THE STREET PREACHER : Part Six

Left to his own resources, the Street Preacher had gotten lucky this one time. Or perhaps it truly had been the Grace of God that had led him to where he stood now, ever closer to his quarry, the Lord acting secretly on his own behalf. The Lord works in mysterious ways. It didn't matter, he supposed, because he had found it at last. The guessing game panned out. In the parking lot of this five-story apartment complex was Kathy's Dodge Neon. He could recognize the license plate: 53559. And if that weren't enough, there was that red, white, and blue GOD BLESS AMERICA bumper sticker on the top right-hand corner of the rear window. He could recognize those features on a Dodge Neon anywhere. The Street Preacher had a photographic memory.

An amnesiac with a photographic memory...

What an absurd thought! The Street Preacher laughed uproareously. His laughter would have surely been heard within an eight-block radius had it not been mingled with a sudden crack of thunder that rang off simultaneously, drowning out all other noise.

He stood a few seconds longer in grim vigilance, unmindful of the chilling wind, the only thought cursing through his warped mind was that Bart must surely be inside with her and that he didn't have much time before that filthy whore damned Bart's soul for an eternity. A shame Bart couldn't see her for what she truly was...the Preacher's heart sank and he thought he might begin to weep, but then, that was why he was hear, why the Lord had summoned him in the first place. He was the calvary, and by the time this night was through, he would have rescued Bart from the evil temptress's clutches.

Just then, a song began to play in his head: "Control" by Puddle of Mud; a hit that was affectionately known by youth as the "Smack My Ass Song" (such vulgar diminutives sickened the Street Preacher and he felt like vomiting on the spot). It hadn't been but three nights ago that he had last heard the song; it had been blasting out of the staticky radio of a junkheap filled with a bunch of drunk teenagers cruising down the road past him as he strolled, now startled out of his deep musings by the sudden roar of drunk teens and blaring music. He despised that song as he despised most popular music, movies, or what-have-you. They all represented sick perversions and Satan, both fierce enemies of everything the Street Preacher stood for.

Still, it served as a reminder of what Kathy wanted for Bart.

Bart might not have seen through her veil, but the Preacher could. She was nothing but an evil demon bitch and she had to be stopped at all costs and Bart had to be saved. Kathy might be very attractive in her guise, very alluring, the pinnacle of temptation, but the Preacher could easily see slatternly whore for what she truly was, her true appearance behind the guise.

Her eyes were not blue as they appeared, but two glowing red orbs. Her teeth were sharp like razors, and he could see the putrid yellow froth around her rotting lips. And her hands were like claws, with talons sharp enough to cut through steel. And her hair, which appeared blond, was really not hair at all but vile serpents slithering from her scalp. Where could such an abomination have come from, the Street Preacher couldn't guess, but—

(the Shit Zone is a city of death)

The Shit Zone—

The Street Preacher stopped in his tracks at the thought, startled, his heart rate increasing suddenly and he began to quiver. I get bad vibes every time I step foot in that place, the trucker had said two years ago, and now, for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom, the Preacher could finally relate to what he had said. He couldn't even recall ever having been to The Shit Zone and now suddenly he was beginning to get bad vibes as well. What was the Shit Zone? The Preacher hadn't the slightest clue. But he knew this much: the Shit Zone was a piece of hell on earth, and that Kathy was one of its denizens. And so Kathy must be stopped.

Why must Kathy be stopped? cried an angry female voice in the Preacher's head, one he couldn't recall ever hearing before, but which still sounded eerily familiar nonetheless, a cryptic case of deja vu, perhaps. Kathy isn't evil. She's a really nice girl, wholesome and good and the best thing that could have ever happened to Bart. Why take that away from him...from them both? What gives you the right? Why not just leave them the hell alone?

The voice, however harsh it might have been, made perfect sense somehow, and the Street Preacher was about to turn back now, to let them move on and forget about him. It seemed like the right thing to do, the Christian thing to do.

Thunder boomed just above, and a flash of lightning went off just ten feet past him.

He felt sudden pressure squeezing his head, crushing his brain inside his skull and the pain was immeasurable. He cried out, tears streaming from his eyes as his cries of pain rang, drowned out only by each subsequent crack of thunder. Then the pressure was gone, and blood began to trickle from his left nostril, past the corner of his lip. The Street Preacher chuckled softly, then the chuckles grew louder, and within seconds he was roaring with laughter, foam flying thickly from his lips. The laughter ceased abruptly, and he was still foaming at the mouth, his eyes almost blazing in the darkness, and the Street Preacher was once again set on his path.

"Kathy must be killed at any cost," he mumbled quickly under his breath. "Must save Bart Dawson...save him at any cost...Bart Dawson's gotta be saved and Kathy's gotta die! Hallelujah! Amen!" He slowly made the sign of the cross.

The Street Preacher threw a military salute toward the open night air and hurried quickly toward the five-story apartment complex.

 

* * *

 

The landlady was easy pickings, not surprising, since she had to be somewhere in her early sixties by the looks of her. Then again, looks along were never a viable indication of one's age and the Street Preacher was a testament to that fact, having the body of a man in his early thirties only two years ago, but now with one of a man nearly as old as the landlady appeared. It didn't matter, though, because she was still an easy catch. The old bag hadn't even seen or heard the Street Preacher coming, didn't sense his presence at all until it was too late. He creeped silently behind her as she walked down the dimly lit corridor, and then, when he felt it the best moment, lunged forward, grasped at the back of her shoulder, pulled her tightly toward him, and placed a hand over her mouth before she could utter a shriek.

