Devil’s Rain

June 13, 2012 § 1 Comment

“What grace befalls the wicked.  The sting and distress that plague the righteous should inhibit the deeds of the depraved, but seek civility to wound and destroy.  Ever in quest to sodomize what little virtue is left in the world.  Ever in the hunt.”

“What grace befalls the wicked?  This grace that befalls the wicked is the avariciousness that beckons you in the night.  That sting and distress, upon which chooses to pass over charged wickedness, is what feeds the rage in your over polluted gut.  That soothes the temper of thirst on your faithless tongue.”

“Is this to propose I survive in the hands of the Devil’s Rain?  That the mere existence I live is complete by sheer avidity?”

“Certainly not.  It is implied, if not spoken, Devil’s Rain is exclusively the dwelling’s crown and your existence is whole by lust for its worldly molestation.  Wickedness is the broth in which the sanctimonious stew.  Wickedness does not make the soul; it is made of the soul.”

“To call to mind that I, of all sincere evils on Earth, am a feasible ingredient in the atrocious consommé of impiety — it’s preposterous.”

“A man of faith cannot plummet?”

“A man of faith can shatter.  A man of God is indissoluble.”

“Are you a man of faith or a man of God, Amadeus?”  Setting herself directly before Amadeus, Darcy stretched her legs with a purr.  Breaking him was of little interest, but shaking him could prove to be exceedingly entertaining.  His eyes darted from her stretch to the walls.  Fear nuzzled him, eliciting another purr from deep within her throat.  Without intent, she leaned in closer; he was a meal ticket to a higher calling.  “No answer rests within?”

“Why ask?”

“Why allude?” she coiled her arm around his neck, her breath brushing his ear.  “Are you of faith or God, Amadeus?”

“Of God.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed?”

“Only a man of God would warm his soul in the house of Satin.”

The shove was abrupt, unexpected.  Unprepared she fell backwards to the chair as he rose in a fit, “Walls are but that and a woman is less.  Whatever the name, Satin sits in the bowels of Hell and no herald will have me mount the occasion — nor the courier.  Do you think I’m a fool?”

“You and your parishioners feast with transgression’s capital.  A surreptitious indulgence in the capital that sin has earned scampers, almost feral, in Jehovah’s Rain.  Growth is unmistakable.  Wider, but never wiser.  Do I think you foolish?  Scarcely.  Mad and morally comatose, unquestionably.”

“We accept no investment from Devil’s Rain.”

“Fittingly puzzled,” another maddening purr rose.  Was she cat or woman?  “A flagrant wool of perplexity canvassing those miserable eyes, my heart should break had I one to wound.  Come.”

Hesitancy was not quite what he felt as he watched her stalk from the room.  Desperately he tried to remember where he entered so that he might exit.  No more did he believe in Satin dwelling in a house than he reasoned ghosts settle in an attic.  It was the man, or woman, who chose to follow the paths of evil.  With free will, all were liberated to select their path and none could be forced to partake in the worst of habits.

Nonetheless, he feared for his faith, for his sanity, as he watched her sweep from the room. Even the innocent, unobtrusive beckoning of ‘come’ had been sinister, as if there were something far greater than evil waiting in the rooms beyond.

“You asked I come once and you have had my audience.  I now ask for an exit.  I have greater peoples of interest than that waiting here.”

She paused, a sudden turn, “Do the exterior resonances of the interior affliction clatter for faith?”

“For sanity — for sanity alone.”

“Wicked inventions command depraved declines. Come.”

Twist after turn through a hallway of rooms, Amadeus shivered against the sounds and sights. The gnashing of tongue, the floundering of uniform pulp, was too much. The endless twining of quay and ship; the spun-out, meaty fingers with dexterous grips; and the undemanding membership to madcap headship offended him inwardly as far as inwardly could go.

“Tell.” Darcy stopped, opening the only closed door. “The right-hands caught left-hand; households but ordinary lushes underneath a shrewdly cloaked, covetous mask.”

“No.”

“Denial?”

“Refusal. This is Devil’s Rain. No name or quarrel beyond will satisfy me otherwise.”

Pushed into the room, he shielded his eyes from his father’s room, and felt himself tugged away through another door. Door after room, discretion after debauchery, Amadeus shielded his face and swallowed his conviction.

“Sisters. Brothers. Mates. Lovers. All men of God, beings of credence and verity.”

“Conclude! For the love of God, I solicit a conclusion, close this program of persecution.”

“Query over what grace befalls the wicked. Claim as you desire the wicked sodomize the virtuous, but first show me the righteous not a partaking mischief. Arrange this populace at my feet! Prove to me depravity seeks to mutilate and rescind morality without, first, consent from the principled.”

“No.”

“Alight, or collapse, from that lofty steed, Amadeus.”

Crumpled against a wall, his face buried in his hands, Amadeus whimpered and wept. “I am damned by these sights. Fingered and spoilt.”

“We are spoilt purely by a visionless and canopy fealty to truth as a solo faction. Wickedness is unearthed in deeds that buckle or maim the substance of the guiltless. Autonomy and inclination are no fouler than the gasp life first gives.”

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