The Apostle

God spewed forth a violent rain on the small town of New Haven. The sun swiftly took cover behind the town's only overpass as the blackness viciously engulfed the weakening horizon. Opaque pools crafted out of rain and mud animated all about the main road. Two lone headlights danced across the highway in a silent struggle, while sending the small pools into an array of chaos. The Lords vengeance lit up the brooding sky surrounding the lone house at the end of Sheridan Street.

Malachi knelt at the foot of the old oak bed with his long legs wrapped beneath him. Fresh scars twisted down around the top of his shoulder blades into a foul pattern down the centerline of his spine. Clutched in his feverish hand was the tormentor of all his sins and suffering, bringing forth sweet relief with each swath across his raw back. A slight breeze blew in across the curtains cooling his drenched face. The whispering of his Lord lay in each breeze of every clap of thunder brought forth his mighty orders to the delicate ears of Malachi. Malachi levied his hand on the bed post and brought his body forth. He met his own reflection in the mirror and quietly studied his dark silhouette. In a particular light and angle he found himself looking at a very handsome man. The slight outline of his ribs and hip bones protruded from his pale skin. His broad shoulders accentuated his tall and lanky arms. A mess of dark hair lay in a mass of sweat and dirt over his pale green eyes. He crossed the humble room and picked up the collared shirt on the dresser. As each buttoned looped through its corresponding hole he could feel the pressure of the linen on the fresh blood. After a moments brief inspection he realigned the collar and grabbed his necklace from the top drawer. A golden cross hung from a thin chain around his neck, cradled between his heavy breathing and the thin linen of his shirt.

Malachi stood barefoot on his front porch reading the words of the Lord in the lightning and rain. He looked out across the small town of New Haven breathing in the smell of fresh precipitation. His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness and for a brief minute his mind was intone to the callings of the Lord. He could almost hear the weeping and laments of the sinners. The sinners of the town silently begged him to bring them salvation and lead them to God's forgiveness. He stood on the porch looking over his flock, his congregation and brothers. Yes, he would bring them to the eyes of God and releases their sins, he would bear their sufferings. His hand reached into his shirt and clasped the small golden cross running his fingers along the small metallic edges. He tucked the cross back into his shirt and opened the screen door behind him.

The old fire place stood at the far end of the small room. It had an air of confidence about it and loomed as the focal piece of the space. Malachi knelt in front of the dormant figure and slowly began to remove a piece of the wooden floor. A rustic and earthy smell rose from the hidden enclave. Inside his eyes traced the outline of a small bundle that lay wrapped in a piece of soft wool. He could feel the warm breath of the object radiating on his face. Malachi reached in and removed the sacred object giving a silent thanks to the Lord.

Jesus felt good in his hands. He remembered the words to a song he had once heard. A vile group of sinners the singers had been but they were dead on about the happiness a warm gun brought. His was a cold gun but the Lord's work would always bring warmness to it that only he was blessed to receive. His thoughts lingered a moment longer on the song and the nostalgic memories it unleashed. His eyes followed an invisible trail across the room to an old picture of a young woman. After a moments pause he placed Jesus between the front of his pants and his warm skin. The cold metal felt alien against the warm breathing of his stomach but the feeling was not altogether unwelcoming. He pulled his shirt over his belt hiding his companion and slipped on a pair of sandals. Outside the dimly lit house on the old hill was a town of sinners waiting for him to answer the long awaited but not unheard prayers for salvation.

The street lamp sent his shadow gliding down the wet sidewalk and up onto the pale bricks of the building. The dark mass of his silhouette glared down upon Malachi resembling an angel. Its dark wings swept across the face of the building and the wind shuttered. His shadow followed as Malachi stepped past the street light and into Scotty's, the local tavern. His ominous presence was met with a mixture of half conscious glances and an aroma of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey. His demeanor was dark and powerful as he stood in the doorway. He attracted the attentions of a few more stares as his continued lingering at the entrance was not usual. Slowly he walked to the counter and met the eyes of the middle aged owner Francis Scott Withers. Withers face cast an ugly shadow across the dark counter of the bar. His smile was old and weary but his presence brought a subtle comfort to his local patrons

The tavern keeper brought forth an exasperated wind as he spoke. He forced his lips to give life to the timeless words "What can I get you friend?'

Malachi scanned the room before returning his solace gaze to the old bar keeper. "

"Forgiveness." Malachi's eyes were as cold as stone and the light cast a birdlike feature on his stoic face.

"You're going have to tell me what's in that one young fellow." Laughed Francis.

Malachi pointed to a bottle on the lower shelf as he reached in between his damp jeans and warm skin. The pale lighting created a halo in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Jesus expelled a blinding glimmer of power in Malachi's agile hands. Malachi watched his reflection as if it were some foreign freak show. The bar keeper fell forward into the shelves of bottles as his back erupted in a display of fireworks and splintered anguish. The crash split the quiet aurora of the tavern into a thousand fragments of sober impossibility. Francis Withers body slowly came to rest in an ocean of broken glass, blood, and forgotten sorrows.

