place of fire and brimstone, not a forest in the southern US of A. What a funny thing, putting Hell in the middle of the Bible Belt. Or, maybe Hell was like a flabby tummy hanging over the edge. Perhaps God had the Dunlop disease. His belly done lopped over…
That brought to mind an entire metric fuck-ton of asinine questions, all welcome distractions to the insanity of her predicament. Was it the Bible’s belt, or God’s? If the devil was a redneck who lived in the woods, was God a rapper living in Bankhead? Made sense, didn’t it? That God was a celebrity and Satan a backwoods hermit. No one paid attention until someone gave either a reality show. Then you found yourself watching Duck Dynasty and the Kardashians, Honey Boo Boo and World’s Dumbest Criminals: Holy Shit Edition.
Juliet found she was laughing. No, not really laughing. Guffawing. Great bursts of strained laughter vomited from her. She laughed so hard her stomach muscles seized. Even her feet seemed comical. Those feet flashing her lopsided peace signs. Silly feet. You so cray-cray!
“You broke this one, Silas!” the red priest shouted.
Silas? Funny thing to call the Devil.
The demon responded, “ Boogedy-boo !”
“You can’t help the pets you fall in love with, eh, child?” The red priest asked. “You feed them, nurture them, give them toys to play with, and they take over your very existence.”
Juliet felt the heat of the campfire on her left arm. The memory of waking up with her back ablaze surfaced and suddenly nothing was as funny as it had been. All the levity she had running through her pissed out into a puddle of caustic fluid. She wallowed in it. Was steeled by it. Her hand slapped around at her side, the fire scorching her knuckles. Her aching fingers found a length of wood. She wrapped her clay-caked digits around the piece of firewood, the mud acting as an insulator of sorts, and swung it upward, nailing the red priest, she only hoped, between his beady black eyes.
He harrumphed, as if she’d asked him to clean up his room, and released her. She fell to the ground unimpeded, and her head bounced off the grass covering the floor of the clearing. Embers drifted down onto her blue blouse from the torch she held, leaving burns here and there. No pain came of the hot ash touching her skin once it had burned through the fabric of her shirt. Adrenaline again, she assumed.
She rolled and pressed up onto her knees. Her feet splayed out behind her; they were screaming, but so was she. She was louder.
The red priest, clutching his forehead with both hands, lay prostrate beside the fire. He moaned and groaned in pain. She dropped to her hands and knees—
(I suggest you crawl)
—and slunk up next to him. She thumped the piece of wood on the ground, knocking charred bits of wood from the sides, like flicking ash off a cigarette, and leaving only a vicious point of red hot stake.
Juliet giggled.
The red priest yanked his hands from his face and gazed up in horror as she lurched forward on her knees, the glowing stake clasped in two hands, held high above her head.
“Don’t!” he cried. “Don’t! He only—”
Juliet drove the smoking stake into the red priest’s guts. The point stabbed into the ground beneath the man, sending an aftershock through Juliet’s hands and arms. His flesh sizzled and crackled around the wood impaling his abdomen. She smelled cooked meats.
Juliet attempted to yank the post free, to ram it into him again, but her scorched hands refused to work.
All the while, the red priest howled. He looked like a vampire, staked and dying, smoke coming off him, as if sunlight had found him in his coffin.
“You stupid… stupid child…” the red priest spat. “He only… Silas only…”
On her hands and knees, Juliet craned her head to meet the man’s eyes. She grinned weakly. “Shut up and die.”
“Agh,” he grunted, as agony painted his face. He sat up as far as the stake in his stomach would allow
That brought to mind an entire metric fuck-ton of asinine questions, all welcome distractions to the insanity of her predicament. Was it the Bible’s belt, or God’s? If the devil was a redneck who lived in the woods, was God a rapper living in Bankhead? Made sense, didn’t it? That God was a celebrity and Satan a backwoods hermit. No one paid attention until someone gave either a reality show. Then you found yourself watching Duck Dynasty and the Kardashians, Honey Boo Boo and World’s Dumbest Criminals: Holy Shit Edition.
Juliet found she was laughing. No, not really laughing. Guffawing. Great bursts of strained laughter vomited from her. She laughed so hard her stomach muscles seized. Even her feet seemed comical. Those feet flashing her lopsided peace signs. Silly feet. You so cray-cray!
“You broke this one, Silas!” the red priest shouted.
Silas? Funny thing to call the Devil.
The demon responded, “ Boogedy-boo !”
“You can’t help the pets you fall in love with, eh, child?” The red priest asked. “You feed them, nurture them, give them toys to play with, and they take over your very existence.”
Juliet felt the heat of the campfire on her left arm. The memory of waking up with her back ablaze surfaced and suddenly nothing was as funny as it had been. All the levity she had running through her pissed out into a puddle of caustic fluid. She wallowed in it. Was steeled by it. Her hand slapped around at her side, the fire scorching her knuckles. Her aching fingers found a length of wood. She wrapped her clay-caked digits around the piece of firewood, the mud acting as an insulator of sorts, and swung it upward, nailing the red priest, she only hoped, between his beady black eyes.
He harrumphed, as if she’d asked him to clean up his room, and released her. She fell to the ground unimpeded, and her head bounced off the grass covering the floor of the clearing. Embers drifted down onto her blue blouse from the torch she held, leaving burns here and there. No pain came of the hot ash touching her skin once it had burned through the fabric of her shirt. Adrenaline again, she assumed.
She rolled and pressed up onto her knees. Her feet splayed out behind her; they were screaming, but so was she. She was louder.
The red priest, clutching his forehead with both hands, lay prostrate beside the fire. He moaned and groaned in pain. She dropped to her hands and knees—
(I suggest you crawl)
—and slunk up next to him. She thumped the piece of wood on the ground, knocking charred bits of wood from the sides, like flicking ash off a cigarette, and leaving only a vicious point of red hot stake.
Juliet giggled.
The red priest yanked his hands from his face and gazed up in horror as she lurched forward on her knees, the glowing stake clasped in two hands, held high above her head.
“Don’t!” he cried. “Don’t! He only—”
Juliet drove the smoking stake into the red priest’s guts. The point stabbed into the ground beneath the man, sending an aftershock through Juliet’s hands and arms. His flesh sizzled and crackled around the wood impaling his abdomen. She smelled cooked meats.
Juliet attempted to yank the post free, to ram it into him again, but her scorched hands refused to work.
All the while, the red priest howled. He looked like a vampire, staked and dying, smoke coming off him, as if sunlight had found him in his coffin.
“You stupid… stupid child…” the red priest spat. “He only… Silas only…”
On her hands and knees, Juliet craned her head to meet the man’s eyes. She grinned weakly. “Shut up and die.”
“Agh,” he grunted, as agony painted his face. He sat up as far as the stake in his stomach would allow
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