool robe, voice ain’t
all shaky, don’t need no dope. The Lord be takin’ care of his ass. God done
give the fuck up on you.”

“Why do you do this, when you know it will fail? God Himself
has told you it will fail.”

“You crazy as a mauffauker, Preacher, you can’t believe
everything you read. Besides, I’m just takin’ back what’s mine.”

***

“L
ook
for some place to get gas.” Jeremiel looked sheepishly at Michael. Gas had been
suggested several times, by Michael, when they had first entered New Orleans,
but Jeremiel was sure the gas gauge had been damaged by Michael’s attack on the
turn signal, and there was plenty of fuel left. The bigger the car, the bigger
the tank.

It was accepted as fact among the other angels, though
Jeremiel was a cautious driver and safe behind the wheel, he was as
mechanically inclined, as a Babylonian goat milker.

“I know where some gas is.” Charlie offered. “You know that
car back there, the one you kicked the fucking tire off of? It had a full
tank.”

“Pull over here.” Michael pointed at a small used car lot.
The ticking of the turn signal had become too much, for too long. Between the
punch in the face and Jeremiel’s antagonistic use of blinkers (the ticking
being a constant reminder) and seatbelts, he was having a hard time keeping his
mind on the mission, and not on kicking the other angel’s ass up between his
shoulder blades. In fact, he was no longer sure what the mission was. He was
going to have to talk to Gabriel.

A small camper sat in the center of the lot, connected to
streetlight poles by strings of flapping triangles of blue, green, yellow and
red. Painted on the side of the tiny trailer, in black spray paint, was, Bob’s
Cars. Bob must not have had the stencil for C, it was done in freehand. Over
the door, someone had created the word Offise, in small brass, mailbox
stickers. Charlie was starting to become concerned with the quality of the
American educational system.

Jeremiel pulled the limo alongside the camper/offise and
killed the engine and blinker. A red, one-legged air dancer was strategically
placed to the left of the entrance. It bent and jerked at the waist, flopping
spasmodically, either to welcome customers or to frighten their children.

Michael scanned the cars, clucking his tongue against the
roof of his mouth. “Baal, look up here. Do you see the Camry on the end?”

Baal climbed up onto the seat and followed Michael’s finger
to the end of the row of cars. “A Toyota Camry, green in color, yes Baal sees
it.”

“Good, go buy it. Pay the man a fair price, and get back out
here. If you try to bounce on me, Jeremiel will be right behind you.”

“Baal will strike a fair bargain.” Baal appeared to have no
shame when it came to kissing the asses of his captors. Charlie felt sorry for
those immune to embarrassment and shame. The tiny man leaped from the back of
the car and was immediately accosted by a rotund salesman in a baby blue suit,
and piss yellow cowboy boots.

“Good fucking riddance. That little fucker smells like a
grilled onion.” Nolte grumbled. It was the first thing he’d said since they had
left the witch’s shack. Once he found out the limo belonged to Baal, he had
busied himself with cleaning out the rest of the minibar. Though Baal had
protested vigorously, Nolte had gathered the remainder of the miniatures in a
pile between his legs.

“Like you’re all corn silk and daisies, if an ass had an
ass, you would smell like that ass.” Charlie leaned forward and snatched a
bottle from Nolte’s collection. “That fucking diaper has the distinct ring of
sour cottage cheese to it.”

“You need to keep your fucking dick-beaters off my shit.”
The old man glared at Charlie. “Twenty years of planning straight down the
shitter, because of you,” Nolte growled and tossed back, a vodka and a bourbon
at the same time.

“You haven’t been planning for shit, you’ve been waiting for
twenty years, there’s a difference.”

“Oh, I’ve been planning. I’m planning right now. I'm
planning on tearing off your fucking head and shitting down your neck, the
first chance I get.”

Jeremiel snickered and got out of the car. The empty threats
of humans tickled him. “Here comes Shorty, let’s go.” He walked over to the
midget and unceremoniously snatched the keys out of his chubby fingers.

Nolte feverishly stuffed the miniature bottles into his
diaper.

The unlikely crew made their way over to the Camry.
 
Baal’s effeminate voice called out behind
them. “The Camry was already sold, so Baal traded for the Prius, the nautical
blue metallic car over there.” He pointed with his walking stick toward the
back of the lot. “It’s very pretty, isn’t it?”

The five of them gathered around the small car and peered
into the cramped quarters.

“Shotgun!” Nolte cried out.

“In your dreams, Diaperman.” Michael squeezed into the front
passenger seat. “Let’s go, Grilled Onion sits on Cottage Cheese’s lap. There’s
plenty of room.”