Malachi spun from the bar like a frenzied general turning to face his legions prior to the clashing of Persian swords and Roman shields. His gaze inflicted little remorse on his congregation, but instead found cruel loathing and fear amongst the slumbering souls. With an air of passion Malachi readied himself to spew forth his sermon of repentance and salvation, but was quickly interrupted by the blimp like Mr. Wilson. "My God" was all the walrus of a man with the rigid goatee could speak before Malachi let the bells of justice ring again. Wilson staggered back a step grabbing at his leaking waistline. He furiously struggled to return the mass of red and intestines back to their normal holding cell. He finally came to a sitting position on the ground before muttering "All apologies" as his seat quickly became a chair of sticky red heat and death.

The next to break the serenity of his temple was Cheryl the local whore. The devil must have grabbed a tight squeeze of her soul because she let forth a wicked shrill and jumped up sending her chair crashing into the table beside the jukebox. He leveled Jesus against the anguishing soul of the redhead and sent her back into the wall. It was not a position she was entirely unfamiliar with as the life feverishly drained out of the crimson hole between her eyes. The dark blood of her inner demons streaked the wall as she slithered into a tangle of silence onto the bar room floor.

Malachi swept to the left of the bar confronting the archaic Mr. Edwards who sat wallowing in a glass of tonic and gin. Like some caricature from an old Humphrey Bogart movie, he merely shrugged his shoulders and took a long drink of his tonic. Unwavering to his position to oblivion Malachi brought Jesus to the back of the old timer's skull and let forth a spark of vigilante justice. From the position that Malachi was standing he could feel the recoil of the old man's soul as he parted the head from the weary body. Edward's body slumped forward in his stool clutching his gin. Across the bar the remnants of his mind came to rest in a small plastic container full of sliced limes and oranges.

Malachi slung the particles of brain and blood from Jesus' warm barrel. The concoction made a thunderous splat on the killing floor beneath his feet. An air of confidence and grace swelled in his chest as he turned to eye the remaining members of his congregation. Malachi spotted the newly divorced waitress Michelle cowering in the near corner. Her face was wet with tears of remorse and joy. Malachi aimed Jesus with a forgiving heart and sent two doves of tranquility and release to the tormented girl. The beauties body withered and came to rest on the ground in a bed of wild and twisting red roses. Malachi new the Lord would be pleased as he had always been told that all beautiful things most come to an end on this world. The angels would rejoice the beauties passing into the gates of heaven or cry at her dissent to the lake of fire.

Malachi spun in time to catch Bill Richards shadow out of the corner of his eye. The pool cue swept inches above his shoulder as he lunged to the right, narrowly avoiding the treacherous assault. Malachi grabbed a serrated memory of a bourbon bottle and plunged it into the side of the possessed Richard's neck. Bill dropped the cue from his shaking hand and staggered back into a chair, pulling it viciously to the ground with him. Malachi flung open the revolving chamber of Jesus and dropped six more disciples into the chamber. Bringing his attention back to Mr. Richard's he smiled intently and snapped the chamber shut giving it a slight spin. He sent a groan into the floor and stepped back from the geyser of blood that erupted from this would be Judah's chest.

He felt a surge of power and looked to mirror to catch a glimpse of his reflection. The lighting and angle cast an angelic view of his self in the mirror. With his flaming sword of truth and forgiveness he stepped into the middle of the tavern and marveled in his glory. The good Lord's work was almost complete for the night. Jesus scanned the room with his remaining disciples before crossing the apparition of Jim "Slim" Kennan. Slim caught in the basking glory of the Lord's work wildly looked straight at Malachi and shouted. "Go ahead you fucking swine bastard!" Shaking his head Malachi spoke with the Lord's work and emptied the remaining salvation of Jesus into the evil man. The first two shots sent Slims bowels across the top of the decaying pool table. The other three disciples caught up to Slim a moment later sending him backwards on the Devil's wings into his own death that was already tainting the pool table.

Silence filled the room and Malachi look left to right and back again gathering up the mental picture of his scattered flock. He felt compelled to preach the saving grace of the Lord but everyone was dead. The room angrily leered back at Malachi and he uncontrollably shuddered. He turned around thinking that he had just seen the Devil jump up from behind the bar. Peering over the war torn bar he only saw the lifeless body of Francis Withers endlessly sleeping in a pool of blood and whiskey. He decided it was best to leave the ugly scene and send its remaining demons and sins to hell.

Malachi stood for a moment in front of Scotty's Tavern. He watched the flames dance back and forth through the window of the bar. The spires of fire tangled amongst each other like two lovers caught in the vicious triangle of a Spanish love song. He raised both his arms in a widespread v and cast his glance up to the Heavens. His shadow stretched across the street like the Angel of Death spreading its wings over the ancient cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.