DP Tool Club 26/CD_ASCQ_26_1295.iso/vrac/df9511g.zip/5L

Text File | 1995-11-01 | 45KB | 861 lines

 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
 THE CZAR OF FOREVER
   by Dietmar Trommeshauser
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

      {Dedicated to: Thomas Monteleone and Clive Barker}

 "Eins" Part I
 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-


   He sat on a rock and surveyed the scene down below, his grey
 eyes as cold and ancient as the steppes of Russia. But he was
 not Russian. Once, perhaps. After all, he'd been Persian, French,
 German, British, Brazilian, even Japanese to name just a few. Today,
 in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety seven, he was
 an American looking down a hill at a bulldozer rearranging mounds
 of refuse at a dump site just outside the small town of Moonlake,
 fifty odd miles north of Seattle.

   Gulls swooped and dove all around him, they filled the sky,
 finding scraps of food down amongst the town's garbage. Their cries
 were quite deafening, almost drowning out the sound of the dozer.
 It was a rather large dump, for a town with a population of only
 two thousand or less. Mounds of cardboard boxes filled with paper
 and junk, plastic sacks spilling garbage and left-over food,
 splintered lumber, strips of corrugated sheetmetal, broken Gyprock,
 discarded mattresses and old furniture, broken toys and bikes, even
 the burnt out husks of a few automobiles decorated the landscape.
 The smell in the air was pretty ripe too. Almost as though a war
 had been waged here.

   The man, whose name was Laz Risen, didn't mind though, this
 was his favourite place -- noise, smell and all. Somebody once
 said, "You can tell all you want to know about someone by what they
 throw out in their garbage," and Laz believed this wholeheartedly.
 As far as he was concerned, The Dump bespoke volumes; if you were
 one to take the time to really search through and study the crap --
 and he was. Had, in fact. Most, luckily, did not, because for Laz
 all this, of course, was beside the point; the real reason Laz loved
 the place was that it also made a perfect hiding spot. You could
 hide something, anything, in amongst all the rubble and no one would
 ever find it. Laz knew this for he'd used the dump for precisely
 that purpose. He'd hidden things here, many things, after learning
 from his previous mistakes.

   No one had ever spotted him since the site was usually vacant
 and left unguarded, especially at night. Except for the odd time,
 like today, when old Mr. Gowyn would come burn the burnable and
 plow the rest underground, but this only happened once every two
 months. Besides, Gowyn's eye-sight was piss poor. Laz knew this
 too, it was why he was out today, hiding up on the ridge, making
 sure Gowyn didn't uncover anything embarrassing. It hadn't happened
 yet, Laz had been very careful, but one can ever be too cautious --
 and he didn't relish spending eternity rotting in some dark, dank,
 prison somewhere. Laz felt he would rather be carried by six, than
 judged by twelve.

   Before he'd discovered The Dump, Laz had disposed of his bodies
 in vacant alleyways or in dark, hidden places, like other's before
 him, but with the science of forensics being what they are today,
 Laz worried the police may catch him one day. He knew they were
 aware of at least six. The news headlines had carried such ridiculous
 titles as "Religious Hacker Still At Large" or "Priest Slayer Strikes
 Again". Since finding the dump there had been nothing. The papers
 and news reported the police baffled, some even speculated that the
 killer had either moved elsewhere or died.

   Still, Laz remained cautious and alert. He figured the police
 were onto the missing ones by now. He had taken to hacking up his
 victims into tiny pieces and then jamming the remains into discarded
 boxes, bags, even empty tin cans. So far no one had stumbled onto
 the grisly evidence and it seemed like today would be no different.
 What Gowyn didn't burn, he buried under tons of earth. There were
 over twenty-six bodies forever lost under the ground. Mostly of a
 religious sect; all male -- Catholics, Protestants, even four
 Mormons from The Church Of The Latter Day Saints.

   There were only two criteria for Laz's victims, one that they
 be male and two, that they be Christians. The holier the better.
 Laz had a debt to pay and it was one he'd been working on now for
 centuries. With ancient eyes he looked up at the blue, cloudless
 sky. A swirling funnel of smoke twisted up from the dump, as though
 someone below was sending a sacrifice to the Gods. Laz could still
 remember such events quite clearly, had actually been a spectator at
 a number of them. But that had been long, long ago. Time and mankind
 had moved on since then. Laz, though, was convinced he'd get HIS
 attention again. That was the whole point wasn't it.

   In all his many years the one truth Laz had discovered, if nothing
 else, was that the opposite of Love was not hate but indifference --
 neglect. He'd learnt that even if you hated someone, deep down
 inside you must still like them somehow, otherwise you wouldn't care
 at all. Even a child would rather be spanked or scolded than totally
 ignored. For Laz, however, it was hate. Definitely. Lots and lots of
 hate.

