Chapter 2 The Seventh Circle
The Seventh Circle
PREACHER
BABYLON, SASKATCHEWAN
There’s no bigger thrill than watching the light leave someone’s eyes, breathing in their terror and knowing that I’ll be the totality of their final moments.
I like to think of myself as a fixer of sorts. When the law fails, as it usually does, that’s when I step in. It’s what I’ve been doing since I shot my daddy. He was a hard-drinking, hard-living man who did unholy things to my mama.
Maybe a little ironic for a minister, but by the time I was finished with him, his little slice of God’s house looked like the seventh circle of hell.
Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and I glance up at my current project.
There’s a kind of angelic quality to Joshua’s pose, his head dipped to the side, his arms relaxed, and his feet barely touching the floor as he dangles off of the meathook.
If someone walked in right now, they might even think he was floating.
I stride over to my knife roll, carefully laid out across a big steel table. A layman might call it a peculiar sort of leather, with dark faded markings scattered across it. My fingers glide over a large blue cross. That one was my father’s favorite.
After we buried what was left of him, I changed my name and dedicated myself to a brand new purpose: ridding the world of men like him. Each one of them that I gut and process gets me a little closer to my own kind of twisted salvation.
But it would be a lie to say he didn’t leave anything positive for me to remember him by. Even the cord that binds the knife roll together, so soft to the touch, and looking like a piece of toughened string to the untrained eye… I made it from his stomach lining.
“You like music Josh?”
The man groans as he watches me pick up a small, curved knife, twirl it in the air and catch it. Normally this would be careful work, but the client needs these cuts by tomorrow. I promised them someone athletic, someone violent.
Someone who hurt women.
After reviewing several ‘applications’ in the form of court documents, I decided that Joshua was the best candidate for the position: a twice-convicted rapist and serial abuser. Corrections Canada let him walk out the fuckin’ door… and right into my tender, lovin’ arms.
I grab my phone off the table and scroll through my playlists until I see one that makes me snort with laughter.
“Yeah, this is it.”
Weird Science by Oingo Boingo blares through the speakers I installed in the far corners of the barn. I do my best work when the music is so loud it pushes every other thought out of my mind. And the best part? Anyone driving by will think I’m just having a party.
Sweat drips down Joshua’s face, his skin starting to turn a sickly shade of grey.
From the way his chest is shuddering, I can tell I’ve collapsed one of his lungs.
I start to trail my knife down his chest, then his stomach, pressing down a little harder when I reach his limp pecker.
As if on cue, his eyes spring open, and he lets out a bloodcurdling scream that’s entirely consumed by the music.
I feel like a kid in a candy store.
“Scream all you want, pretty boy. All the way out here, you’re mine.”
“Somebody help!” He howls. “Please!”
“I’m gonna start by skinning you.” I move around behind him, kicking his clothes aside. “Now, this is gonna hurt like a bitch, but I want you to stay in the moment. Really feel that fear. The more terrified you are, the better you’re gonna taste.”
“You’re a fucking psycho!”
“Guilty as charged.”
I listen for the change in his voice that I know is coming. I’ve heard a lot of last confessions, and even more apologies over the years I’ve been doing this. They’re always good for a laugh.
“Please!” He begs through heavy breaths. “Please, you don’t have to do this!”
His voice is getting weaker. I think he’s going into shock, which means he might not feel some of this, and that’s a damn shame.
“I’m gonna start by cutting your achilles.” I grab his foot, holding it firmly in place as he struggles to pull away from me. “Then I’m gonna work my way up your leg, and it’s really gonna hurt.”
I slash at his ankle, slicing the tendon clean in two. The longer half snaps up, balling beneath his skin like an elastic band as his screams ring through the barn. They remind me of the old church bells that used to echo across Babylon when I was a boy.
Blackthorne Ranch used to provide the entire town with pristine and beautiful cuts of beef. Mama, my brother, and myself butchered while my daddy ran the local church.
We practically owned this town.
But now the ranch is nothing but a funeral home, and my brother and I are all that’s left of the family.