There was no doubt in Nolte’s mind that the twink would get
his way, so he began to hurriedly unload the bottles from his diaper, into the
pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. If they were to get into an accident,
a diaper full of glass, with a round-pound sitting on his lap could have
devastating and quite possibly, irreversible results on his jimmy. The hole in
his chest showed no signs of healing, so reattaching his tool probably wasn’t
in the cards. Nolte plopped down in the back seat and patted his lap. “Come on,
Junior.”

Baal struggled to climb into the car, managing to accidently
poke Nolte in the jewels twice, with his walking stick. Nolte barked like a
seal with each poke.

Charlie shook his head in disbelief. “I swear to God; I hear
circus music.”

Michael turned in his seat to face Charlie. “Do not use the
Lord’s name vain, in my presence again.”

Nolte poked his elbow into Charlie’s ribs. “Don’t let that
half-a-fag tell you what to do. He’s all talk.”

“Buckle up.”

Nolte wrapped his seatbelt twice around Baal’s neck, before
buckling up and caught one of the midget’s elbows in his face.

The car puttered to life. Jeremiel switched the turn signal
from left to right and smiled at Michael. “Turn signals work. Should I test the
wipers?” He pulled the car out of the lot and back into their pursuit of
Azazel.

Every bump in the road sent a jolt through the car as if
Jeremiel had run over a brick in the road. Charlie looked at the frail man
beside him. The withered ghost was smiling, apparently unfettered by the tiny
demon on his lap. He saluted Charlie with a mini of Jack Daniels and took a
sip. The smile seemed off and misplaced, considering Nolte was planning to kill
him, or shitting down his neck, the first chance he got.

“What were your plans for the shekel, Baal?” Jeremiel
adjusted the rearview mirror, so he could gauge the dark prince’s face for the
truth.

The demon blushed. “The truth be told, Baal had yet to
develop a plan, Baal was weighing his options when you so rudely apprehended
him.” The small man shifted on Nolte’s lap. “Baal will readily admit, he does
not fully understand the mechanical how’s and why’s of the developments within
the shekel, but he was quick to see its potential.” The demon shifted again.
“Baal will also admit, his designs on the coin, were exclusively about
advancing his position. There were to be no victims or collateral damage,
whatsoever.” A look of horror came across Baal’s face as he looked down at his
lap. He looked back into Jeremiel’s eyes in the mirror. “Oh my, I believe the
beast beneath me has developed an erection!”

The grin stretching Nolte’s lips told the story. “I can’t
help it,” Nolte said, though, his voice didn’t at all sound apologetic. “I’ve
always had a thing for midgets. I assumed it was just the females, but the way
the little feller has been bouncing around back here has broadened my horizons.
The jimmy wants what the jimmy wants.” Nolte placed his hands on the demon’s
hips and pressed himself up against the small man.

“Remove your filthy hands from Baal, this instant!” The dark
prince held his hand in front of Nolte’s face, fine threads of blue electricity
danced from one fingertip to another.

“Don’t do it, Baal,” Michael warned. “I think I might need
him.”

He dowsed the electricity by clenching his fist and sending
another elbow into Nolte’s face. Nolte pushed his sunglasses back onto his nose
and laughed. The demon flashed Charlie a pleading grimace, the tiny man looked
as if he had tasted something horrible and wanted Charlie to get him some
water.

“Don’t look at me Mr. Onion; you’re not sitting on my lap.”

Nolte gripped Baal’s hips tighter and thrust up harder.
“Don’t you ever get the urge to bump uglies, Mr. Trumpet Tuner?”

Baal looked from one angel to the other, pleading. “This is
rape! Baal is being violated!” He struggled to break Nolte’s grasp. If the
archangels were not present, he would extinguish this soul in the most horrific
manner possible. The humiliation was inconceivable to him. He knew Jeremiel
would have no pity on him. “Michael, this is rape! Please let me destroy this
wretched beast.” The obscene creature beneath him began to thrust his hips
upward.

The angel turned in his seat to face forward, away from the
disturbing scene. “I’m not sure what it is, that you two have going on, but I
do wish you would finish quickly.”

Baal stopped struggling. He appeared to resign himself to
the violation of Nolte’s grunting thrusts. He stared blankly into the distance,
with a look of one who had seen one too many atrocities and had shut down his
mind.

Charlie, too, turned to look out the window. There was no
safe place left to look within the car. Nolte had reached a new level of
depravity.

“Hey little feller, use some of your shiny words and talk
dirty to me.” Nolte panted. “I’m stretching the shit out of this diaper.”

Charlie wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Jerry, the cop,
laughing.