   Bits of burning paper and refuse drifted up with the smoke,
 then settled slowly back down to earth like miniature meteors. Laz
 wondered if He was watching. If so, there was no sign. There never
 had been -- at least not for over nineteen hundred years. Laz knew,
 he had been trying to initialise one ever since the last time. Still,
 nothing, nada, zip. He remained ignored no matter what atrocities he
 committed -- and he'd committed quite a few. Soon, though he thought,
 soon. He had a plan. Again. He had a helluva plan. If this one didn't
 work then . . . well, then perhaps He "had" abandoned mankind like so
 many thought nowadays. Laz couldn't believe that though. The Plan
 kept him going. He believed in it with all his heart and soul -- what
 little there remained. It had to work. Had to.

   Laz remained huddled on the rock for another two hours, till
 Gowyn finished, packed up and drove away in his old Ford pickup.
 Only then did Laz stand up and stretch his fatigued muscles. He was
 a tall man, six-five and lean, with long black hair and a face
 seemingly chiselled from granite by a desert wind, it was deeply
 golden tanned. He looked like he'd been born somewhere in the middle-
 east. Finished working the kinks out of his muscles, he walked back
 up the path to his van, hidden in a clump of cedar.

   He reached inside the cab, pulled out a thermos and poured himself
 a cup of honeyed tea. Man, was he thirsty, he'd been stuck on the
 ridge for hours. Still, caution was required if The Plan was to work.
 Sighing, he drank the sweet, hot tea down in one gulp then, after
 returning the thermos, he extracted a black vinyl dufflebag, hung
 the straps over his shoulder and opened the van's sliding side door.
 He climbed in, mindful of the metallic clattering coming from within
 the bag as it shifted onto his back. It was finally time to go to
 work.

   It was an old Van, a 1982 Ford Econoline, but it came with one
 very important feature. A double gas tank. Laz remodelled it, of
 course. For his needs. It even had a bumper sticker which proclaimed
 JESUS SAVES. Whenever he felt unmotivated all he had to do was glance
 at it. It got the juices flowing again. Damn straight! He pulled back
 the floors' carpeting, revealing a large rectangular trap-door
 cleverly hidden below, just above the rear gas tank. Flipping open
 the lid revealed a body wrapped in black plastic, crammed inside the
 small tank, the top half of which Laz had removed with a rented
 cutting torch.

   He grabbed a hold of one end of the plastic and heaving, dragged
 it up onto the floor. Wiping the sweat from his forehead -- it was a
 rather hot day -- he continued dragging the body till it flopped out
 onto the gravel road. It made a sound like a large dead fish slapped
 down on a butcher's counter. The heat was causing it to smell too. If
 Laz had waited much longer it would have been intolerable. He shifted
 his toolkit so it rested snugly between his shoulder blades, then
 continued dragging the body down the hill toward the dump site. Later,
 after he finished the messy part he would take a rake and erase the
 trail he made. No one would ever know he'd been here.


 "Zwei" Part II
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   Later that night, in his one bedroom apartment, his feet up on
 the coffee table, head resting back on the sofa, Laz nursed a cold
 can of Coors, rolling the icy can backwards and forwards across his
 forehead. He had a head-ache. A real motherfucker. His eyes felt
 like the pressure in his head would blow them right out of their
 sockets. Blow them across the room to splatter against his T.V.
 screen. He could almost see them now, sliding down the glass leaving
 bloody snail-trails till they plopped onto the carpet. It had been
 the heat, that and the stench. The priest had been obese enough
 alive, in death his body blotted to almost another third of his
 former size. The first slit, from the crouch to the neck, released
 pent up gas. These obnoxious fumes were the cause of Laz's migraine.
 They also caused him to lose the fried egg and bacon sandwich he'd
 eaten earlier.

   At the moment, the Coors helped. At best it quelched the awful
 taste in his mouth, the bile bitter and rancid like curdled milk. He
 was watching the news on NBC, hoping to catch some more snippets of
 the upcoming Papal visit. He was very interested in the Pope's tour,
 especially in the scheduling. Oh, yes, very. When the item did come
 up, he stopped rolling the can, sat up, rested his head in his hands
 and paid rapt attention.

   Wearing a Seahawks t-shirt, a pretty blonde stood, microphone in
 hand, on the steps of Seattle's City Hall. Behind her was a moronic
 vender waving a sign which read: FRESH FISH FROM THE WATERFRONT --
 ORDER NOW AT 1-800--. The rest was obscured by the reporter. Nice
 going guy -- millions worth of free advertisement and you really
 fucked up. Laz smiled.

   ". . . confirms Pope Paul II will address the masses here in
 front of City Hall, Sunday, August third at twelve fifteen. Crowds
 are expected so please come early. The Police Chief advises shuttling
 in via public transport since access will be blocked for all but
 authorised vehicles. He also advises bringing a supply of bottled
 water and sun screen. Weather predictions are in the high eighties.
 There will be Porty Pots available throughout the area. Check this
 channel for further updates. For now, this is--" Laz shut the T.V.
 off, leaned back again.