“You’ve got more spunk in you than I thought, Joshy boy,” I chuckle. “It’s funny, with a cow, you gut ‘em and then you skin ‘em. It’s just the proper order of things, y’know? But with you? I’m really enjoying listening to you sing for me.”
I move slowly, sliding my knife underneath his skin and working upward, all while his howls vanish into the pounding synth.
I don’t mind it, it adds to the ambience of this place.
Dark, ominous, and covered in shadow. A little on the nose for a serial killer?
Sure, probably. But sometimes it’s fun to play into the clichés.
In contrast, I keep my house on the other side of the property: pristine, modern and well-decorated.
You read about some of these serial killers, and they live in fucking cesspools.
Blood everywhere, bodies in the bathtub, body parts just laying around for the cops to find.
It’s barbaric. Me? I do my best to separate these two worlds.
In this barn, I’m a monster. At home, I’m just ‘Preacher.’ I’ve got my dogs, my books, and my records, everything I could ever need.
“I’ll mention this to the client— all that fight you’ve got in you. They’ll like that, it gives the meat an extra kick after all. I think they said they wanna make short ribs for their wedding anniversary.”
I hear a garbled noise, and then Josh’s screams go quiet.
His body goes limp.
All that fight he had suddenly snuffed out.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.
I work with the music, skinning the rest of him with ease, but taking care as I peel it off in a few large pieces.
Usually, I just wind up incinerating the skin.
But I guess I do need a new wallet.
I lean back in my chair, sipping on some whiskey as I savor a well-earned pan-seared steak, courtesy of Joshua, fried up with some caramelized mushrooms and a few sprigs of asparagus.
I usually keep a few cuts for myself once I get everything packed up for a client, and with how exhausting rush jobs like this can be, well… call it a perk of the industry.
Joshua’s driver’s license sits on the table next to me, the words short ribs and porter house scrawled on the back. It’ll go into my little box in the cellar, along with all the rest.
I hear growling from beneath the table and lean over, spotting Hades and Charon playing tug-of-war for Joshua’s femur.
I give them bones to chew on after kills, but they know to keep them indoors.
The last thing I need is them dropping a human fibula on the ground outside and abandoning it.
What if some nosey passerby saw? That could lead to cops, which leads to questions, which leads to dead cops, which leads to, well, more cops. Circle of life.
Luckily, Babylon’s never had the most robust local law enforcement.
It’s located right on the highway, but most of the town was abandoned when the auto plant closed down.
All that remains are a few gas stations and a couple of convenience stores for folks who are passing through on their way to somewhere better.
I’d like to say I used to know all the locals, but that ain’t true at all.
My daddy’s cruel and malicious ways meant that my brother and I didn’t get to socialize much.
We were homeschooled, went to church on Sundays, ate dinner every night at 5:00pm, and had Bible study what felt like every single night.
If we ever stepped out of line, we were beaten within an inch of our lives.
He really took that whole spare the rod and spoil the child shit to heart.
I stare out the window into the darkness, drawing in a deep breath as Charon rests his head on my thigh. I reach down and scratch him behind his ears. I found him and his brother in the barn one freezing cold morning in the middle of winter, two little baby rottweilers, barely alive.
I bottle fed them as pups, keeping them in my jacket pockets to make sure they stayed warm as I went about my day to day. It feels crazy that they’ll already be two next month.
Charon licks his chops and I chuckle.
“You already ate. Both of you.”
Just as I’m considering giving in, and heading to the cupboard to get him a Milkbone, my phone rings, the only contact I have saved flashing on the screen.
I’m obligated to answer. He’s family, after all.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Raphael’s voice is permanently raspy, like he’s spent his whole life smoking cigarettes.
“What, no hello for your favorite brother?”
“How many boxes?”
I can already hear the annoyance creeping into his voice on the other end of the line, and I decide not to poke the bear any further.
“Two. Cash will be in an envelope on top of the box as usual.”
Without another word the line goes dead, and I slip the phone back into my pocket.
At 36, Raphael is the brains of the operation.
He’s got the tech and the skills to hunt down anyone without laying a finger on them.
I’d be in prison without him stepping in and helping me funnel my homicidal tendencies into something more productive.
To be honest, I felt lost before we started this business venture.