almost felt pity for them. Almost. For how could you pity those who worshiped false gods? Or even worse, worshipped no gods at all. Who surrendered to the illusion of a reality created by Satan himself? Surrounded by heathens and the Godless, a shiver went down his spine. Looking back briefly at the car whose engine was still idling, he stepped forward through the throng and walked into the coffee shop that was his third of the day. He knew he had to work quickly, for already God’s vengeance was unleashing itself on the unsuspecting city.
Heads turned, as they often did when he walked in an establishment. Tall and well-built, his chiselled features held longing for some and envy for others. He cared not, and he let himself drown in the noise of the coffee shop as he stepped to the end of the line that led to the checkout. He ignored those around him and set his eyes on the order board up on the wall. He ignored the two middle-aged women that sat at the corner table who were eyeing him up and down, no doubt fantasising about what times they could have with “their” Adonis in the Saville Row suit. Their fantasies would shortly be forgotten in the terror that was to come, and he hoped that God would judge them harshly. He ignored the family of five, whose children, loud and uncontrolled, had obviously never felt the Lord’s discipline. And he ignored the impatient man behind him, muttering under his breath at how long it was all taking to get served. Everyone he knew he could kill, here and now, with his bare hands had he wished it. But no, they were to be God’s messengers. They were to be the chosen, to spread his word across this vile, festering carbuncle of a city. They would all soon meet the Lord’s justice, and if they were fortunate, would feel the Lord’s mercy.
Finally, it was his turn to be served, and his smile almost melted the heart of the woman behind the counter. “A tall tea please, to go.”
He could tell she wished to flirt, but he had little time for that, so he paid and stepped aside to await his order. He knew that her eyes would follow him, if only briefly. Let them. There was a time when he had used his charismatic presence to engage in the pleasures of the flesh, to lie with sinners and the wretched, to be one of the fallen. He had been a player, a seducer, perhaps one of the greatest who had ever lived, and he had suffered greatly because of that. And that time was long past now; he had repented and been purged of his unholy desires. The scars on his back, on his thighs, were testament to that. There was only one focus for his desire now.
The Lord Our God.
Brother Fabrice collected his order and stepped up to the milk station, where he proceeded to pour some into his tea. Good, the milk container was full. If it hadn’t been, he would have asked for a refill. Placing the milk back on the side, he joined it with his cup. He then reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a nitrile glove which he donned. His hand returned to the same pocket and removed a small vial. Fabrice stood and waited for the words that Brother Zachariah had already said several times today. Behind him, one of the coffee shop’s customers slowly stood at his table, pushing the chair to one side. Three loud slaps to the table with the palm of his hand resonated across the room. Everyone turned their attention as his voice boomed out the message.
“Children of the Lord, the Day of Judgment is at hand. The signs are there for you to see, but you are blinded by your accursed greed and your fornication. You worship the gold in your pocket when you should be worshipping the word of the Lord Our God.”
Fabrice nodded his approval of the words and glanced quickly around him to confirm he was unobserved. Unscrewing the lid to the semi-skimmed milk, he poured in half the contents of the vial, doing the same for the skimmed milk. With the lids closed, he then wrapped the now empty container in his glove as he
Heads turned, as they often did when he walked in an establishment. Tall and well-built, his chiselled features held longing for some and envy for others. He cared not, and he let himself drown in the noise of the coffee shop as he stepped to the end of the line that led to the checkout. He ignored those around him and set his eyes on the order board up on the wall. He ignored the two middle-aged women that sat at the corner table who were eyeing him up and down, no doubt fantasising about what times they could have with “their” Adonis in the Saville Row suit. Their fantasies would shortly be forgotten in the terror that was to come, and he hoped that God would judge them harshly. He ignored the family of five, whose children, loud and uncontrolled, had obviously never felt the Lord’s discipline. And he ignored the impatient man behind him, muttering under his breath at how long it was all taking to get served. Everyone he knew he could kill, here and now, with his bare hands had he wished it. But no, they were to be God’s messengers. They were to be the chosen, to spread his word across this vile, festering carbuncle of a city. They would all soon meet the Lord’s justice, and if they were fortunate, would feel the Lord’s mercy.
Finally, it was his turn to be served, and his smile almost melted the heart of the woman behind the counter. “A tall tea please, to go.”
He could tell she wished to flirt, but he had little time for that, so he paid and stepped aside to await his order. He knew that her eyes would follow him, if only briefly. Let them. There was a time when he had used his charismatic presence to engage in the pleasures of the flesh, to lie with sinners and the wretched, to be one of the fallen. He had been a player, a seducer, perhaps one of the greatest who had ever lived, and he had suffered greatly because of that. And that time was long past now; he had repented and been purged of his unholy desires. The scars on his back, on his thighs, were testament to that. There was only one focus for his desire now.
The Lord Our God.
Brother Fabrice collected his order and stepped up to the milk station, where he proceeded to pour some into his tea. Good, the milk container was full. If it hadn’t been, he would have asked for a refill. Placing the milk back on the side, he joined it with his cup. He then reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a nitrile glove which he donned. His hand returned to the same pocket and removed a small vial. Fabrice stood and waited for the words that Brother Zachariah had already said several times today. Behind him, one of the coffee shop’s customers slowly stood at his table, pushing the chair to one side. Three loud slaps to the table with the palm of his hand resonated across the room. Everyone turned their attention as his voice boomed out the message.
“Children of the Lord, the Day of Judgment is at hand. The signs are there for you to see, but you are blinded by your accursed greed and your fornication. You worship the gold in your pocket when you should be worshipping the word of the Lord Our God.”
Fabrice nodded his approval of the words and glanced quickly around him to confirm he was unobserved. Unscrewing the lid to the semi-skimmed milk, he poured in half the contents of the vial, doing the same for the skimmed milk. With the lids closed, he then wrapped the now empty container in his glove as he
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