THE STREET PREACHER : Part Three

The Pizzeria was about as busy as it usually would be at 2:23pm week days; busy enough so that there was a point to keeping the place open, but not so much so that you couldn't find an open table anywhere in the building. At one table was a mother and her sleeping baby in a carriage. At another table was a man in a business suit, most likely on his lunch break—Vance Hayman, a regular customer who always left generous tips. There were other customers as well: two teenage girls giggling at the table by the front door. Three other black men by a booth. An older woman by the jukebox.

And sitting in their own little booth was Bart and Kathy, sitting across from one another, in awkward silence, neither really sure of what to say to the other. They were both a little unsure if calling the cops would really do much, but they upheld the belief that it was the right thing to do, even Bart had been converted to Kathy's way of thinking regarding the whole matter, and not terribly surprised about it either. All they could do was wait, he supposed, just sit and wait.

Then Gino approached the young "couple", with neither an elated nor haggard expression on his face, but one of complete neutrality, leaving the two in complete suspense as to how it had gone until the very end. "Well, I called the police," Gino said.

"What did they say?" Kathy asked.

"They'll send someone over to investigate the matter, to see if they can get this taken care of," he answered.

They all cheered, albeit quietly so as not to make a spectacle of themselves to the other customers in the building. Even Bart allowed himself to feel some sense of momentary relief, not wanting to get his hopes up, but still wanting desperately to finally get the vagrant out of his hair once and for all. The thought filled him with elation, and he smiled thinly to himself. Can finally walk to my car knowing I'll be able to do so in peace, he thought excitedly.

"See, Bart, told ya we should've called the cops," Kathy said, grinning.

"Yeah, I guess you did."

"Just remember, Bart, Kathy knows best," she added and then burst out laughing along with her uncle. Bart cracked a thin smile that progressed no further. He'd never been one to laugh at loud at anything no matter what the circumstances, though he found Kathy's comment to be amusing in his own solemn way.

"Anyway," Gino said, through a few lingering chuckles, "I'd better start making that pizza now. I'll have it out for ya in about ten, fifteen minutes."

"Thanks again for your help, Gino."

"Hey, don't mention it, kid. Anything I can do to help a friend."

Gino returned to the kitchen to begin making that pizza for Bart and Kathy, leaving the couple alone once again in that awkward silence, not quite as awkward as it was before for Bart, but still not easy on him either. The only sounds now were coming from the random tunes from the jukebox--big band and swing music; Gino's preference--and the talking and laughter in the background from the other customers.

"Sorry for getting you and your uncle into this mess," he said again, breaking the silence.

"Don't worry about it, Bart, it wasn't your fault."

"I know, but still—"

"I mean, it's not like you chose to be stalked by a psychotic wino."

"You're right about that, but still, I should've said something before, whether it was my problem or not."

"Yes, but there's no point in worrying about it now," she told him. "Let's just hope you can put this whole ugly matter behind us. I don't like the idea of a strange homeless man stalking me when I go to work. Scares the bejesus out of me." She giggled softly.

"Yeah," chuckled Bart, "I've had to put up with that shit for three weeks now."

"I'm just curious about something."

"What is it?"

"When you mentioned about your mother and that priest...Father McCarthy, I think it was," she brought up at last, and whatever tension within Bart that had been quelled moments ago was now back fully and with a vengeance. "I was meaning to talk to you about that."

"I'd rather not get into that, if it's all the same to you," Bart said uneasily.

"Okay, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't pry," replied Kathy.

"I mean, it was a long time ago, a thing of the past, and I'd be much happier keeping it in the past," Bart went on, his voice unsettling, his palms now leaving streaks of perspiration over the surface of the table. "And they're both dead anyway, so they can't hurt me ever again, and I'm nothing like them, I swear. I got help. Years of counseling. And goddamn it, I'm nothing like them at all!" His voice rose in anger, and he was teetering on the brink now of attracting the curious gazes of everyone else in the pizzeria. He calmed himself upon that realization, not wanting to put on a show of his painful childhood for any of them.