"Don't move, and don't scream."

She muffled a few noises, and the Street Preacher could feel her hot breath over his hand, and her saliva moistening his palm, but she complied with his orders: she neither moved nor screamed, and after a second or two, she was completely silent. The Street Preacher held his knife to her throat, the knife edge barely touching her jugular.

"If you scream or draw any undue attention toward us, I'll cut your throat."

 

* * *

 

"Ah, duct tape," the Street Preacher sighed listlessly, "amazing how many things you can do with it." He looked at the thinned role of tape he held in his left hand, and then of the elderly landlady now strapped in a thick cocoon, restrained to her pink swivel chair, muffled noises coming from her lips; she had been gagged by a small piece of duct tape over her mouth.

"Please understand, ma'am, that I don't want this to be anymore painful for you than it has to be," he explained. "And I definitely don't want to kill you. The last thing I ever want to do is kill a fellow believer."

Trembling, the landlady shot him a puzzled look.

The Street Preacher smiled warmly and pointed toward the cross around her neck. "You're among the righteous, like me," he went on. "It would be a shame to kill you, but the Lord says I must let nothing stand in the way of what I have to do. I'm sure you understand perfectly well, don't you, ma'am?"

She nodded frantically.

The Street Preacher could see her thick glasses beginning to slip off her nose, and then took them off tenderly before they could fall to the ground and shatter, then held them for a second before placing them gently on the desk in front of where she sat. "Here now, we don't want these getting broken, now do we? I'm sure that they must've cost you a fortune. Not that either of us would care much for money. But it would be money better spent on charity, on giving to the poor. I'm sure a devoutly religious woman such as yourself would agree?"

She nodded again, just as agitatedly as before.

"I'm glad you see my point. Now, I want you to relax, so we can make this as painless as possible. I'm going to remove the tape from your mouth, but you can't scream once I do that, otherwise, I'm going to have to kill you, understand?"

She nodded.

The Street Preacher slowly pulled the tape from her mouth, very gently, not wanting to cause her any pain or discomfort from the act. The landlady winced, and the Preacher realized that it was impossible to completely dull the sense of pain, but it was still best to make it so she suffered as little as possible. He could see the fear in her eyes, and yearned to console her, but couldn't, as it would most certainly be detrimental to his cause.

"Out of curiosity, just how old are you anyway?" he asked once the tape had been completely off her mouth. He crumpled it into a tight ball and casually tossed it to the ground. "And please, don't give me that tired old line: 'old enough not to say'. It's just so cliched, wouldn't you agree. No, no, no, I'd rather you didn't elude to the question as it is important for me to know."

"Is that the reason you tied me to this chair, so you can know my age?"

"No, it's not the reason. Just shut up and answer the question."

"Sixty-two," she replied, her voice quavering.

"Sixty-two?" The Street Preacher considered this, then looked directly into the landlady's eyes and asked: "How old do you think I am?"

"I...I don't know how old you are...I don't know!" Her voice became distorted in her utter terror. Beads of sweat broke over her brow.

"Take a guess."

"I dunno...seventy?"

"A good guess, but probably not the correct one."

"What do you mean? Why're you doin' this?"

"The truth is, I don't really know how old I am." He frowned, feeling as though he may begin to weep as he explained his plight to the old woman. "Sure, I may look seventy, but I don't think I'm any older than around thirty-five. Maybe even younger than that." He looked at the woman, and for a second, his gaze was radiant with love. He wished he could somehow live his life, his dream, through her, wished that it were possible. "I guess I envy you in a way. I know it's a sin, my sin, but God knows we're not perfect creatures, and He is very forgiven, as long as we are truly sorry for our sins, and I am sorry. Very sorry. The knowledge that I am sinning is tearing me up inside, but it's true, and I can't help myself."

The landlady began to sob, tears spilling down her face, her lips parted and quivering.

"Sure, you're old like I am now, but at one time you had your youth," the Preacher elucidated wistfully. "Your youth wasn't drained from you as it was quickly drained from me. You didn't age forty years in two years like I did. No—your youth, your very life was never cruelly stripped from you. You were allowed to live, to love, and to remember. You were allowed to have children, grandchildren, friends and family. A husband—"

"My husband's dead," the landlady interjected, sobbing, her eyes filled with sorrow as well as the unfortunate terror that plagued her. She grimaced; the Preacher could tell this was torture for her, but somehow couldn't help himself. "He died three years ago..."

"But you remember him, don't you?"

She nodded. "I loved him...very deeply."

"And that's why I envy you: because you had a life. You have a life still, whereas I have nothing. I am nothing. I don't know my wife or my kids. I don't even know if I have a wife and kids. Whatever I had before is gone now. I lost everything in the accident...everything except my youth and my health, which I lost not long after. Whoever I was before is dead now. I'm nobody. I don't exist at all."

His voice trailed off, and he felt as though he were on the brink of crying once again, crying like the old lady he had locked in a cocoon of duct tape over her own swivel chair.

"I'm sorry for whatever you've been through," the woman murmured, "but I had nothing to do with it."

"I know that," he told her, his voice calm and soothing. "I know that it's not your fault, and I don't blame you for what happened. That's not even why I'm here. And I truly am sorry for everything I'm putting you through, but you have to understand; it has to be this way."

"Why? Why does it have to be this way? What do you want?"