   August 3, twelve-fifteen. The blonde was dead right about one
 thing, Laz thought, it was  going to be a hot day. Very hot.

   In his last lifetime, Laz had become a soldier. He had entered
 the Marines for one purpose only, to get his hands on some hand-
 grenades. Three, to be exact. These he buried in Denver, where he
 was living at the time, buried it beside a large oak in the centre
 of the town park. He placed them there just prior to being shipped
 off to 'Nam'.

   He'd been there for a grand tour of thirteen days when his foot
 snagged a trip wire and he blew himself to . . . well, to now,
 actually. The bright side was, he thought, at least he'd taken six
 other's of his troop with him. That was back in sixty-five. Once
 he'd been reborn and old enough to leave his new parents, his former
 father having left him a rather large inheritance, he took the bus
 to Denver and retrieved the grenades. At the moment, they rested
 snugly inside his duffel bag, which lay like a spent dog at his feet.

   Laz got up, walked over to the fridge and helped himself to
 another Coors. Popping the tab was the only sound in the apartment,
 tonight even the neighbours were quiet. Thank the Lord. The Lord.
 Lordy, Lordy, Laz grinned. You and I will have words, he thought.
 An eternity of words. This thought kept circling in his mind, like
 a large, dark, reptilian bird. Till, finally, after four more beers,
 the alcohol hit and Laz turned out the lights and dropped, still
 fully clothed, into bed. In the morning the only thing he could
 remember was the tail-end of a dream in which he watched a sudden
 flash of light followed by his decapitated head sailing neatly into
 the air, bouncing off the ringed trunk of a Vietnamese palm, then
 landing and rolling gently amongst the razor grass.

   August third, only two weeks away! He could hardly contain
 himself. So-o-o-o close. Still, if he got antsy he could whack
 another priest. For the time being he was content to wait, content
 to reminisce, to go back over old memories and savour them. Relive
 the horror at the very beginning. Go back and back and back . . .

                              *  *  *

      Long before the West Bank town of El-Azariyeh was renamed,
    and the country of Israel was created, it was known as
    Bethany. It was here Lazarus lived with his two sister's Mary
    and Martha. Lived here, at the foot of the Mount of Olives,
    about 2 miles east of Jerusalem, in this swirling maelstrom of
    hot dust, desert wind and endless dunes, lived quite happily.
    Until he caught pneumonia and then -- The Teacher came.

                              *  *  *

 "DREI" Part III
 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   Lazarus lay hacking his lungs out on the cot in his sister's
 tiny mud hovel, located on the north end of town. He'd been coughing
 steadily now for almost three days and his sun bronzed face was
 covered with a sheen of fever-sweat. Mary, feeling hot and
 uncomfortable herself from the noonday heat, sat on the edge of the
 bed, bathing her brother's brow with cold water retrieved from the
 village well. At the moment he was burning up, his chest heaving in
 the effort to draw breath. Each breath earned was followed by violent
 volleys of coughing. So much so, his entire body would spasm and
 heave him up into the air, as though he was being electrocuted. All
 these symptoms were draining him of life-supporting energy. Mary
 remembered the doctor's words:

   "There's nothing I can do for him. Try and keep him as cool as
 possible. With any luck his fever will break." Here he paused,
 gathered up his things, then patted both Mary and Martha on the
 shoulders. "I'm sorry, but if his condition doesn't improve very
 quickly, I give him seven days at most."

   That had been three days ago and the fever showed no signs of
 abating. The only change was now he was coughing blood.

   After the Doctor left, Mary and Martha conferred over at the
 small wooden table, at the other end of the room, well out of
 Lazurus' earshot. Martha spoke first.

   "Listen, we can't just stand by and watch our brother die.
 There's been rumours of a miraculous healer, a prophet. He passed
 through Bethany a few days ago heading east, but apparently some of
 the villagers threw stones, chased him and his troupe out." She
 leaned over the table. "If I hurry I think I can find him. He's
 known as The Teacher. I'll borrow Jacob's mule. What do you think?"

   Mary shrugged, reached across and gathered Martha's hands in hers.
 "We've got nothing to lose. God's speed."

   She finished wiping Lazarus down and stepped out the door.
 Squinting, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, she scanned the
 horizon for any trace of her sister. Nothing. Back inside, she
 gathered up her cookware and began preparing supper. Maybe she could
 get Lazurus to eat some soup. He'd kept nothing down since the fever.

   Laz was dying, and he knew it. Been praying for it. Anything to
 escape this living hell. Every breath razored his throat, every
 cough spewed more of his blood. He wanted peace. What remained of
 his sister's soup lay splattered on the bedsheets and across the
 floor. Laz saw everything through a heat haze. Night had fallen and
 the stars shone through the open doorway. Mary lay asleep at the
 foot of his bed, her hands still clutching the towels beside the
 empty water bowl. He loved her so. Loved them both. Tears gathered
 at the corners of his eyes. He tried to pray outloud, but his throat
 was parched, his lips swollen and cracked, and he couldn't get
 anything out.

