Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

“It’s…it’s turpentine,” said Rakkim.

“Turpentine and rainwater straight from heaven,” said Malcolm. “Drink up, pilgrim.”

The man in the front row upended the bottle, took a long pull, and passed it.

Rakkim looked into Malcolm’s eyes…and drank. It flowed down his throat like acid, but still he drank, eyes watering as he fought to keep it down. Wiped his mouth and passed the jug back to Malcolm, who beamed and took another swallow. The jug went back and forth between them, back and forth, the other jug making the rounds of the chapel.

Music started up…or maybe it had always been playing. Hard to remember how long he had been standing here among the shadows. Rakkim couldn’t tell if the sound came from within the church or outside. It was dark now. Dark out. Dark in. The light from the electric torches guttered as though they were candles. The men stood, swaying as the jug circled the room, around and around. Malcolm and Rakkim had the other jug to themselves, the turpentine burning through them, burning through the lies in search of the truth.

“Feel that?” shouted Malcolm, though they were just inches apart. “That’s your sins being eaten away, pilgrim.”

Rakkim trembled. It felt like his skin was on fire.

Malcolm preached at the room, arms flailing, talking of the coming battle, the ancient foe, and the cost of redemption. “Matthew ten thirty-four: Whoever acknowledges me before men, I will also acknowledge him before my Father in heaven,” he shouted, waving the jug overhead. “But whoever disowns me before men, I will disown him before my Father in heaven. You get me?”

The crowd amened him, wobbly, bellowing their approval.

Malcolm leaned forward, squinting. “Now don’t go supposing I’ve come to bring peace to the earth, because I come with a sword. I’m here to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother. A man’s enemies will be the members of his own household,” he snarled, snapping at the air. “You love your daddy or your mama more than me, you’re not worthy of me. You love your son or daughter more than me, you’re not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

The men cheered, howling with glee, all the dancing skeletons, bones those bones those dry bones, and Rakkim felt himself moving too, carried along on a wave of madness, jerking and twisting.

Careful.

Rakkim turned. Circled around at the front of the church, trying to see who was talking. The same voice that had led him through the smoke. Led him through the flames.

“The Good Book and my new best friend says God made man in his own image,” said Crews, looking into Rakkim’s eyes. “Look around, and see what we’ve made of the world, my brethren. Take a good look. What does that tell you about the nature of God?”

The men howled, baying like beasts, and Rakkim felt sick.

Malcolm lifted the jug to Rakkim’s lips. He turned away, but men appeared on either side, skeleton men, holding him up as Malcolm poured the turpentine water into his mouth.

Rakkim choked, sprayed the foul liquid into Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm laughed. “Holy water, pilgrim. Much obliged.”

Rakkim felt himself tilted back, and the jug banged against his teeth, turpentine pouring down his throat, and he couldn’t fight, his legs rubbery. He sat on the ground now, head flopped against his chest as the room whirled around him. Where did all the cobwebs come from? Cobwebs in the corners, hanging from the ceiling. The music was louder. Too loud. He stood up to make it stop, but his legs weren’t working so well and the laughter around him was even louder than the music. Rakkim struggled to his feet.

“Let’s hear it for pilgrim!” said Malcolm, eyes wild, twitching, and the skeleton men roared their approval. Malcolm hoisted the jug, drank until turpentine dripped off his beard.

Careful.

Rakkim blinked, watched Malcolm’s lips, but the warning hadn’t come from him.

Two of the skeleton men dragged a covered wicker basket to the front. Electricity crackled from the basket. No…no…it was buzzing. Hissing.

Malcolm threw back the lid, reached both hands into the basket…pulled out a couple of snakes. Long snakes he gripped behind the head. Big, fat rattlers. Tall as he was, the snakes reached almost to the floor. He danced around as the snakes shimmied, mouths wide, showing off their lovely hooked fangs. “Book of Mark, verse sixteen. Book of Mark. Verse sixteen.”

The skeleton men stamped their feet, cheering.

“Whoever believes,” said Malcolm, “whoever believes and is baptized will be saved.” He shook, rubbed the snakes across his body. “Not just saved today. Not just saved tomorrow. But for all eternity!” He dangled a gray diamondback along his face, the snake lunging at him, a mist of venom blistering Malcolm’s lips. “Mark sixteen says these signs will accompany those who believe. First off, they will cast out demons!”

“Out!” shouted the skeleton men. “Out!”

“They will speak in tongues!”

The skeleton men howled at the ceiling, bayed at the moon visible through the slats.

“If they drink any deadly poison, it will not hurt them!” said Malcolm as the snakes followed his own undulating movements. “It will not hurt them!”

One of the skeletons hoisted the jug of turpentine, finished it off.

Malcolm released the snakes now and they scuttled across the floor. He reached into the basket and pulled out another handful, large ones and small ones, cottonmouths and shiny copperheads. “And those who believe…they will have the power to pick up serpents with their bare hands.” He seemed to have grown, his head almost touching the roof as he draped the snakes across his shoulders, arms thrown wide as they slithered across him, curled around his neck and down his back…and left him untouched.

Rakkim stared at Malcolm as the snakes wriggled past him into the crowd. The taste of turpentine turned his stomach, made his joints ache.

Malcolm reached into the basket, pulled out an enormous timber rattler, six feet long, a beautiful golden brown viper with black bands and huge golden eyes. Malcolm opened his mouth…and the snake entered him slowly, poked its head along his tongue and pulled slowly back. Tears ran down Malcolm’s cheeks at he turned to Rakkim. He held out the snake.

Rakkim didn’t move. The sound of the skeleton men jabbering bounced off the walls, a worse sound than the snakes rattling their warnings.

“The believers shall have the power to pick up serpents…and they shall not be harmed,” said Malcolm, offering the snake to him. “They shall not be harmed, pilgrim.”

His hand trembling, Rakkim took the rattler. The snake wrapped around his arm, squeezed gently.

Malcolm swayed, eyes half closed as the music boomed and the rattlesnakes hissed.

The walls moved in time with the music and it looked to Rakkim as if he had been mistaken-the church was not made of sticks and branches, but of snakes, and the serpents were coming alive now, welcoming their brethren. The timber rattler tightened around him and Rakkim looked into its eyes, and they were Malcolm’s eyes, pulling him closer…closer.

The rattler struck quickly, buried its fangs in Rakkim’s upper arm, and he pulled it off him, threw it hard against the floor.

Malcolm nodded.

Dumbass.

Rakkim didn’t bother looking. Too busy now tearing at his arm as the fire crawled through him. Too busy…too late. He sat down on the floor as Malcolm went back to the basket for more snakes. The more the merrier. The venom turned from fire to ice. His teeth chattered, his fingers already going numb.

You just going to sit there and die? It was one of the skeleton men talking.