"Look, Bart, I'm sorry," Kathy apologized timidly. "Sorry I brought it up."

"No, it's okay...just not something I like to talk about, that's all."

Kathy said nothing, and they were back to that awkward silence all over again; Bart wanting desperately to break it somehow, to know exactly what Kathy was thinking about at this very moment. Was she thinking of what he had said thus far, what he had inadvertently entrusted to her? Was she wondering what had happened when he was a kid? Or did she already have an idea of what he had been talking about? Somehow it was that last possibility that filled him with the most dread.

And here I thought this would be a pleasant experience, he thought dejectedly.

"You okay?" Kathy looked up and asked him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he answered timidly. "Everything's fine, so long as the Street Preacher doesn't bother me ever again."

"I know what you mean."

"He's nothing but an annoyance, a fundamentalist, and a psychopath," Bart went on. "But worst of all: he's way too much of a reminder of my childhood."

"Whatever it was, it must've been bad," Kathy mused, frowning.

"My father left when I was very young," he told her, "I don't remember much about him; but he left me alone with my psychotic fanatic of a mother. She was...very religious...which I suppose would be perfectly harmless in and of itself. But she took to the extremes. Ever read Stephen King's Carrie?"

Kathy nodded, a gaze of bewilderment on her face.

"My mother and Carrie's mother in that book were one and the same. My mother considered me a curse, a punishment that God put on her for having premarital sex. In some ways, she loved me, perhaps. But she despised me at the same time, and sometimes thought of me as the bastard son of Satan, the seed of evil planted within her, damning her. Whenever I screwed up, she would whip me with the wire coat hanger, trying to beat the demons out of me, she called it. Or she would lock me in the basement, which was the worst kind of punishment ever during the winter because she would leave me locked in that cold dark cellar the entire night, shiver, freezing, and alone."

"Oh my God..." Kathy murmured, appalled by what she had heard.

"I read Carrie because one of my friends—well, online buddies; I don't have any real friends—recommended it to me. I didn't really like it, though; it hit too close to home for me."

"I thought it was pretty good," Kathy confessed. "But given what you've been through, I don't blame you one bit for not liking it."

"And then there was Father McCarthy, who also abused me. He never hit me, though. His abuse was more on a sexual level." Bart gazed over the surface of the table as he said this, unable to look Kathy in the eyes as he disclosed this new and shocking revelation to her, for the shame it had brought to him, even to this day. "I'm not going any further with that, so please, don't ever ask me to."

Kathy nodded. "I...um...think that'll due in that regard."

"Good," he said. "Anyway, I got counseled, so I'm perfectly okay. I don't want you thinking that I'm going to abuse my kids if I ever even have any kids, which I suppose is probably a big if, but not too big of a goal to be perfectly honest. And no, I'm not a pedophile either--children don't turn me on in the least bit."

She put her hand over Bart's, tenderly, looking up at him through warm, radiant eyes. "It's okay, Bart," she said warmly. "I know that a lot of abused kids grow up to abuse their own kids, and a lot of kids who are raped grow up to be child molesters in way too many cases, but I refuse to believe that it's written in stone. It doesn't have to be that way. And luckily, they were able to save you with counseling and compassion from becoming that way."

"I don't want to be anything like them," Bart stated. "In fact, I want to be the complete opposite of what those assholes represent. The mere idea of me ever finding religion sickens me to the core."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Kathy frowned.

"Don't be. I'm perfectly content with my life as it is right now. And content is good enough for me."

 

* * *

 

"Hey, been getting a lot of complaints about you, buddy!"

The Street Preacher was startled when the person behind had spoke, too preoccupied in his own thoughts and stalking to see it coming. He immediately turned to his rear.

