Nativity In Black
by Steven L. Shrewsbury

"I want hobgoblins around me, for I am courageous.
Courage which scares away phantoms creates hobgoblins for itself—
Courage wants to laugh."
                                             FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
                                                                            Thus Spoke Zarathustra - 1883

   Automatic pistol--Paul even liked the name of it. It was quick, swift, clean and automatic! He was told by all of the old guys at the Trap-Shooting club that such a weapon was easy to maintain, but jammed sometimes. As far as loading went, not even a novice like himself could screw it up—or so an aged Veteran of the siege at Anzio told him. Slide the bullets in the handle; take the safety off, pull the trigger and bingo. Automatic reaction! It would be more than enough to fulfill his task for those demanding voices and enshrine him with the heroes. How often he wanted to be like his grandfather who helped beat the Japanese. How often he envied his father who slew so many in Vietnam. Paul couldn’t comprehend his father’s solace and body tremors on patriotic holidays, but that would change.

   No one would ever view this commercialized holiday the same way again in the small town of Gosling, Indiana, Paul thought with a grin. They would never trot out their silly Santas or turn their homes into effigies more in tribute to Las Vegas than to any spirit of giving again without thinking of this day—this action he planned.

   Paul kissed the side of the gun. It was cold, smooth and gave his heart a burning trip. It was nearly as big a thrill as the first time he felt the silky softness of a girl’s leg. Holding this weapon and holding his own member suddenly became a similar experience as his eyes glared to a grinning plastic Santa in a passing yard. God, how he hated at image, hell, all the images of the Yule season! Wanting to crush a million sterile plastic idols, grinning, waving and dickless, would have to wait. This task awaited him elsewhere and Paul had an erection contemplating it. Paul was a powerful man in that fashion, producing children and making his father proud. The gun, however, would be a better instrument of destiny than the one that hung between his legs. Dad was counting on him to show them all. He wouldn't let him down. Paul would give them a hioliday to remember.

   When he slammed on the brakes of his rusting GMC pick-up truck in front of the First Christian Bible Fellowship Church on Parrot Street Paul squeezed his eyes shut. The throb in his skull increased and his eyes blurred for a moment. He shook his head hard, trying to make the stigmatism in his eyes go away. The sky vibrated when he looked up so he tried to keep his eyes focused on matters at hand on Earth. It was darkening this cold winter night, yet the sky was nearly purple to him…off and on it was. This color shifting effect was a mystery too large for him, but it had all started after the dreams. Lately, the colors and the throbs were so much worse, but usually cleared when the thought of this dark destiny came to the front of his mind. At first he worried when these sensations began, dreaming so much while awake, but this condition soon told him of his coming glory. His heart was soon right and all was clear in the world, even if his body seemed to rebel every so often.

   Paul climbed out of his truck and leered at what passed for a palce of worship. It wasn't even a church, his mind raged; it was a damned metal shed! These Bible thumping, Holy-rolling freaks were too much! They sat on metal chairs not pews! All they were was a bunch of losers from other denominations who couldn't cope with change so they got together to form a cult, or at least that is what the guys in the bar said and the voices in his brain agreed. How stupid were they to celebrate Jesus birthday when it was a random day picked by someone to cover up for a pagan festival? Paul grinned, knowing these dolts wouldn’t know that December 25^th was the birth od Sol Rex, the Sun God and the Roman church made such allowances to appease the pagans.

   When his eyes fell on the scene of the living Nativity set, the weight of the automatic in his coat pocket seemed to lighten. A rush of warm ecstasy flooded over his body from his heart, gushing down his legs and running back up his body. His head felt positively non-existent, so light and airy. Hate was clear in his brain for they were performing a stupid act for a day that was not even historically accurate.

   Paul's eyes zeroed in on the young woman kneeling beside the manger clad in white and blue. This outfit was clean, hand-sown and entirely unrealistic for a First Century Jewess, Paul laughed to himself. His head raged with the words BABYLONIAN WHORE! This woman probably fought for this part, his mind fumed. She desired to be the representation of all things anti-Christian. Oh, this church never put emphasis on this historical personage like that of her son, but she was still aping her identity. This girl was a fool and would pay the price for her nonsensical decision. She was surrounded by various malcontents, liars and idiots deluded by the dreams of some Jew thousands of years ago, Paul’s temples screamed. They draped sheets pver their bodies made to look like clothing those worn in the Middle East and fake beards. Why couldn’t they see their entire bodies were fake?!

   "Welcome!" One of the older men in robes called out. He was pretending to be a wise guy of some kind, Paul knew.