   Memories of his childhood spun through his mind. His mother,
 father and sisters on the ocean in their creaky old boat, heaving
 in the nets, pulling the living teeth from the water. His father's
 deep voice shouting encouragement, his mother's hands dancing with
 live bait, the girls squealing with delight. Years later, having
 moved to the outskirts of Bethany, his father tried his hand at
 farming. From dawn till dusk, the sky turning salmon pink, he plowed
 the parched earth. Behind an oxen, the speckled granite, the bit of
 ancient root -- he buried everything in his path. Laz remembered the
 day they overturned the soil and spotted a small, flat  stone
 glistening like gold. He scooped it up and showed it to his father.

   "Fools gold," his father said. "For fools like us. Eh, Laz?"
 and he laughed.

   Later that night, using braided mule tail-hair, he fashioned
 it into a necklace, which he presented to Laz the next day. Laz
 treasured it, never took it off, carried it on his chest like a
 compass, a reminder of his father's love.

   With shaking arms, he reached under his sodden sheets and
 fingered the amulet. Rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, he
 thought soon father. Soon I'll be with you again. Their childhood had
 been hard and, at times, gruelling, but they'd been happy. His chest
 buckled with more coughs, his breath whistling when drawn. He tried
 to relax, to breathe around the phlem, to listen to the night. The
 only sounds: the wind and a distant, echoing clump of a burros'
 hooves on the hard packed street.

   He concentrated on the sound, closer now. Martha? Perhaps, he
 thought, she was due back anytime. Mary'd told him of her quest. A
 flicker of hope sparked in his mind. Maybe she brought good news,
 maybe . . . . Again his body contorted, almost jarring him to the
 floor. He wiped the blood froth from his lips when suddenly, Martha
 burst into the room, her robes swirling.

   "Wake up!" she shouted, throwing her satchel onto the table.
 "Wake up! It's true, it's all true!"

   Startled from her sleep and quite shaken by the sudden commotion,
 Mary leapt to her feet. "What is it Martha?" she asked.

   "The Teacher," Martha replied, breathless. On the cot, Laz
 listened, raised himself up on his elbows, for the moment the coughs
 subsided. "I found him. Less than half a day's ride from here," she
 stopped to catch her breath.

   "Go on." Mary moved to Laz's side.

   "He was at the leper's colony. It was incredible. He was
 incredible! There were hundreds of people. You wouldn't believe it."

   "Yes Martha, but did you get to speak to him?" Mary asked, her
 hands now clasping Lazs'.

   "I did. He called to me, me among all those others! You should
 have seen him, standing there, on top of a knoll, tall with a golden
 light all around him. A light that shone forth, covering anyone he
 touched. And those lucky enough were cured. Cured!"

   "What do you mean?"

   "The Lepers, dozens of them, some so crippled they could only
 crawl. Some with no fingers or toes, others blind from birth. And he
 CURED THEM -- all he could reach. It was amazing. And his voice, you
 should hear his voice."

   "Tell us," Mary said. "What did he say?"

   "He drew me forth like an Angel and said, `The final result of
 this sickness will not be the death of Lazarus; this has happened
 in order to bring glory to God, and it will be the means by which
 the Son Of God will receive glory.'" Here Martha paused, pulled up
 a stool and sat, as all strength fled from her legs. She looked on
 the verge of collapse. "He's coming," she said. "The Son Of God is
 coming here! You're saved Laz, you're saved. Praise God." She began
 to cry. Soon everyone was in tears.

   Hope. Such a powerful word. For Lazarus it would become a
 double-edged sword.

                         *  *  *

   He lay in the grip of another convulsion, his sisters had gone
 to bed hours ago but, exhausted as he was, the pneumonia wouldn't
 allow sleep and now it was almost dawn. He closed his eyes. The
 Teacher was coming, his sister's would not be left alone.

                         *  *  *

   On the evening of the eighth day Martha and Mary returned home.
 Lazarus, wrapped in clean linen and balm, lay buried in a small cave,
 the entrance sealed by a large boulder. There was, and had been no
 sign of the Prophet.

                         *  *  *

   He was in a Void. A vast blackness. Soundless. Lightless. A sense
 of falling, though there seemed to be no up or down, no directions
 at all, just him and the abyss. Time too ceased to exist. He couldn't
 tell if he'd been here for hours, days, or even years. He had no
 hands, no feet, no body and no eyes. And yet, he saw. Nothing. No
 ears, and yet . . .

   "Lazarus." At first a whisper. Had he imagined it? "Lazarus."
 The voice so loud now, so strong, it filled the void. "Come out!"
 Suddenly, there was light! Bright, beautiful, wondrous light!
 Sunlight miraculously pouring in through the cave's entrance.

   Laz, though wrapped in gauze, felt its warmth; his eyes,
 thinly covered could still discern the figure of a lone man who
 stood facing the entrance, his arms raised heavenward, a large crowd
 behind him.