Standing before the him now was a grossly overweight police officer, who appeared to weigh over three hundred pounds, with a three-digit waste-line. His bald pate reflected the thin darts of sunlight that managed to break through the thickening clouds that darkened the sky. The pealing rash over his scalp nearly the same shade of red as his flushed, doughy face as he raised a stubby finger of his crimson right hand and aiming it at the Preacher.

But the Lord cared not of a man's weight or appearance, but of their deeds, and thus, so should the Street Preacher, who said nothing, merely looking comtemptuously at this potential obstacle that now threatened to stand in his way and vicariously in the way of God's plan as well. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill this man, but was still prepared to do just that, if required.

"Got some reports that you've been loitering around and stalking a few of the employees down at Gino's Pizzeria," the cop went on.

"I'm only doing the Lord's work."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? You some kinda whacked out—"

"I don't have much time."

"Yeah, whatever," scoffed the cop. "Probably one of those psychos preaching on the fuckin' streets about repenting your soul because "Judgement Day" is coming." He sniggered, wheezing laughter, which left the Street Preacher feeling scorned.

"My work is very important, and I don't have much time at all."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should do your 'work' somewhere else, don't you think?"

"Oh no, I couldn't do that. It'd be impossible," the Street Preacher explained, becoming impatient with this officer. He was only here to stand in his way, perhaps one of God's tests, or maybe an outside obstacle, but either way, he would have to be dealt with swiftly, if the Street Preacher's work was going to continue. "My work directly involves two employees of Gino's Pizzeria, and I must complete it before Judgement Day, because Judgement Day is coming, officer, and sooner than you think."

"Stay away from Gino's Pizzeria," admonished the cop. "I get one more report that you're harassing any of the employees there or any customers, I'm comin' back here and takin' you in, ya friggin' maniac. I'm gettin' good 'n' sick of comin' down here 'n' dealin' with all the bullshit with you whacked out winos, so just cut the crap and leave!"

"Are you standing in the way of God's Will?"

"What? What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"You're probably the one who stole my Bible, too."

The officer just stood there, silent, a perplexed look on his face. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, buddy," he said, "but if you think you're gonna distract me with your psychobabble, you got another thing comin', pal!"

"My Bible's missing, officer, and I think you took it."

"Jesus Christ—"

That last one had struck a nerve within the Street Preacher—a raw nerve. It was bad enough he was inadvertently standing in the way of God's divine plan, but now he was taking the Lord's name in vain, and if there was one thing that the Street Preacher wouldn't stand for, it was committing that grave, cardinal sin. "You shouldn't have said that," he muttered bitterly, feeling as though someone had just driven a stake through his heart. "Big mistake."

"Yeah, well, excuse the fuck outta me, asshole!"

"I'll not stand here and listen to your blasphemy a second longer!" exclaimed the Street Preacher as he quickly drew his knife from his inside coat pocket and immediately slashed the edge of the blade against the cop's throat, cutting deep into the carotid artery. The officer hadn't had time to draw his own service revolver (much too heavy to move fast enough) before the knife's edge slit his throat and severed the artery. He could only throw his hand to his throat after the cut had been made and the artery severed, and stand there in shock, gasping and perspiring as the blood spilled through his fingers and down his chest.

When Bart Dawson had taken the Lord's name in vain, it had equally enraged the Street Preacher, but he could do nothing because Bart had been God's Chosen One, thus, to take his life would be to stand in the way of God's will, rather than follow it like any rational Christian. He bent his rage back, and replaced it with the grace and compassion of the Lord, because Bart was such an important figure in what God had in store. This cop, on the other hand, was nothing; he had no place in the Street Preacher's objective, and thus, he had been authorized to take this heathen bastard out with extreme prejudice if necessary, should he stand in the way, and should he not allow himself to be listen to reason.