"I need the location of two of your tenants—both living in the same flat: Gino Ginelli and his niece Kathy Snell. I need to know where I can find them."

"I don't know," she stammered. "I...I can't think right now...please..."

"Oh, I think you do know."

"No...I don't...please...please don't hurt me..."

"TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE?" Spittle flew from the lips of the Street Preacher. His grip around the hilt of the knife tightened; every vein in his body was corded, protruding through his skin. Tears streamed down his face, but his voice remained perfectly clear. "TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE OR I SWEAR I'LL SLIT YER FUCKIN' THROAT!"

"Room 436," she spat out, now crying hysterically. "Room 436 on the fifth floor. Kathy's there, with her boyfriend...I...I don't know who he is...but...Gino hasn't gotten home yet..."

Gino's dead, he wanted to tell her; but she had apparently not found out about it yet, and while he pitied her for this, he couldn't tell her of it; she couldn't know, not yet, anyway. As far as she knew, probably, Gino was alive and well, probably working overtime at his pizza place. It was best to keep her ignorant.

"What do you want with 'em anyway?"

"I need to kill Kathy," he explained, now keeping a straight face. "I need to kill her before she manages to damn Bart's soul."

"What...t-that's crazy...she...you can't kill her or her uncle...they...they're believers too."

He wanted to lash out at her for such blaspheme, but restrained himself at the last second as he achieved understanding. She wasn't lying to him, covering for the heathen demon that was Kathy, but truly ignorant of what was going on. She was never meant to know the Street Preacher's mission.

The Street Preacher tore off a small piece of duct tape and placed it over the landlady's mouth, hearing her hissing through the tape, but not screaming. "I'm sorry, but I have to keep you from screaming and this is the only way for me to be guaranteed that you won't give away my position and screw everything up," he explained to her. "

He lifted the small cross around her neck, held it tenderly in the palm of his hands, and kissed it before letting it fall to her chest again.

"If only you knew," he sighed, "then perhaps you'd understand. This is the Lord's plan. This is what God wants. And I'm the one to carry it out. This is my mission, and it's all I have left."

He dropped the thin roll of duct tape to the ground, turned, and headed for the elevator. Five feet away from the elevator, he turned to the landlady once more. "This is very important, what I have to do," he said. "If you told me the truth about where I can find Kathy, then I will be able to complete my objective and everything will be okay." He sighed, then added morosely: "But if you lied...if you lied, then I'm gonna have to come back here and kill you."

 

* * *

 

As the Street Preacher tormented and interrogated the landlady on the bottom level, Bart and Kathy--both completely oblivious to what had been going on—sat close to one another on the couch, basking in the pleasant afterglow of what they had just done. Had Bart not been raped as a child by Father McCarthy, he would have been a virgin up until just now. Twenty-three years of age and still a virgin. He had never really been bothered much by the thought, as he supposed most males might be. Sex with Father McCarthy had always been so horrible; that would most assuredly have a lot to do with it.

As an adolescent, though, Bart still had the same sexual urges most boys would have during puberty. He had his share of wet dreams. He could remember the first time he had one. It had seemed like he had died and gone to heaven. Though he wouldn't describe what had happened when his mother had found those dried semen stains over his bed sheets in quite the same manner. Bart shuddered when thinking of the way she had whipped him with the coat hanger for having such sinful thoughts, such evil lusts, which a boy had no business having at all. Or how about the time she had found those magazines beneath his bed. Mother had dragged him immediately outside in the back yard that night, holding him, squeezing him tightly around the back of his neck, and he could almost feel her nails biting into his flesh as he watched her burn each one of those magazines,

(next time I'll burn YOU as well)

watched the paper disintegrate in the blazing campfire. It seemed to go on forever, and as he stood, his eyes watering, coughing harshly as he continued to inhale the putrid smoke (his mother held him very close to the fire), he feared she would push him in as well to burn away whatever evil spirits lurked within.

Even now, after the years of counseling he had been through, Bart still struggled to alleviate the residual guilt he now felt. He still feared his mother would burst into the room and condemn him for what he had done with Kathy and, even worse, for how much pleasure the sinful deed had brought to him. How dare you allow this slut to defile you! she would rave. Sex is for procreation ONLY and NOT for one's pleasure! You'll burn in hell for this for sure!

But Bart no longer even believed in hell, so it didn't matter what some old, dead crazy bitch had to say about that matter. He had enjoyed what he and Kathy had done. She had enjoyed it, too. Up until this night, sex had always seemed like a bad thing, bringing perhaps a little bit of pleasure at first (his experiences with teenage masturbation) but a great deal of pain and shame later on. But not this time, because this time, there was no one to beat him for what he had done, and this time, he had done what he had done because he wanted to. It was completely his decision and not at all like being twelve again and getting raped up the ass by a sixty-year-old religious pervert. If nothing else, it was another step closer to conquering an unhealthy upbringing. Bart marvelled at how liberating the experience now seemed to him. One step closer to freedom.

"I love you," he breathed.

He had never been able to say such a statement to anyone before tonight. Maybe when he was still a child, he had said something of that nature to his mother, and perhaps at one time he had actually meant it as well. Though upon reflection of his childhood, all he could remember feeling when thinking of his mother was an unrelenting and malignant terror, which—even now, several years after her death—he still couldn't lose entirely.

"I love you, too, Bart," she returned, smiling warmly.

