Made Men (13 page)

F
ather Cristoph Johan
was exhausted but alive. He had succeeded. Treasurer for the church, he was
good with names. He’d recalled thirty-two fellow pedophiles, whereas the man
currently under the knife had only remembered twenty-eight. Weary of the
gruesome room, he needed out—away from the metallic, bloody smells.
Especially, he needed to escape the ether-driven antics König had doled out as
the men he’d lived with, shared food and prayer and time with, were slowly
parted-out.

The
priest’s moans droned on, slavering drool. He reeled as they finished, prepared
the table, wiping it clean. Repeatedly, König made bleary but sudden
announcements that his hands had gone missing. The heavy drinker hadn’t allowed
his copious wine intake to displace meals and appeared an unlikely mascot: a
helpful, hapless,
handless
eunuch
lurching about with the foolishness of a spring foal.

Half as smart, but
twice as heavy.

The
creepers came, dragging Father Johan to the table. With firm, otherworldly
grips, the archangels displayed a solid knowledge of pulleys and rope work,
which made their labors efficient.

“What
will he do to me?” he whispered to the nearest as they manhandled him. The
angels showed little regard for his predicament, and he worked hard to be
helpful so that his scrotum, glued to his palms, had a chance to remain patent.

The
angel’s face, similar to a boy’s, was cold and expressionless. His lips
appeared sharp, thin like the beak of a turtle. Instead of an answer, he tilted
his head, birdlike, to study a pulley, and as König banged about, the odd
figure formed his hands into rings around a dangling rope and used his feet to
haul the cordage as easily as the motorized windlass Cristoph had seen as a
boy.

Covered
in a white sheet, König—the obese fool—continued his
politely-worded
inquiries to all present, others imagined.

Are you privy to the location of my
hands?

All
of them were.

He was the odd man out.

Father
Johan glanced at the large jar—overflowing, now, with hands and genitals.

“There
in the jar, you dolt!” he spat, flecks of foam at his mouth, as they maneuvered
him above the cold, metal tray. “Will you shut up!
”
A
separate jar held brains. Most were whole.

Not König’s.

The
fat, yappy priest’s brain now lacked the regions that allowed for long-term
memory, anger, reason, violence, and cohesive thoughts. Those
ugliest
chunks of his organ sailed about the more
distinguished, intact brains. Mushy, bits of chip served with fish in a greasy
London pub.

König
smiled at the jar then at Johan. “I had them. I had them—” he reported,
fraternally, nose to nose with his fellow. He’d misunderstood the insult and
admonishment, but also didn’t believe that his parts could be in a jar with the
others. “I had hands. I had some. I had some. I had some hands. Once. I had
once—” Distracted easily, the rotund idiot badly wanted to help and be
helped, and so hopped behind the boy with the knife, in case needed. “I had one
hand. I had one. I had two, once, me.”
Momentarily quiet,
Father König moved as though inspired by samba music, strapped to a
small life raft tossed by large swells.

When
the carver of priests instructed, the handless marvel did as he was told;
freshly minted, a cheerful automaton. The little golems maneuvered Johan
roughly onto the table. He was freed of ropes. After straps were placed on his
legs, they began to swab at his hands to remove his glue-welded grip on his
privates.

The archangels did not argue amongst
each other.

The
priest watched them work his hands free of his balls, wondering how, if the
boys were in
his
world, he’d separate
and conquer them.

They would be a handful
.

One turned to him
,
lips
thin in a smile
. His throat opened and, suddenly, the demon’s jaws
unhinged. He emitted a loud hiss. Father Johan winced as though sneezing,
trying to guard his neck with his chin. “OH LORD!”

“As
I work,” began the palest of them, unperturbed by the scorn of his henchman.
Johan listened, but was unable to look away from the one who had hissed.
“—
examine
the names you have provided, as one of
them is not amongst those who share your particular sin.”

The
head archangel spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. Unlike the others, noted Father
Johan, he did not seem angry.

