A conversation with the Devil - Mischa

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“What is it, my child?”

“I’m afraid I have let you down. I am hanging up my robes.”

“What? To what end? For what purpose?”

“I fear the truth is near. I am aged now, and not fit to face the flames of fury we have helped create.”

“I admire your courage, but I despise your insolence. You were chosen, and you were chosen by me. It is I who decides your fate – not you.”

“I understand and respect that, my Lord, but you are outside of this realm. If I may be so bold as to say, you are unaware of the pressure mounting here in this world. I fear that the truth is on the verge of unravelling.”

“I control the truth. It is in my hands. And so, the power is in my hands. Your mortal soul has no right, no reason, to defy me.”

“But we are weakened now. Vulnerable. The newspapers…they know things. They are making connections. It won’t be long until the veil is lifted.”

“Silence! You think, by stepping down, you will better keep the status quo? You think that to break the mould for the first time in 600 years and step down will silence those suspicions?”

“I…”

“You are not thinking.”

“My conscience will not let me.”

“You do not have a conscience. You are a man of God, remember. Which means you are a man of nothing. You merely pretend. You are one of mine.”

“I cannot…”

“Need I remind you of our pact?”

“…”

“That you shall serve the Lord until your death, until I deem that you may rest.”

“My Lord. The world we live in has become increasingly Godless, as has that of the Vatican. I can no longer pretend to serve a benevolent Being, when there are no acts of benevolence. We are horrors by our very nature – by Your very nature. We have let the mask slip, we have proved Nietzsche right, to our own detriment. Without the allusion of God, there is no need for us. We have, if you’ll forgive me, my Lord, forgotten that. Pure evil cannot exist alone. It needs purpose. I – and the Vatican – need reason to exist. If we are being accused of evil, then we have failed, for the world shall see our evil and rebel against it. It has begun already. Surely you must see that?”

“How dare you instruct me! How dare you correct me! Ekron shall wreak its vengeance on you, for that city, which once I ruled as now I rule here. The world is mine – how dare you reject that which made it, and that which made you. Know, from the moment you abscond, you shall know the true wrath of Beelzebub. You have one last chance, so answer now with your truth – do you repent?”

“I do not, my Lord. I do not.”

Rant - Mischa

Are you Andrew Bird? No. You’re not. You are anything but a musical virtuoso/genius who can whistle at the same time as playing a violin or a guitar – or a violin like a guitar (Jimi Hendrix missed a trick there). So why the fuck do you think it’s okay to whistle in public? If I wanted to hear someone do that, I’d pay to see Mr Bird live in concert. The last thing I want is to hear your dreadful approximations of a tune you like that doesn’t sound anything like the actual thing. I mean, Jesus Fucking Christ. I mean, remember that fucking tune by Peter, Bjorn and John? The actual thing was bad enough – it’s one of the most boring, bland songs in the history of pop music – but all those fucknuts who started pursing their lips together as a result made it infinitely worse. Because everyone everywhere was doing it. It was the end of days, the death of culture through ubiquity, the transmogrification of an entire generation (and then some) into a parade of sheep, all whistling gleefully while they’re willingly leading themselves to the slaughter. Get some fucking culture, you fucking clueless cunts. Maybe that’s too harsh, too angry, an unjustified outpouring of bile for something that really doesn’t warrant it. But then, when I’m sitting on a bus or in a waiting room or in a pub with some friends and some idiot starts whistling – usually badly – it pisses me off. Personal space isn’t just physical, you know. You might as well be sitting there farting, waving the particles of your flatulence towards me with your hand, because that’s just as repugnant and direct an assault on my senses. I don’t need to hear you whistle. I don’t want to hear you whistle. Neither does anyone else, you selfish motherfucker. Are you Andrew Bird? No. You’re not. So shut the fuck up and give the rest of us a break. John, Bjorn and Peter – that goes double for you. Long may you suffer. Preferably in silence.   

Protection - Mischa

There was more I could have done. There always is. It’s like the perfect comeback to that cunt on the bus or on the train or inside or outside the pub that you always think of way too late, after the incident’s over and they’re gone and you’re never going to see them again. This was the same. I should have done more. But it all happened so fast that the cliché is true – it was a blur. I don’t remember how old I was but I think I was probably in my early 20s, because you died when I was 24 and it was towards the end of your life. At least, I think it was. Maybe I was younger, in my late teens, but I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter anyway. The point remains the same. Every time we walked past this one house round the corner from mine, on Mandeville Road’s curved trajectory, these two dogs would yap crazily from behind the double-glazed window of their living room and press their noses into the glass and bare their teeth. It never bothered you but it annoyed the hell out of me. One afternoon as we walked by, the front door to that house was open. I didn’t think anything of it, until we walked closer and I heard the feral growls of these two dogs louder than usual. Before my brain realised what was happening, they’d set upon you, plunging their teeth into your stomach, because these little fuckers were smaller than you and they got underneath your legs –or one of them did, anyway. And I remember panicking as this silent fear rose up inside of me, manifesting itself in goosebumps and shivers because I was fucking scared and I didn’t know what to do. I remember shouting and yelling to scare them away, but at least one of the dogs still had its teeth plunged into you and you were squealing with pain. I don’t know how long it had been – mere seconds, probably, but everything that happened in fast-forward blur also took place in slow motion so it felt like minutes – but I heard you whimper and I saw the dog beneath you and I kicked that motherfucker. I didn’t connect properly but it did the trick and the dog – I don’t even know what type it was; I think a terrier of some sort, but looking at pictures of them on the internet now they look too cute, so maybe they were Chihuahuas, that most redundant and repugnant of breeds – yelped in semi-pain and ran back inside, followed by the other. Luckily, you had so much fur, their teeth didn’t do much damage, but as I walked past the house I was fuming. But I didn’t have the guts to confront the owner, who was just standing there. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t hear or see what happened. But I did. And I should have given him the hell he deserved. Even today, the thought of it makes me wish I’d crushed the skulls of those little cunt dogs. It makes me want to strap their owners in a chair and stomp the life out of those dogs in front of their eyes and then burn that fucking house down and hear them scream in agony and watch as their skin charcoals and their bones become powder and ash. Because you were always there for me – unwavering in your love from the moment I held you in my lap on the long drive back to Canterbury from the kennel in Norfolk – and, eight years later, I still love you and miss you like hell and I can’t help but feel that, that day, I let you down. I’m sorry.

Resurrection - Mischa

More of his blood is outside than in, but the boy is alive. Stiff, crimson bandages hide holes in his hands and feet. His skin is translucent white. He whimpers slightly as paramedics wheel his stretcher through the hospital. 

“Fucking kids,” says one to the ER doctor. “They were ‘playing’ crucifixion. Friends get three nails in before he lets himself scream. Parents rush out, find him pinned to a tree. He’s 12.”

The doctor shakes his head. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, without realising. Eight minutes later, he does. 

“This one,” he sighs over the ECG’s flatline beep, “isn't coming back.”