Bart pulled his shirt back on (by this point, they were both now fully dressed once again), and felt at peace upon hearing Kathy's reply. Laying back in each other's arms, both Bart and Kathy began to slowly drift off into a brief but peaceful slumber, undisturbed by the distant thunder they heard from outside.

 

* * *

 

They were then abruptly awakened by a sudden thrashing at the front door.

At first it only stirred them out of their doze, and they thought it was merely another bolt of thunder. But as the thrashing continued, they realized it wasn't just thunder and the wind after all. Someone was outside, in the hall. Someone was trying to get in.

At first Bart instinctively feared that it was his mother trying to break in, and that she had arrived after all and he would feel the merciless Wrath of God punishing both him and Kathy for what they had just done. He realized the absurdity of the thought and it quickly fled. He then speculated that perhaps it had been the Street Preacher, and he had somehow found him and Kathy after all. It was absurd, but it made more sense than the last possible scenario.

Kathy screamed and Bart immediately drew her closer to him.

"Stay down. Find somewhere to hide and don't come out until I tell you it's safe!"

"What about you?"

"If it's the Street Preacher, I've got nothing to worry about at all."

"That man's a lunatic, Bart! You saw what he did to my uncle." Her voice broke away, and he could see even in this darkened living room that she was beginning to cry. "I can't bear to lose you, too, Bart, please..."

"I'll be okay," he reassured her. "It's not me he wants dead; it's you. In his mad delusions, I'm some kind of chosen one and you're the evil demon bitch corrupting my soul."

They heard

(the Street Preacher)

whatever was outside banging against the door once again, and then again, and the mahogany door nearly leapt off its hinges.

The fearful expression over Bart's face darkened. His hands grew taut as Kathy's terror grew more intense. "Just go, NOW!" he shouted at her. "Find somewhere to hide and STAY there before it's too late!" Kathy broke away from Bart's hold over her and hurried toward the bathroom, nearly tripping and falling through the glass coffee table before reaching the bathroom, and then slamming the door shut and locking it immediately.

It was just as Bart heard the click of the bathroom door lock, and the rumbling of thunder from outside, that whoever was in the hallway had thrown himself against the front door once again, and this time the door gave way, swinging outward and smacking against the wall. And through the doorway stood the sudden intruder; it was the Street Preacher. How this psychopath had found where Kathy lived was irrelevant. The fact that he was here, that he now knew where Kathy lived was all that mattered, and within Bart was a cold realization that one way or another, he had to finish this sordid affair once and for all if Kathy was ever again to be safe.

 

* * *

 

Inside the bathroom, Kathy sat curled in a fetal ball, her lower back pressed against the door, trembling fearfully and wishing somehow that she could see what was going on and make sure that Bart was okay.

It's not me he wants dead; it's you. In his mad delusions, I'm some kind of chosen one and you're the evil demon bitch corrupting my soul, Bart had said. But what if he'd been wrong? It was too likely of a scenario, since the Street Preacher was obviously insane and thus, you couldn't use logic and reason to figure out what he'd do next because that wouldn't apply to him at all. And if the Preacher upped and decided to kill Bart anyway, regardless of whatever delusions had taken him under control--

Calm down, Kathy, you don't even know if it's him or not.

But who else would it have been? Had it been one of her friends, they would have knocked. Ditto with Gino's friends, had they not already received the terrible news, which, Kathy supposed, was a dreadful, yet very real possibility, though it seemed irrelevant at the moment. Kathy and her uncle had had no enemies prior to this dreadful day, no one that wanted them dead, no one that had any reason to hate them at all.

Everyone they had ever come into contact with had always been very fond of them, had always held the highest opinion of them and found them a pleasure to be around. And both Kathy and her uncle had had a great many friends, with little if any enemies. It was almost surreal that this could be happening, like a bad dream, the way she had felt all those years ago, as a child, when she'd been informed of her parents death in a train accident. It was different now, though, because her life was in danger as well. At least with her parents, it had only been an accident; the train merely derailed (Kathy was never informed as to why exactly that had happened, but had an idea that it was just a freak accident); no one wanted them dead. There was no religious fundamentalist living on the streets who, in his mad delusions, had perceived them to me abominations spewed forth from the putrid pit of hell.

"I have come for you, Bart Dawson," a voice outside had said.

The voice was unfamiliar, yet Kathy instinctively attributed it to that of the Street Preacher.

He very well might have a gun at that, and could shoot Bart within an instant no matte his perceived mission in life had been. He was a psychopath, and she realized that trying to second guess someone like the Street Preacher would be extremely dangerous. Oh please, Bart, she thought, please don't do anything stupid...don't get killed, please don't get killed. She felt helpless, completely powerless to do anything at all. Bart had ordered her into the bathroom to protect her, she realized that. Yet all it did was add to her worry, because she couldn't even see what was going on out there, only hear them...

"For the sake of the entire universe, Bart, you must come with me now."

Oh my God, this guy's completely lost it! Kathy thought, shivering.

"You have to come with me right now. I beg of you to swallow your doubts and fears and come with me. We don't have much time left..."

"Get away from me, you son of a bitch! I want nothing to do with you! You're nothing but a relic from my childhood, a childhood of nothing more than pain and shame, and I want you out of my life!"

Another crack of thunder outside, this time sounding like a bomb had gone off nearby, and Kathy could see the blue flash of lightning dancing through the window. Fear and rage overtook her. This was the guy that had killed her uncle—whom she loved dearly—all out of a mad delusion. Pure blaspheme on his own part for believing that he was working under the guidance of the Lord. And now he was here to kill her as well.