Father
König seized a part of the message in the air, like a dog with a rag, and
worried the words of his better hauntingly. “Examine the names. One is wrong.
Name one didn’t right.” König, unable to speak without marching, found his
rhythm. “Correct … IT. Examine … YOU. Provide … IT. Examine …”

Hands
finally free of his
genitals,
Father Johan was not
able to appreciate the relief fully. The cold words the boy had spoken fueled a
fast-growing dread. The surety of his salvation was gone.

He was to keep his hands! His genitalia!
Had that changed?

“Which
name? I am certain of them. All that I gave!” He shook. The wrath of God
careened toward him.

“Father
König,” the one in charge began, “when you became aware of me, in the small
dark room, although you wept, terrified, you managed to ask me a question. Do
you recall? I want Father Johan to hear it.”

König
looked up and right, squinting his downhill eye. It was a perfect cartoon
moment: the lummox attempting to remember a salient moment. He scanned the
small white squares above for his missing hands, but discovered the answer to
the question first. “You are God?”

“That’s
right,” he encouraged, the knife held loosely in his spider-like fingers. “And
I said?”

“No—” The march again.
“You said NO. No you
SAID. No not GOD. Not Mich-AEL. Tell-you-my NAME—” Nearly a full
revolution around the table, his strides increasingly enthusiastic. “No not
YET.
Hand of GOD.
Not Mich-AEL. You-are-the SPEAR. Not
named YET. You-are-the SPEAR.” Then he paused, confused. His march interrupted
by something urgent. “Have you seen my hands?”

Johan
quaked like a paint mixer, the choked, silent cry of a child in his throat. His
anger was gone and there had been plenty. The row of grim corpses propped in
chairs looked on, eyes open and dead. The jar of brains was immense and too
near.
Men’s hands and genitals were similarly magnified by
the convex vessel and fluid, their new home
. Certainly they—the
beings that had embodied small boys—were not of the earth; they had been
there for hours, days, perhaps.

Their endurance was not human
.

Father
Johan’s eyes darted wildly, imploring, but his open mouth couldn’t form words.
If it were only death in the balance, he’d submit. He’d give up.

It was not, however. It was eternity … fire,
pain, and filth.

A
sunrise of anguish was upon him. His fate hung upon a name.

He couldn’t even remember the names he’d
given.

The
thin figure beckoned his pet, Father König, with a light wave of his scalpel.
So slight, the movement would not hail a cab, or even alert a raptor-eyed
sommelier that he required more wine. It was a minuscule gesture, as if he were
gently steering a floating feather mid-flight. The neutered amputee, however,
saw it. He tromped—remiss of all grace—to his master. Appearing
tired, the pale one whispered to his subservient crew—likely Raphael and
Michael—who pivoted their ears to listen. Happily, Father König beamed.
He now held exclusive mortal knowledge—his sole thought at that moment.
He marched.

“Spear
of GOD. God’s right HAND. Want-of-a SPEAR.” Father König’s knees battered his
drooping waist for space—the lonely leader of his one-man band. His
imaginary baton pumped away in his missing fist.
A man-boy,
but happy.
“SPEAR OF GOD! I-know-your NAME! God’s RIGHT HAND!”

After
two trips around the grim, steel table, the priest had momentarily forgotten
the stumps of his forearms. He had a natural flair for tension in his
uncluttered state and bowed on a knee, the proudest of messengers.

“OSGAR—the
spear of God!” announced the priest.

O
sgar leaned down. He
had a confession to give and whispered as he held the cloth with ether fumes to
the old priest’s mouth.

“I
lied. I’m merely a child. And I’m going to eliminate you also. This was always
my intent. It’s the only logical outcome.”

April 10
^th
, 1962: just prior to
evening Mass…

A
lthough da Vinci’s
painting included thirteen people—or rather twelve people hosted by
Jesus—seated centrally—they had only nine bodies to work with.
Father König was fairly charismatic, however. Despite his shaved head, the
twins guessed his performance should pull down the house.

Ryker
and Rickard worked precisely as Father König marched and chanted—his
performance proved to be a more
interpretive
affair. Too helpful, they sent him, for a while, to wait in the confessional
booth. Every so often he nosed open the window to check for sinners.