   "Untie him," the Teacher said, "and let him go."

   Lazarus staggered backwards, felt hands tugging, clutching,
 supporting him. Soon he stood naked in a circle of villagers. Body
 and Soul intact. Shaken and frightened -- but alive! Mary and Martha
 rushed to embrace him.

   Later that night, the Teacher joined Bethany's townspeople for a
 dinner Martha helped serve. Resting in the centre of town, under the
 stars, was a long wooden table heaped with dishes of food, bottles
 of wine and fresh cold springwater. Once the Prophet was seated, Mary
 took a whole pint of a very expensive perfume made of pure nard,
 poured it on Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair.

   "Why wasn't this perfume sold for three hundred silver coins and
 the money given to the poor?" Judas Iscariot, one of Jesus' deciples
 asked, his hand on Martha's shoulder.

   "Leave her alone!" Jesus said, raising a glass of springwater
 to his perfect lips. "Let her keep what she has for the day of my
 burial. You will always have poor people with you, but you will not
 always have me."

   ". . . not always have me . . . have me . . . me . . ."

                         *  *  *

   . . . how true, Laz thought, sitting in a restaurant three
 blocks from Seattle's City Hall. He helped himself to another
 mouthful of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, the thick brown gravy
 dripping from his fork. Washed it down with another Coors. It was his
 fourth, but he was celebrating. In two hours he hoped to change
 "everything." Sunlight streamed in between the blinds, highlighting
 the dust in the air like snowflakes -- a blizzard in this room.

   He wasn't upset about being brought back to life, he mused,
 popping a mint into his mouth. No, he could have lived with that
 -- no pun intended, but he expected to die -- someday -- eventually.
 The day before, he realised just what a curse he'd been blessed with,
 as the last day of his *first* life, he remembered . . .

   . . . he was heading for the village market for some fresh fruit,
 the Teacher and his followers had departed weeks ago, and the news
 of his miracle had spread throughout the Empire. Lazarus had become
 very popular. Suddenly, half a block from his hut, he found himself
 surrounded by a troupe of Roman Centurions. Laz bit down, hard, on
 the peppermint, his teeth grinding it to fine sugar.

   Remembered the Primus Pilus named Quintus, his silvery armour
 flashing in the sun, the crest on his helmet turned sideways across
 his helmet like a halo.

   "Destroy this abomination!" he shouted to his men. His crimson
 clad arm drawing the sword from his left side and then ramming it
 into Laz's abdomen up to the hilt. Screaming, Lazarus fell to his
 knees. Three other centurions joined the slaughter. Laz lay in the
 street, his fingers scrambling wildly, trying to shove back the
 organs that spilled through his fingers and burst like rotted fruit.
 Still the soldiers slashed and stabbed.

   He remembered the pain clearly, remembered each of his deaths.
 They lay in his memory like an endless string of black pearls, but
 nothing compared to the pain suffered during his first five hundred
 years. Each year spent on a pilgrimage to the site of his Tomb, five
 hundred years of unanswered prayers, he so wanted to meet his God,
 to reunite with his family, to finally be released from this -- this
 Living. It was in 501 AD the madness began . . .

   He paid his food bill and stepped out onto the busy street.


 "FIER" Part IV
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   Detective Vincent "Crater Face" Kissling had been working on the
 Priest slayings for the last five years. He'd been given the nickname
 because of his horrible acne condition at the age of twelve, while
 living at the orphanage. It had left his face terribly scarred and
 pockmarked, and the name stuck with him throughout adulthood. Scars
 decorated not only his face, but through numerous fights, his
 knuckles bore them as well. His face resembled the lunar landscape.
 Only the closest members of his squad called him Crater Face, the
 others referred to him as Kiss.

   He found the first body in '92, Rev. Mark Dewitt dumped in
 the alley behind Starbuck's, his entire torso had been skinned.
 According to the coroner, the twenty-six year old suffered a long,
 lingering death. The second, Father Gavin MacGleary, was burnt
 almost beyond recognition, his body propped up against a cedar tree
 in Carkeen Park, his head twisted backwards to face the ocean, the
 endless waves. The third, a Pastor John Clarke, had been found on
 the shore of Lake Washington, viciously stabbed and slashed, his eyes
 and tongue removed and missing. The fourth and fifth, Rabbi Elizur
 Shedeur and Rev. P.T. Little consecutively, found shoved behind a
 dumpster at the Vashon Island Ferry Pier. Mutilated and decapitated,
 their heads had been switched. This time, their genitals torn off
 and missing.

   The last one however, Father Bernard Abbaguchi, was by far the
 worst. He looked like he lost a wrestling match with a chainsaw. All
 deaths had been slow and torturous. Since then, nothing. For three
 years nothing. Kiss scratched his large califlowered ears. Others
 had given up, quit. Even the papers, once in such a feeding frenzy,
 now moved onto newer, fresher atrocities -- it seemed the world was
 filled with them. The Priest Slayer was old news, best forgotten by
 a city who's past was already linked to some of the world's craziest
 serial killers. But not Kiss. He couldn't forget.

