Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,2
third segment of the black mass, the Canon, the sub-deacon fetched a chamber pot from the shadows and presented it to the nun, who urinated into it, smiling beatifically, while the organist played a low-pitched, rumbling hymn. The high priest said, “In the name of Mary she maketh the font resound with the waters of mercy. She giveth the showers of blessing and poureth forth the tears of her shame. She suffereth long, and her humiliation is great, and she doth pour upon the earth with the joy of her mortification. Her cup runneth over, and her water is sublime. Ave Maria ad micturiendum festinant.”
When the nun finished urinating, the sub-deacon retrieved the font and held it before the high priest, who dipped a phallus-shaped aspergillum into the fluid. He turned to the four cardinal compass points, shaking the aspergillum three times at each. “In the name of Satan, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. In the name of Lucifer, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. In the name of Belial, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. In the name of Leviathan, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life.” He raised the phallic aspergillum breast-high in an attitude of offering to the Baphomet, kissed it, and placed it back on the altar. Then he uttered the purported last words of Jesus Christ upon the cross: “Shemhamforash!”
“Hail Satan!” the assemblage replied.
Darla stopped on the other side of the bedroom door. She could hear a woman’s voice purring, the words punctuated with throaty laughter. She wanted to turn around, leave, pretend this wasn’t happening, but she couldn’t do that. Steeling herself, she opened the door—and everything inside her collapsed at once. Her lungs, so it was hard to breathe. Her nervous system, so she became numb. Her heart, slit in half, emptied, hollow.
Mark lay on his back on the queen bed, his well-toned body naked except for a pair of blue briefs. A tanned peroxide blonde straddled him, groin on groin. She wore nothing but a black frilly thong. In one hand she held a pink feather duster, in the other, a red candle, which she was using to drip scolding wax onto Mark’s chest.
Mark turned his head toward Darla, as if sensing her presence. Seeing her, he threw the woman off him and sat bolt upright. “Jesus!” he said, and for a moment he appeared furious, as if outraged that Darla would have the gall to walk in on him while he was getting it on. Very quickly, however, he adopted a suitably ashamed and worried countenance.
“Wha…?” The woman turned and saw Darla. Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Get out,” Darla told her evenly, venomously.
“Hey, sorry, we should have gone somewhere else—”
“Get out!” she screamed.
“Okay, okay, like chill out.” Her casual tone was infuriating. She would walk away today and likely gossip about what happened with her friends. It wasn’t her life abruptly in shambles.
Darla marched over and grabbed the slut by the blow-dried hair and yanked her off the bed. The woman yelped.
“Hey, Dar, hold on,” Mark said. “Take it easy. Let’s talk.”
Ignoring him, Darla dragged the woman—bent over, shrieking, bare breasts flopping—across the room, shoved her into the hallway, slammed the door shut.
Then she whirled on Mark. She wanted to hurl every curse word she knew at him. But she could articulate nothing. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
“Listen, Dar,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “it’s not what you—”
“Don’t give me that! Don’t you dare give me that!”
He closed his mouth and seemed at a loss for what to say next.
“How long?” she said.
He got off the bed, pulled on his acid-wash jeans.
“How long?” she demanded.
Banging at the door. “Mark! I need my clothes.”
Mark started toward Darla, thought better of it, kept his distance. “A few weeks,” he said.
“Who is she?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Who is she?”
He shrugged. “Someone from the ski resort.”
“Hey!” the woman persisted. “I’ll go. I just need my clothes.”
“Let me send her off,” he said, “and we’ll talk.”
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out of this house.”
“Dar, you’re not thinking straight. Let me get rid of her—”
“Get the hell out of this house, Mark, or I swear to God I’m going to hit you.”
“Dar—”
“Go!”
He frowned, angry again, undecided. Then he scooped up his yellow Polo shirt with the embroidered logo of his auto repair business, a black bra, and a red tartan