Kathy thought of the Colt 45 in Uncle Gino's bedroom. He was a gun owner, but would have never used the weapon on another human being, only threaten them with the firearm to get them out of the apartment should someone break in. It was loaded so he could fire a warning shot if necessary, but more so because he sometimes liked to take it to the shooting ranges with him on the weekends (and had even taken Kathy to the ranges a couple of times as a kid). He had always imparted to Kathy of the dangers of a gun, that a gun was not a toy but a dangerous weapon, and always made sure the safety was on and that it was locked away in a very safe spot.

Kathy thought that perhaps if she were able to get her hands on the gun, she could use it on the Street Preacher. It would be perfectly legal—self-defense. She never imagined that she could possible kill another human being but the Street Preacher wasn't a human being at all but a monster, an abomination in the guise of humanity. And it would be to protect Bart, to keep him from getting killed, should the Street Preacher finally decide that Bart couldn't be converted.

But the plan was unfeasible. For one thing, she would have to cross the living room to get to her uncle's bedroom, not a far distance, but still putting herself in the line of fire and exposing herself to the Preacher's range. Also, Uncle Gino had kept it hidden from her—she didn't know for sure where it had been, only that it had been in his bedroom. Bart had told her to stay put, after all, as well, and so, given the circumstances, it would probably be best that she stay out of the way.

Looks like Bart's on his own after all, Kathy thought, sighing grimly.

 

* * *

 

"Get out of here now!" ordered Bart, bitterly.

The Street Preacher merely stared at him, as though in a trance. In his right hand he held his knife, and his left hand was offered to Bart, as though he were reaching out to him. "It's Kathy, isn't it?" he said, his voice calm, almost serene. "She's to blame for all of this. She's taken control of you, Bart, and you must push away her influence. She will only damn your soul."

"Keep her out of this, goddamn it, this is between you and me, so leave her outta this!"

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Bart—"

"Shut up, damn it, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Bart bared his teeth at the Preacher, his fists tightly clenched, the vein in his forehead bulging outward through his skin, about ready to burst. He was enraged, and the truth of the matter was, he didn't want the Street Preacher to leave at all. He wanted the Preacher to stay, to stay and keep pulling his fundamentalist bullshit to he could kill the stupid motherfucker and put an end to this shit once and for all.

"Where is she? Where's Kathy hiding?"

Bart said nothing.

"You have to tell me, Bart, please, if I'm to help you, then you must tell me where she's hiding!"

"I don't want your help," Bart said matter-of-factly.

"You don't have a choice in the matter. This is fate we're talking about, Bart, the Lord's plan. It's bigger than you, bigger than me. You have no choice but to comply with it."

"No, I have a choice," Bart said, "and I choose to reject every bullshit prophecy you ever pulled outta your ass!"

"Please, Bart," the Street Preacher was begging now, not yet on his knees, but Bart thought, with a silent chuckle that the Preacher couldn't hear, that that would only be a matter of time. "Stop with the sinful language and tell me where she is. You must! She is a cancer to your soul and only I can cut her out."

"Fuck you."

"No!" shouted the Street Preacher, and Bart was barely able to hold himself back from strangling this sick son of a bitch where he stood now.

A flash of lightning briefly lit up the apartment, revealing momentarily every line, every wrinkle on the Street Preacher's gaunt face, and those bloodshot eyes were seemed permanently locked in that lunatic gaze of his. The Preacher's mouth dropped in surprise when Bart has once again refuted everything this psychopath had told him. He was nothing more than a raving lunatic, the Street Preacher was, a remnant of Bart's, but also completely insane, even more so than Father McCarthy and Bart's mother.

"You don't understand the forces you're dealing with, the magnitude of—"

"Yes, I know exactly what I'm dealing with: a complete psychopath."

"You see me as a lunatic, but I know the truth, Bart. You must listen to me and you must join me, because if you don't, the whole world will be forever damned. I am the only hope humanity has. And the only way I can save them is if you are converted."

"I don't want to be converted. Maybe your life is fine for you, but it's not for everyone and it's definitely not for me."

"We don't have time to debate."

Thunder rumbled loudly from nearby, startling Bart, and making him shake briefly before he regained composer. Big mistake, he cursed himself, I can't show any signs of fear at all and I can't waste my time debating with this maniac. I don't know what his problem, but the longer I stand here and debate with him, the more of a chance he'll figure out where Kathy's hiding. I heard her lock the door, but that won't matter. The front door was locked as well, and he was able to break through. If Kathy so much as sneezes, this bastard will be on her like no tomorrow. I gotta finish this fast!

Bart felt a chill run up his spine, but stood his ground, thankful that the Street Preacher hadn't noticed when the lightning had startled him. He was lucky...for now. But as he himself had realized, he had to finish this fast and quit screwing around in the Preacher's endless and absurd debates. His heart was racing, and he kept on telling himself that he should attack, launch out on this scumbag and beat him to death, but he didn't do that. Nothing happened. And Bart wished more than anything that he had the spontaneity of a madman.

And as the thoughts and dread coursed through Bart, the Street Preacher continued his nonsensical rantings: "The world is coming to an end, soon, Bart, and we don't have time for this crap at all."