Later
in the day Mickey Mantle would hit his 375
^th
home run; baseball fans
worldwide anticipated the feat, however this was not the celebration they were
preparing for—but a feast—the last supper. Two groups of two on
each side of Father König’s seat would replace the two groups of three familiar
to the art world. Aesthetically, it was more pleasing than the original
painting.

Though more of a still
life
.

It
would not be appreciated for long. Rickard found immense beauty in that. They
would dose König with a few breathy pulls of ether just before the crowd
entered. Combined with the challenge of preparing the table just so, the added
time constraint was exhilarating—perhaps akin to an
I
Madonnari
master fleshing out
The
Madonna
between afternoon rain showers.

M
ore of a family dinner than the meager
offerings Christ had brought to his longer table.

Unleavened bread and
wine?

Rickard
shook his head.

The Dutch masters would have taken their
wine to go—trudged home to sip it while they painted.

No.
This was a more gluttonous occasion—a feast for
each
of the senses. The crowd was sure to get their fill.

Central
to the table was a large silver platter with brains of eight abusers of
children arranged neatly, like meaty flower petals. The organs sat in a thin
pool of holy water, cradled within a nest of mismatched, amputated hands.
Symbolic anthers and filaments originated from the topographic middle of each
man, although the unsightly testicles had been apathetically discarded. Before
each corpse, which dutifully held his pose with the aid of rigor, sat a bowl.
Crockery made from his own skullcap—into which each pedophile
gazed—with his dull, dead pupils, to regard his serving. The rest of the
banquet was borrowed from Wolfgang’s ruined icebox and the back of the sink in
the library dungeon; whereas the Dutch Masters chose merely to
hint
at death and impermanence—including
the famous-but-few smallish spots of fungus or mold, all the better to
appreciate the temporarily sweet juice each tooth could milk from a fruit at a
given moment—the twins had
coated
the table in slabs of rot … turquoise-furred lemons, a caved-in melon, bread
molds that could be appreciated by smell, from the street.

Time for the service
.

Rickard
herded Father König to his special place: the central seat in the arrangement.
His brother whispered to the priest, who closed his eyes, a knowing, smiling
nod as if asked to give his favorite sermon—one so dear to him, he shan’t
require a book at all to recite it.

People
filtered in.
Children first, haunted and glazed.
Still, some zest for life remained in them, some buzzed the freshest news:
Stuart Sutcliffe, former Beatle band member, had died in Hamburg at age 21.
Rumor was John Lennon kicked him.

“His
brain bled or squeezed itself out his ear or something,” a boy announced. They
settled, quiet, but for a few of them sucking their breaths through nervous
teeth.

It must have been nice, those past few
days, without the fondlers about, but here they were again—having a
party.

Something
was different. A girl noticed first. “Except for Father König, each has only
half-a-head!”

A
small boy declared to his neighbor, a Beatles fan, “Jesus … John Lennon’s been
busy.”

Rickard
nodded to König from the rear of the room, and he began his sermon. The
bustling nun who’d seated the children had not yet noticed the corpses arranged
in a line … König, the solo, live act, front and center, brandished his
arm-stumps with an elegant modicum of cheer as the nun opened the door for the
public. The news team led, pushing her aside. They’d received a tip that the
church had prepared a statement to explain the disappearance of the missing
clergymen at that precise time and had been desperate to get inside.

“Sin.
Penis sin, hand sin, loss of mind for some, sin … you?” König’s eyebrows shot
up, dramatic. A nun fainted. Another screamed. Hysteria mingled with most of
the adults, but the children stayed quiet. “Sin. Sin. Sin. Sin. Me.
The many names.
Stand for the reading of names.”

Used
to standing when told to do so, the children did. The East-German cameraman
hurriedly rolled film.

Father
König’s voice boomed. “Kiddie-diddlie-doodlers, all. Take heed, Pope John, and
all within—the list. Here, I have it …”
Father
König stooped to read, head popping up each time, his voice clear.
The master-list of pedophile’s names.
“König, Johan, Lutz,
Bardulf—”

The
priest continued despite the fray; the crowd sounded like a plague of grackles
and fearful disgust tore at the edges of the room.

Rickard
was pleased. Certainly paint was easier, but the still life?

It really had a powerful effect.