   His father too, had been a minister. He'd left his little church
 in Bellingham and volunteered into the Army, he was sent to Vietnam
 back in sixty-five, where a week later, following the siege of Khe
 Sanh and while moving base camp, a member of his squad tripped a
 live wire and blew him and five others into oblivion. His mother,
 grief-stricken, passed away a short nine months later. After that,
 Kiss now orphaned, became an atheist, refusing to believe in a God
 who would take away the only two people he ever loved. Since his
 mother's funeral, he never stepped into a church again.

   These reasons, however personal, were not the only ones causing
 Kiss' relentless pursuit of the man named Priest Slayer, in the
 case file marked "Unsolved." Of more immediate concern was an end to
 his nightmares.

   Every night for the past three years he'd been visited by the
 murderer's victims. No sooner did he fall asleep then, seeing them
 through their executioner's eyes; one by one they all appeared,
 screaming and begging for mercy while life was flayed from their
 bleeding, burning bodies. The Killer was never seen -- just a long,
 dark, lunatic shadow thrown up against the wall, a background for
 the tied struggling priests writhing on their beds of torture. These
 dreams replayed themselves till Kiss awoke bathed in sweat.

   At first he contemplated professional help, he hadn't been eating
 and his nerves were shot -- any little noise set his teeth on edge,
 but then decided not to. He figured if the Chief or any of his squad
 found out, he'd be thrown off the case. So for three years he
 suffered the nightmares quietly, spent his time going over and over
 the files, looking for clues. Looking for anything he might have
 missed. So far nothing.

   This worried him, he knew the Chief and others thought they were
 rid of the Slayer, but Kiss knew better. He'd checked with an F.B.I.
 psychologist specialising in serial killers who, in turn, had given
 Kiss a psychological profile on the Slayer. He read and memorised
 it. In it, the doctor confirmed each of Kiss' fears. One, that the
 killer would not stop unless killed himself, and two, that he would
 remain on "common ground" until threatened. Since the police were
 completely puzzled, Kiss thought, the killer had nothing to fear.
 Kiss knew he was out there somewhere. The fact no bodies had turned
 up in the last few years meant little to Kiss. He just figured the
 guy learned to hide them better, besides, there were all those
 reports of missing clergymen.

   This is what worried him the most, especially today. He knew there
 was a nut on the loose who hated and slaughtered religious leaders,
 and now, of all things, the Pope was coming to town. Would be here
 in . . . he glanced at his watch, fifteen minutes.

   For the hundredth time he scanned the monstrous crowd, his eyes
 searching for anyone or anything unusual. A long dark shadow perhaps.
 He shivered, even in the heat. It had taken hours to convince the
 Chief to put his troup on this assignment, usually it was left to
 the FBI and the Vatican's own security forces. He unclipped his
 transmitter.

   "Johnson," he said, "how's it look from your end?"

   A bit of static then . . . "Nothing strange here, boss. Just the
 usual religious freaks."

   "Ben?"

   "All clear, Kiss. Just a group of old ladies fighting over front
 row seats. Nothing I can't handle with a few well placed shots."

   Kiss grinned, what a jerk.

   "Roy?"

   "Clear here too. Try and take it easy, Craterface, don't forget
 the Pope's got his own security watching too. That and about a
 million FBI goons."

   "Yeah, well forget they exist shithead, and that goes for the
 rest of you too. Keep on your toes." He snapped the radio back onto
 his belt, checked out the podium where, in mere minutes the Pope
 would be standing.

   Roy had been right of course, the Servizio Segreto Vaticano,
 the Vatican's secret service, were here. He spotted four just behind
 the stage scaffolding, they were all tall, athletic-looking men in
 dark suits. Each held a walkie-talkie in their left hand, their
 right free to grab a revolver in an instant should the need arise.
 Kiss knew they each had one tucked away under their jackets. His
 own forty-four magnum rested heavily in the shoulder holster under
 his left arm. When he'd first bought the gun, his crew ribbed him
 mercilessly with Clint Eastwood gags, but he wanted something that
 had real stopping power. In all his years on the force he never had
 occasion to use it, thank God. However, he remembered his first year
 as a Rookie. He'd been teamed up with Walter Dagostini, a grisly
 old veteran who reminded him of Walter Cronkite, the famous news
 anchor.

   They'd been called to a robbery in progress, at a Seven-Eleven.
 The suspect, a twenty-seven year old African American high on crack,
 brandishing a plastic bag filled with money in one hand and a shotgun
 in the other, was just running out the door when their squad car
 screamed into the lot.

   Both he and Walter got out quickly and assumed positions with
 their car between them and the suspect. Both had their revolvers
 out and aimed.

   "Halt!" Walter yelled, "Drop your weapon and put your hands in the
 air!"