Yeah, the second part's right, Bart thought, and wondered what his problem was. Was he crazy, as crazy as the Street Preacher for continuing to participate in this petty quarrel, while with each passing second, Kathy's life was put in jeopardy, and the chances that he might spring out on her grew more and more. His fists tightened, and he struggled to lunge out at the Preacher, but couldn't. He was frozen, his feet cemented to the ground.

"That's what they said would happen on the first of January 2000," Bart muttered, hoping the gruffness in his voice would be enough to hide his anxiety.

"The date was wrong," argued the Preacher. "It isn't at the beginning of either the second or third millennium. I don't know what the exact date is, but it's coming. Dooms Day is coming, and there's not a thing that you or anyone else can do to stop it. This is God's will and he is about to carry it out. It has already begun."

Man, this is nuts! Why did I tell Kathy to hide in the bathroom. I should've told her to crawl out of the fire escape. I should've gone with her. Damn, what's wrong with me...I should've done something other than what I'm doing now. Damn it!

"The apocalypse is coming, and we're closer than you think," the Preacher raved.

For a brief second, Bart considered what he had said and thought of the various terrorist activity that had been occurring these past few weeks: crashing planes into the twin towers in New York. The anthrax spores passed through the mail. For a brief second, Bart mused on these tragic happenings and wondered if there was a correlation between the terrorist threats and the Street Preacher's end-of-the-world prophecy. He felt a bleak sensation of uneasiness sinking deeper into the pit of his stomach.

It was what the Street Preacher had said next that had eliminated the uneasiness that Bart had felt and restored all faith he held that the Preacher was nothing more than a madman and religious fanatic:

"I know, because the Lord told me so Himself. He spoke to me, Bart, and He told me exactly how it's supposed to go down."

"The only thing you heard are the voices in your head."

"No, damn it, I'm not lyin' to you!" he cried, appearing genuinely hurt that Bart would have accused of deceit or of being completely delusional. "I speak the truth," he attested. "The truth. It's the Lord that speaks in my ears. Just because others can't hear Him doesn't mean that He's not real. How else would you explain the times I've been able to perform physically strenuous activities in such an otherwise sickly body as this? It was the Lord giving me strength."

"It was an adrenaline rush and nothing more," Bart answered.

The Street Preacher's face grew dark, his bloodshot eyes now in a hateful stare as he tightened his grip around the hilt of the knife. Bart could tell that he was struggling not to attack Bart, not to gut him for his "blasphemies". He bore his teeth at Bart, those decaying, black teeth, some missing, and Bart could suddenly smell a fetid, deathly stench emanating from the old man's mouth. A trickle of blood slid down his left nostril, and he was quivering, restraining himself. Whereas Bart had been quivering in his struggle to strike out against the Street Preacher, the Street Preacher had been struggling not to strike out at Bart, and it was getting harder every second.

As the Preacher's anger intensified, Bart found that whatever had been restraining him previously was now starting to withdraw the hold it had had on Bart, and he was able to move freely, able to back away, and he still wondered why, even now, he wasn't able to throw a punch at this intruder.

Get off me, you freak! Bart had yelled the night before when the Street Preacher had put a hand to his shoulder. I swear, old man, if you touch me again, I'll—

Could that be it? Could it be a fear of touching this man, a deep revulsion he felt when thinking of what the Street Preacher was (a filthy, disgusting bum) and what he might be carrying around with him. Surely he had to be carrying something, such as lice or scabies or perhaps something much worse. But this was not the time to be worrying about germs. It was like someone not wanting to go outside in the rain when your house was set afire because you were afraid of catching a cold. Still...

That idea was ludicrous, Bart realized, because he hadn't even thought of what the Preacher might be carrying tonight up until now; it hadn't crossed his mind until a second ago. This wasn't a case of choking because of some fear or phobia of germs, though Bart hated being sick with anything. Something was holding him back; he could almost feel an external force restraining him, keeping him still, frozen in place when he wanted nothing more than to beat the Street Preacher to death (and why not? The Street Preacher was an intruder here and as long as he remained, Bart was well within his legal right to do whatever it took to defend himself and his girlfriend if he understood the law correctly). For the first time ever, Bart began to wonder if the Street Preacher was something more than some lunatic living on the street.

He thought of "The Pusher", an older episode of The X-Files from the third season. Robert Modell, AKA the Pusher, had the ability to control people's minds and force his deadly will unto others. Bart wondered briefly if that wasn't what the Street Preacher was doing to him right now. Perhaps his ability wouldn't be as strong, as Bart hadn't felt the least bit compelled to help him out on his quest, nor his thoughts altered in any way as there wasn't the slightest bit of doubt that the Street Preacher was completely full of shit. But perhaps the Preacher was controlling him in some other way, keeping him from moving, feeling frozen in his tracks, petrified, while his thoughts, emotions, and motives remained unaltered.

The Street Preacher's expression of hurt and anger deepened. Bart saw something else as well, in those bloodshot eyes: straining focus. The trickle of blood down his left nostril widened and Bart could see beads of sweat over his wrinkled forehead. He continued to tremble, his chapped lips quivering. "Kathy," he mumbled softly under his breath. "She's to blame for all of this and she must be destroyed." He was talking more to himself than to Bart, as Bart could barely hear the filthy bum above the rain pattering upon the windows and the roof, and the thunder rumbling both faraway and close by.

Bart backed away a couple of steps, suddenly regaining control, finding himself able to move once more, able to move with greater ease than he had been a second ago. He looked behind for some reason, at the clock on the VCR. 7:23 blinked to 7:24, shining in a dim green light. It had seemed like an eternity standing here, face to face with the Street Preacher, as though hours had gone by, yet in reality, it had only been a few minutes since he had arrived.