   Paul killed him. He thought that he'd weaken at the moment of truth, but he found that could do it after all. Aiming the automatic was simple enough and his eyes were clear as he sent a bullet through his brain. The effect was immediate. A small smear of blood appeared on the man’s forehead, sending his body back, his turban flying and his beard to the ground. When this man found his final spot on the ground it was in a bed of false snow. Who in the Hell out snow on the ground of a Navitity scene?! Paul’s brain pushed him on, shoved him through, and paced his fingers in their fluid mission. Though the feeling burned in his digits, he could only comprehend the sensation as divine.

   He was so glad they allowed him this weapon—this tool, this extension of his will. The feeling when the man’s life escaped his body via his gun’s kiss was practically orgasmic to his body. Paul thought that this sweet gun came from an auction by the cops or something, but didn't care. Origin points for soldiers and weapions mattered little, he was aware. An instrument of flesh or steel from Harlem could accomplish a Holy purpose as easily as onbe from Cambridge. The report of the shots he sent into the next man’s chest seemed to mess with Paul’s ears, for they popped loud and he heard more voices in his head in the din.

   As he turned to the personage of the Virgin Mother, he heard a voice say, "We really don't lose here, sir. No matter how many he gets, it looks bad. Mission accomplished from here on out, no matter what way we slice it!"

   Paul thought it was the girl speaking, but again, it was from innards of his skull. He didn’t understand it nor had he since it all started when he read those books. Sure, he loved those spy books about mental protocols, but never believed they could make one really hear voices.

   Before he could squeeze the trigger again Paul felt a sharp, burning pain in his abdomen. It was just then that he heard a gunshot. Was this reaction from the same event? He didn’t know. His body lurched forward as he heard more shots and experienced torrents pain. This time it was his left shoulder and then his left solar plexus. Paul fell over the manger, spewing blood from his mouth all over the only thing in the living nativity that wasn't alive. He barely had time to note that this thing was a plastic baby-doll drenched in his blood before another explosion of pain erupted in the small of his back.

   Paul rolled off the manger, paralyzed. It was as if he were unplugged from operating his flesh. The feeling was gone completely and he only knew he was down because his eyes still functioned. He saw the faces of the other nativity members look down on him. Their lips weren't moving, but he heard voices say, "Well, this isn't all bad. Now we can say these religious freaks were gun-toting right-wingers bent on anti-American activities! We don’t need another Waco, but this is almost as good! Perception is reality, sir!"

   Paul found if more and more difficult to breathe as the world locked up on him. Everyone froze in place as his body became more rigid. He concentrated on breathing, trying to imagine how he was going to be made a hero out of this. The swirling sky surged regularly as his cloudy mind cleared some. A dull feeling of panic and fear crept into his frozen head. He hated to do things on a dare and felt the horrid feeling that he’d been used. Paul could almost see the faces of men amongst the clouds. Were these the men who sent him here? Were these the father’s of the voices?

   No, he had to be dreaming it all! There was no God, no Devil, no right, no wrong. Survival of the fittest, that is what they told him in school. Today, he was only really fit for a little while. No, he was no fool. He could feel the rightness of his act, the purpose of the exercise and knew that it would all be for the best. Soon, they would all knuckle under and be swept aside! Was this thought his or was he hearing voices and thoughts of others again? No matter, Paul mused, as the world grew strange in hue, these voices were true! He wanted them all to be right. His sacrifice would be another catalyst for the final program! These words fluttered down to him from the clouds and touched on his brain like kisses.

   Swallowing involuntarily, Paul could taste blood. He hoped that he served a purpose and died as he always wanted—as a soldier.

   He smiled as he breathed his last. His eyes locked on the image of a man portraying Joseph, stepfather of Jesus, holding a small revolver, probably a 38 special.

   Not many men can say that both fathers of God killed them.

©2003 Steven L. Shrewsbury

STEVEN L. SHREWSBURY, 35, creator of Dack Shannon, Thor Alexander, and the MAJESTIC Universe, is the author of close to 300 published tales online or in print. His tales have appeared in print magazines like ELDRITCH TALES, FIGHTING CHANCE, DARK WISDOM, BLACK PETALS & MYSTERY BUFF. Over a hundred of his poems
are in magazines like PENNY DREADFUL, BIBLE OF HELL and DEATHREALM. His first book, NOCTURNAL VACATIONS, was released in 2002 by PUBLISH AMERICA. His second book, DEPTHS OF SAVAGERY was
released in May 03 by DOUBLE DRAGON PUBLISHING. His third book, BULLETPROOF SOUL, will soon be released from BLACK DEATH BOOKS.

He has appeared in many anthologies, most recently the hardback CEMETERY POETS & ATROCITAS AQUA and LABOR POOL, and soon will appear in SCRIPTURES OF THE DAMNED and SCARY from DDP. His more recent acceptances have been to the anthologies DEATHGRIP-2, HISTORICAL HARDBOILED, GHOSTBREAKERS, R'YLEH BEASTIARY and KINGS OF THE NIGHT.

www.stevenshrewsbury.com