His eyes blazed red with fury now, as he watched the officer staggering back, his hand still clutched to his throat tightly, as though he were choking himself, but not tight enough to prevent the blood from spurting from the new crevice over his throat and shoot down his chest and stomach, soaking deep into his blue uniform. The Street Preacher lunged forward, lifting the knife and then bringing it down in a smooth, quick arch and cutting a horizontal slash into the cop's fat belly. It was a superficial cut, but still enough to throw the cop off balance. His hands fell away from his bleeding throat, his legs buckling sharply, and then he fell back, hitting his head smartly against the brick wall behind him and then his back sliding against it as he fell to slowly to the ground, the back of his head still resting against the wall, the rest of his body crumpled on the pavement.

The Street Preacher crouched over him, his left hand grabbing the obese cop's bleeding throat, squeezing tightly, feeling the warm blood and sweat soak into his palms, his grip still held firmly around the neck despite it growing slippery with each new bloody spurt. With his right hand, he brought the knife down upon the officer's chest, feeling a few droplets of blood splash against his gritted teeth, but barely noticing that or anything else over his rage.

"This'll teach ya to take the name of our Lord Jesus Christ in vain!" he spewed in disgust.

He lifted the knife and then brought it down upon the officer's chest again and again, thrusting it harder and deeper each time the blade penetrated, the cop's face contorting into an expression of fear and agony as the blade went into his chest again and again, bringing more and more blood, which coated the metal of the blade and dripped from the edge in a long streak in the air each time the Street Preacher ripped it out. The cop struggled to scream, but his screams would not come as his windpipe was blocked off from the Preacher's tight grip; only a few hoarse, husky squawks that were few and far between.

The he stopped and released his grip from the officer's severed throat and slowly rose to his feet, surveying what he had just done. He peered solemnly down upon the bulky officer, watching his legs twitching slowly as he gazed back up at the Street Preacher with a cold, glassy stare, covered in a cocoon of his own slowly congealing blood, more blood gushing from his nose and mouth, as well as the widening crevice in his throat. He now lay, a huge, grossly overweight man in a voluminous crimson pool.

I should probably hide the body somewhere, he thought distantly as he wiped the knife's edge against his soiled jeans, but then: No, I can't do that. There's no time. Plus I'd be lucky if I can even lift the guy. But what can I do? I can't just leave him there.

JUST GO AND TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS! the voice of God screamed in his head.

"But what if someone should find him lying here?" asked the Street Preacher. "They'd surely send more after me once they discover his rotting corpse."

Don't worry about it! the Lord ordered sternly. Just do what you have to do and let things take care of themselves!

"Yes, My Lord."

He then began to approach the back doors of Gino's Pizzeria. He still had some time left; not much, granted, but enough to do what he had to do without getting stupid. The Street Preacher grinned as he patted the breast of his coat, where the knife resided within his inside coat pocket. His only regret now was in not asking what the lubberly cop had done with his Bible before he had killed him.

 

* * *

 

"Finally got that pizza made," Gino said, grinning, as he approached the table where Bart and Kathy said. "Pepperoni and mushrooms, just like ya like 'em."

"Thanks, Uncle Gino!" exclaimed Kathy.

"Yeah, thanks," repeated Bart.

"Don't mention it. Bon appetite."

He placed the hot pizza box gently onto the table, left momentarily, returned with a fresh pitcher of coke, then went back into the kitchen once more while Bart and Kathy poured the coke and began eating their pizza.




The back door had been left unlocked and the Street Preacher had easily been able to pull it open and slip inside to the kitchen. Fools, he thought, nothing but heathen fools whose negligence has sealed their fate.

He crept through the small kitchen, drawing his knife, and then saw Gino by the oven, his back to the Street Preacher, and appearing completely unaware of what was going on. This may be too easy, the Street Preacher thought. There has to be a catch here somewhere. But he continued onward, creeping ever closer to Gino, his quarry not moving, not turning, not stirring in anyway. Gino pulled the pan out briefly, wearing oven mitts, looked at the pizza, and then put it back into the oven to cook a little longer.