A distortion of time and reality...

"Where's Kathy?" raved the Preacher, drool slipping down his chin, blood dripping from his split-open, chapped lower lip. "Tell me where she is, Bart. She's the cause of this; she's to blame, now TELL ME WHERE SHE IS RIGHT NOW!" Thunder boomed outside, sounding as though a gunshot had gone off merely two feet away. "IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD NOW AND SHE MUST BE DESTROYED OR WE ALL GO TO HELL!"

Just then, Bart threw out his closed fist out, nailing the Preacher in the mouth. Whatever hold had been placed on Bart previously was now completely removed, and he lunged right at the Street Preacher, pulling out all the stops. Blood gushed from the Preachers lips and he spat out a rotted tooth as Bart threw another punch and smacked it right in the Preacher's nose and breaking that as well. He grabbed both lapels of the Preacher's trench coat, pulling him in, and then ramming his knee straight into the Preacher's gut. The old man looked up blearily, wheezing and snuffling the thick blood running from his busted nose. Both chapped lips were now split open. A flash of lightning filled the room like a strobe light, revealing the Preacher's scraggly gray beard now stained bright red with gore.

"Forgive him, Father," he breathed, gasping and coughing. He gurgled, then spat out a decayed molar coated with phlegm and blood. "Forgive him, Father...for he know now...ugh....*cough* ...he knows not what he does..."

"I know exactly what I'm doing!" roared Bart, his anger now in full control of his actions and he gave the Preacher a back-handed slap to the cheek and brought his fist down like a hammer upon the Street Preacher's forehead, making impact simultaneously with another crackle of loud thunder nearby.

In beating the Street Preacher, Bart was beating his mother and Father McCarthy as well. They were both dead, of course, but their memory survived, haunting Bart even after all these years. They would always have an adverse effect on his life whether he wanted to admit it or not, but in beating the Preacher, he was diminishing that effect, and in a sense, beating them once again. Having sex with Kathy was one step closer to conquering an unhealthy upbringing. What he was doing now was taking it one step further, a step closer to final liberation.

He clutched at the Preacher's grimy, dingy, dreadlocked hair, feeling soil grinding into his fingers and palm, then rushed a few feet and slammed the Street Preacher's head hard into the surface of the coffee table, hearing an explosion of shattering glass as the Preacher's head crashed all the way through. A howl of triumph escaped Bart's lips and one of shock and pain was emitted from that of the Street Preacher.

Once again, Bart held him up by the lapel. The whites of his eyes were now completely red, his left pupil was dilated, with the rest of his face a thick mask of blood. His head lolled about drunkenly on his shoulders, and he stared blearily at the dark ceiling, mumbling incoherently, while gasping and wheezing.

"Ugh...Kathy... *cough-cough* ...must..."

With that said, Bart swung him aside, sending the Street Preacher stumbling uncontrollably into the wall, throwing out both hands to break his fall, but to no avail. His forehead rebounded smartly off the wall, and then he was sprawled on the ground, his legs and arms twitching slightly.

Bart walked toward him slowly and looked down coldly at the Preacher's crumpled body, to take a closer look at what had become of the Preacher, feeling no remorse at all for what he had done, only bitter triumph. The Street Preacher was unconscious, barely moving, but still alive, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. His eyes were closed, his lips barely parted. Bart brushed a few wet and grimy dreadlocks away from the Preacher's still face, placing the first two fingers along the carotid artery and felt a steady pulse. Bart peered down, seeing a fresh flow of blood from the Street Preacher's left ear.

He gave the crumpled body a swift, hard kick with the blade of his left foot, but, while the arms and legs continued to twitch, slowing down gradually, the Preacher remained otherwise limp.

Bart then turned toward the bathroom door. Now that it was over, there was still the matter of Kathy, making sure she was okay emotionally. He crept slowly to the bathroom, silently, not wanting to startle her, and when he reached it, he rapt his fist against the door softly. "Kathy," he called. "It's safe to come out..."

He waited a few seconds, hearing nothing but more rain against the roof and windows, and when Kathy didn't respond, he called her name again. The door opened a crack, just enough for Kathy to peak through to make sure it really was safe and not just a trap, not just the Street Preacher forcing Bart to tell her it was safe against his will, he figured.

"It's okay," Bart said soothingly. "He's gone now."

Kathy then burst out of the bathroom, nearly pouncing upon Bart in excitement as she wrapped her hands tightly around his torso, taking him back a few feet from the force of her impact, before he was able to regain his footing and then embraced her hold on him.

"Oh God, Bart, I was so worried!" she sobbed, her face pressed tightly into his chest.

"I know," he said softly, brushing a hand tenderly through her blond hair and kissing her forehead, then looking into her teary, radiant eyes. "But everything's fine now."

"Is he...is he dead."

Bart shook his head. "No, I don't think so. But he won't be a problem either."

Kathy looked beyond Bart and saw the Preacher's crumpled body lying still by the wall on the other side of the room, twitching slightly, but otherwise not moving. She breathed a sigh of relief. "Then I guess it's finally over?"

"Yes," Bart nodded, relief flooding him, feeling as though a huge burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders, as though he had finally after all these years destroyed the finally decrepit ruins of his horrible childhood. "I think it is finally over."