   The man dropped the bag then grabbed his shotgun and fired. The
 cruiser's roof-lights shattered. Bits of plastic, metal and glass
 exploded into a deadly maelstrom. Kiss ducked, but a piece of
 shrapnel still grazed his forehead, blood seeped into his eyes. The
 kid was about to shoot, again when they both opened fire. It had
 taken nine rounds, each one a solid hit, to bring the kid down. He'd
 just kept coming and coming. Kiss couldn't remember ever being that
 scared. The next day he handed his thirty-eight police special back
 in, went out and bought himself the magnum. He had nightmares for
 weeks after.

   Nothing like the ones I've got now though, thought Kiss, shaking
 his head. Have to concentrate. He scanned the crowd again. He was
 out there somewhere, could almost feel him, could . . .

   A tall, dark haired man in a olive coloured raincoat was pushing
 his way toward the front of the crowd. Raincoat? In this heat? Kiss,
 about to run after the man, stopped when he noticed two S.S.V. agents
 suddenly grab the man under each armpit and haul him away behind the
 scaffolding. Kiss watched curiously from his post, as they patted
 him down. Watched while the man complied with their demands to remove
 the coat. He couldn't believe it when the man shed the garment and
 stood, stark naked, hands upraised.

   Jeeeezz, Kiss thought, another nutcase. The Pope would be
 impressed. He looked on as two plain clothed policeman covered the
 flasher back up, cuffed him then stuck him in a squad car. Kiss
 shook his head disbelievingly, and continued crowd surveillance.

   The street was packed as far as the eye could see. Kiss knew
 what the odds were of spotting the Slayer especially since they had
 nothing to go on, no description or anything, but still, he had to
 try. Frustrated, he noticed a gorgeous brunette, trailing her
 husband and two young children. She had an hour-glass figure draped
 in a stunning light blue spring dress which highlighted her shapely
 tanned legs and plunging neckline. They tried forcing their way
 closer to the stage and podium. Failing in their attempts, they
 decided to settle in an area about ten feet from Kiss' position. He
 envied the man, not only for his beautiful wife but for his family.
 Kiss had given up a lot in lieu of his career and his obsession with
 the Slayer case left little time for socialisation. He wished for a
 family, something he'd only had for a brief moment in his life. A
 wife, kids -- hell, he hadn't gotten laid in over four months. He
 pulled his eyes off the woman and followed the antics of a couple of
 teenagers cohorting in front of the stage. They were tossing
 water balloons at each other. Must feel good in this heat, Kiss
 thought loosening the knot in his tie.

   The door to City Hall opened and the Major stepped out followed
 closely by the Pope, dressed in his usual white robe. Waving to the
 crowd, he was flanked on his right by Archbishop Roman Paglione in
 all his glory and on his left by Cardinal Simone Reubens. All, in
 turn, were followed by both FBI undercover and SSV agents. They all
 walked slowly down the steps toward the podium. The crowd went wild
 at the sight of the Pope. He seemed very popular with the masses as
 they cheered, whistled, waved and applauded him.

   The Pope and his entourage seated themselves while the Mayor took
 the microphone. The agents remained standing and lined up behind the
 chairs. The Mayor raised his hands and the crowd quieted down.

   "Good afternoon Seattle citizens and visitors," the Mayor said.
 "It is with great pleasure and honour, my humble privilege to
 welcome his Holiness Pope Paul The Second to our beautiful city.
 I know you will all show him the love and respect he so richly
 deserves." He turned, gesturing, to the Pope. "Your Holiness."
 They shook hands and the Mayor stepped back and sat down. The Pope
 adjusted the mike, looked up and faced the crowd, the large golden
 crucifix hanging from his neck shone in the sunlight.

   "Thank-you, Mayor Tompkins. It is my . . ."

   Kiss watched as the brunette fumbling to take a photograph, dropped
 her camera. It fell and rolled beside the shoes of a tall man wearing
 a large, oversized T-shirt and pants. The man bent over and handed it
 back to her with a smile.

   Kiss frowned. What the . . . what . . . no, he thought, it couldn't
 have been. Still, it had looked like . . . . For a second, while the
 man had bent to retrieve the camera his shirt had ridden up on his
 side, and Kiss was sure he'd caught a quick glance of what appeared
 to be grenades hooked onto the man's belt. Grenades? Kiss, puzzled
 and still unsure decided he'd better check it out. He headed toward
 the group, his hand slowly pulling out his gun. Walking, he kept it
 hidden beneath his jacket. No point in causing unnecessary panic.

   He watched in horror as, almost in slow-motion, the man
 reached casually under his shirt, unclipped a grenade from his belt
 and unceremoniously tossed it up onto the podium where it rolled
 innocently beneath the Pope's robe and against his sandled feet.
 Then all hell broke loose.


 "FUNF" Part V
 =-=-=-=-=-=-=

   One of the SSV agents grabbed Pope Paul II and spun him around.
 He landed in a heap among the Mayor and the Archbishop. The agent
 dove onto the grenade. It exploded with an ear-shattering -- WUMP
 -- instantly rending the agents body into a flying cloud of blood,
 bone and viscera. The crowd went berserk, men, women and children
 scattered in every direction. People were trampled and knocked down
 throughout the area. Chaos and mayhem ruled.