Gino turned at the very last second, and his eyes raised in terror as he saw the Street Preacher coming, welding his knife. The Street Preacher brought it down upon Gino in as smooth an arc, piercing above Gino's left collar bone. The man cried out in pain as the blade sunk into him, sundering the left strap of his apron.

"Get away!" screamed Gino as he threw out his hands blindly, trying to push the Preacher away. "HELP!"

The Street Preacher ripped his knife from where it had penetrated above Gino's collar bone, elliciting another cry of pain as blood spurted thinly from the wound, and then shove the bald man's head against the oven door.

"I'll not let the likes of you corrupt Bart Dawson," hissed the Street Preacher as he held his victim down upon the floor, crawling on him, his knees now pressing against Gino's chest, spittle now dripping from his lips. "No way, man, you won't taint his soul one bit with your evil black magic. He belongs to the Lord, Gino, and the Lord will not let the likes of you deter him from his true path."

"What're you talkin' about?"

He peered up at his killer, his eyes dazed, confused, as blood ran from the new laceration on his forehead. His eyes became pinned upon the tip of the blade that was held above him. But before he could say anything else, the Street Preacher brought the knife swiftly down, perforating Gino's chest, burrowing straight to the man's heart and killing him instantly.

"One down," cooed the Preacher, "one to go."

He rose to his feet, barely aware that he had now been covered in the blood of the cop's and that of Gino's as well. He looked down upon Gino's dead body, who wasn't as much of a bloody mess as the officer, but still pretty bad. It was quick for this one, he surmised. Perhaps a bit too quick. But it didn't matter. Only the end result mattered. And the end result was that this harbinger of evil was dead.

And now for Kathy...

He went to the kitchen doors, pushing them open slightly and peering through to the dining area, watching in disgust as he saw Kathy and Bart, sitting by a table together, eating together, talking and laughing together. The very sickened him, and he supposed he should attack right now, except there were other people in the Pizzeria as well...other witnesses. It was best to wait while the bitch was alone, the way Gino was alone, and the cop, and the prostitute from the night before, as well as that wretched abortion doctor.

He burst through the doors, and sprinted straight through the dining area toward the exit.

 

* * *

 

"Oh my God, it's the Street Preacher!" exclaimed Kathy, now suddenly terrified.

She rose from her seat, and then watched, transfixed, as he blazed from the kitchen toward the exit and then left the building completely. Her eyes lowered and she saw the tracks of blood that he had left behind, knowing that they could only mean one thing.

"Oh no..."

"Kathy...Kathy, you okay...?"

"Uncle Gino..." she whispered, her voice quavering. She sobbed as she hurried toward the kitchen, now suddenly hysterical, unable to control herself. Her stomach curled tightly as her throat tightened. "Uncle Gino..."

Kathy pushed her way past the gathering crowd stirred up by the hearkened appearance and departure of the Street Preacher, not hearing the murmur and cries from the harrowed patrons that she pushed aside. She bolted straight toward the kitchen doors and threw them open. Daunting thoughts and images that flashed through her mind of what she might see left her restless and disquieted, churning her gut. Her heart was now jackhammering so hard against her rib cage that she might have feared it would shatter ribs and tear itself apart had her mind not already been preocupied with other harrowing thoughts.

Her eyes darted left, toward the oven. And that's when she saw the one horrifying site she'd been hoping against hope that she wouldn't lay witness to these past few minutes, the one sight that would forever haunt her, remaining permenantly imprinted within her mind and nightmares: Her uncle, lying dead by the oven, blood running in thick rivulets down his face, shoulder, and torso, now quickly coagulating from the heat emanating from the oven. He looked back at her, his eyes in that glassy stare that only death could provide, and she became horrified as the sickening realization that the Street Preacher had actually killed her uncle finally overtook her.

"UNCLE GINO!" Kathy squalled hysterically, then fell to her knees and cried helplessly.

 

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