 

* * *

 

The police arrived onto the scene eventually and had cordoned off Kathy's apartment like they had Gino's Pizzeria earlier that day. No one had been admitted into the flat, not even Bart and Kathy, who waited outside, Bart still holding Kathy in his arms, giving her solace as he gave his narrative of events to Officer Higgins, who again jotted things down on his notepad. The torrential rains still came down furiously along with the sporadic crackle of thunder or a flash of lightning. But they stood beneath an umbrella, shielded by most of the downpour. Kathy still felt the chilling winds whipping against her face, making her eyes water and she blinked rapidly to clear her vision.

Red and blue light splashed all about from the police cruisers whose flashers had still been activated. She looked over by the ambulance, where the Street Preacher had been, sitting upright on his stretcher. He had already regained consciousness, but was still far gone, sitting in a vegetative state as the medics checked him out, shining a small flashlight over both eyes. He didn't even squint. He remained unresponsive, blinking every so often, and making a few sporadic movements such as scratching his head or his nose or twitching his legs, but that was all. The cold, blank expression remained over his face and he stayed in whatever trance he was in, a brainless zombie.

Kathy shuddered, both from the cold air but also because looking at the Street Preacher gave her the creeps. She couldn't help but stare at him, stare at those empty eyes of a man whose shattered mind was now a darkened void. It was like staring into oblivion, into a blackened abyss, and having the abyss staring back at her, swallowing her whole.

"You realize that he'll most likely get off on an insanity plea, don't you?" Higgins said, sighing. It wasn't news to Kathy, exactly, yet it filled her with anger nonetheless to have heard it coming out of someone else's mouth. Even if he had been a lifeless husk, the Street Preacher had killed her uncle, and should pay for his crimes. Yet because Bart had apparently hit him in the head a little too hard, he would simply go to some mental asylum and have some shrink looking at him, analyzing him, perhaps putting him on some kind of medication.

"Yeah, I know," Bart sighed. "At least he's out of my hair."

Higgins nodded, and Kathy could agree, although to her, this was in some ways outrageous. She wondered where the justice was in letting the Street Preacher get away with his crimes, get away with everything he had done, the people he had hurt and killed, the lives he had disrupted for the sake of his religious mania. Where was the justice in that?

Kathy realized that the Preacher was now nothing more than a lifeless husk, a state that he would likely remain for the rest of his life, that she hoped he would remain in such a state. And perhaps that was enough. Would he be even mentally fit to be put on trial? Kathy hoped not; she never wanted to so much as glance in the Preacher's general direction ever again after tonight. She certainly didn't want to testify against him; not because she had any love for him. She hated the son of a bitch, now more than ever. Even in his vegetative state, she hated him still and wished him dead. Kathy never thought she would wish that on anybody, yet she was doing it now and couldn't help herself.. She didn't want to testify against him because she feared it might bring back all the wrong memories. Still, it was best not to think about it right now as if the Street Preacher was deemed mentally fit to stand trial, it was still pretty far off into the future and of no concern right now.

She took another glance toward the catonic Street Preacher, and he slowly turned his head and was now looking directly at her as well, watching her with that cold, dead gaze of his, and it made Kathy's skin crawl, forcing her to bite down upon the inner cheeks to stifle a scream. "Are we almost done here?" she asked softly, wanting badly to get as far away from the Preacher as possible. He wasn't nearly as dangerous in his present state as he had been before, yet someone he scared her all the same.

"Yeah, if we need ya, we'll call you," Higgins stated.

"How long do you expect the officers to be in there?" asked Bart, drawing Kathy even closer into him, where she felt even now, was the point where she was safest, in Bart's arms. She didn't want to go back into her apartment, but for Bart to take her home with him, in his one-room apartment, much less luxurious, but still a place she would right now be more comfortable.

"Shouldn't be much longer," answered Higgins. "Just a few more things that need to be done. Routine things. Still, if you have somewhere else to go—"

"We can go to Bart's place," Kathy interjected.

"I guess we could go there," Bart agreed.

"Sounds like a plan to me," said Higgins.

Relief flooded Kathy as she thought of it. She thought of the apartment she and her uncle had lived in up until today, and wondered if she could ever step foot in that place again. Maybe that was a little extreme, and maybe one day, she would return to her old home and to Gino's Pizzeria once again, maybe even sooner than she thought. But now was definitely not the time.

Bart and Kathy then turned toward the Dodge Neon, Bart still holding Kathy closely in his arms, with both their backs to the crime scene, apartment, medics, and the vegatative husk that was once the Street Preacher. In her field of vision, distorted by the tears brought about by the chilling winds and her own inner turmoil, she could see a blur of red and blue light reflecting off her car as well as the pavement of the parking space and its surroundings.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until she had seated herself in the passenger seat of her Dodge Neon, her door now shut and locked, keeping her safe from the hostile elements outside, both natural and of the people outside as well, that she truly felt safe. Bart climbed into the driver's seat next to her and pulled his own door shut, turned the key in the ignition, and Kathy could hear the engine humming to life, a sound that was at this moment very comforting. She embraced the gail of warm air from the vents of the heater and saw the red and blue lights of the flashers from the police cruisers and ambulance bouncing off Bart's solemn face as his eyes met hers, a warm, comforting gaze.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked.

She nodded hesitently. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Just as soon as we get out of here."

"I hear you," he agreed as he put the transmission in REVERSE and pulled the Neon out of the parking space and drove off into the night.

 

The end.

August 31, 2001
January 20, 2002

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