   Kiss, shocked by the shear suddenness of the event, nevertheless
 fought his way through the panic. Shoving aside the stampeding mob,
 his gun out now and aimed in the assassin's general direction, he
 saw the man tugging wildly at another grenade. Praying he wouldn't
 hit the brunette, who had been knocked down by the escaping crowd
 and now lay practically under the assassin's feet. She lay curled
 there, her hands cupping her ears, head in the fetal position, her
 husband and kids swept away with the tide. Kiss took aim, fired,
 and didn't stop until his gun clicked empty.

   The first shot took Laz's right arm off at the elbow, the
 unarmed grenade still clutched in its grip. The second blew out his
 left knee. Blood and gristle sprayed all over the brunette, who was
 now screaming. The third tore Laz's heart into pulp. After that it
 was just redundant.

   Kiss and several agents reached the body at about the same time.
 It was draped bloodily on the ground over the still screaming woman.
 All had their guns drawn and ready. With the toe of his shoe, Kiss
 shoved the body off, knelt and gently put his hand on the sobbing
 woman.

   "It's ok, lady," he said. "It's ok. Hush, it's over now."

   She looked up at him with a blood smeared face, flecks of bone
 sprinkled her luscious hair.

   "My brother . . . the kids . . . are they . . . ?" she asked,
 hiccuping the words.

   "They're fine," Kiss answered, pulling her to her feet. "We'll
 find them for you in just a sec." Brother, he thought, her brother.
 He found himself looking at her left hand. Nope, no ring. What the
 hell am I doing, he asked himself, I'm in the middle of a fucking
 war zone, not on the Love Connection. He released her to his partner
 Roy Bristow who took her, still shaking, toward the safety of the
 Hall.

   "What's your name, mam?" Roy asked.

   "Tracey," she replied, wiping away her tears. "Tracey Fellows."

   "Ok, let's go see if we can't find your brother."

   Kiss surveyed his surroundings. The streets, unbelievably, were
 bare. Save for himself and the dozen or so other agents, everyone
 else appeared missing. The Pope and his entourage apparently whisked
 off to safety. Kiss bent to look at the dead man, other's had already
 turned him over. One of the S.S.V. had taken possession of the
 remaining grenades. Kiss counted five. We were lucky, he thought, we
 were so damned lucky. Another agent rumpled through the man's wallet.

   "Any identification?" Kiss asked.

   "Nothing," the agent replied. "Just twenty-four dollars and this."
 He tossed something to Kiss.

   Kiss caught it and turned it over in his palm. It was a crude
 necklace, fashioned with what appeared to be hair. On the end
 dangled a small chunk of gold. Kiss handed it back.

   "Have it analysed," he said, "Maybe we can find out where it came
 from."

   The data would, later, cause bafflement and debate for years.

   To Kiss, the dead man, he was sure it was the Slayer -- could
 feel it in his heart -- looked as if he were Egyptian or Arabic. He
 had the handsome, dark, swarthy look of a Middle Easterner. Certainly
 not the crazed serial killer he would have pictured in his dreams,
 Kiss thought. I wonder who he was, what caused him to do what he did.
 Why, he thought, why. Finally, holstering his gun he slowly made his
 way back to the station. These were questions he would ask himself
 for years, for now, at least, it meant the hunt was over, the
 nightmares banished. He could now go on with his life.


 "SEX" Part VI
 =-=-=-=-=-=-=

   Darkness.

   Suddenly, he could feel two cold metal tongs gripping him around
 his head, pulling him backwards. Backwards and backwards he slid
 in an ocean of black, life-giving blood. His head felt as though it
 was being wretched from his neck. Intense pain flared and raged
 through his body. He wanted to shout, to beg whomever was doing this
 to stop -- to please just stop. But he couldn't, his mouth filled
 with thick, hot, syrupy blood -- choked. Blood was everywhere, it
 filled his universe. Suddenly, everything exploded in light. He
 blinked the blood away . . .

   Lazarus began screaming -- long before the doctor slapped his
 tiny butt.

                                {DREAM}

 Copyright 1995 Dietmar Trommeshauser, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
 -------------------------------------------------------------------
 Dietmar is another excellent writer nice enough to share his work
 with us. He's 39, and living outside of Vancouver, B.C. He attended
 Kootenay School Of Writing, Selkirk College in Nelson B.C. He had a
 diving accident and suffered a spinal injury in 1985, which led him
 to become an avid reader -- in the Horror genre, and admits this has
 influenced his choice in writing. He's been published in literary
 rags in the past, and is currently working on a novel, from which
 TCOF has been presented here, MY LIFE WITH THE SANDMAN, coming soon.
 Dietmar likes to receive email at:  [e-mail]
 ===================================================================