Chapter 8

Anthony Heir leaned against a telephone poll looking back at the lights of the small town that hated him. Well, that was fine by him, because he hated it right back. He had walked as far as he could out of town before the booze had taken its toll and made him sit down. He tilted back his stolen bottle of Jack Daniels and drank deeply. He looked at the town through the haze of alcohol, which gave the street lights a colorful spectrum.

He had always liked the haze that alcohol gave him. It took the edge off his world and made it a better place. When he drank nothing seemed to stress him out and nothing seemed to be too difficult to deal with. Not that he ever dealt with anything if he could help it. He avoided work, which was probably why he couldn’t keep a job, but instead of laying his problem where it was due, at his own feet, he blamed his last boss for his current unemployed state, conveniently forgetting that he had gone to work drunk and four hours late.

Anthony’s father had been a drunk, as had his grandfather. Anthony had always felt he was destined to be an alcoholic and he never fought the idea. In fact, he took to the bottle almost as soon as he was able to hold one. The bottle helped him survive. Stealing became easy when he was drunk. It took away his inadequacies and made him feel strong, more of a man. Fighting became easy, made him feel bigger, better than others. And the bottle took away any pain. A variety of evils all became easy when he was drunk. It empowered him and took away his blame. Took away any last lingering feelings of guilt, left over from his miserable childhood. But over the past months he had noticed that it was not doing its job as it once had, not soothing him and giving him the power, the control. Now the bottle controlled him. And pain was a constant. The pain of loneliness, of not being good enough, of having people look down on him, it didn’t matter what he did, he just couldn’t get a break.

And it was making him angry, very, very angry. Right now he was angry at the town sheriff who had thrown him out of the local bar and at the liquor store for being closed, even though it was after 2 AM. Not that he had allowed the liquor store being closed to stop him from getting a bottle. He had smashed the display window by taking off his shoe and sliding his hand into it, then hitting the plate glass. An act he had momentarily been very proud of thinking up. However, in trying to get into the store he had forgotten to replaced his shoe and badly cut his foot on the shattered glass, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints. The sound of approaching sirens had him leaving the store in a panic, only able to grab one bottle of Jack Daniels on his way out. As he hobbled away he mentally damned the sheriff. It was all the fault of that stupid, cocksucker.

Now Anthony leaned back against a telephone pole, angry, in pain and drunk. He took another swallow, his head swimming, his eyes beginning to cross. He raised his hand in defiance and gave a middle finger to the whole town. He could feel the anger growing inside him and his mind turned over a number of petty annoyances that he would dish out. Not that he ever got around to taking out his vengeance on anyone, there was always another bottle to dive into first.

However, right at that moment vengeance seemed like a very worthwhile thing. The thought of it took hold and grow in his mind. Why not, he thought to himself. Why couldn’t he dish out a little justice himself? Get back at all those sanctimonious bible thumpers and holier than thou do gooders who were always in his face, telling him to straighten up and do the right thing. His passion and hatred inspired him to stand and he raised up on unsteady legs. He was determined to keep his feet despite his drunken state and the pain in his injured foot. Yet once up, he suddenly felt a strength of purpose, his body throwing off the massive amount of booze he had poured into it, leaving him feeling unusually strong. It was as if he had found some form of pride to keep him standing. He felt a sudden surge of adrenalin and his balance got better, his mind became more focused. A single thought became clear in his mind. It was time. It was time for him to pay back all those who had oppressed him.

He stood, feeling strength flow into his body as he faced the town. The road in front of him was now his pathway to vengeance and the redemption of his manhood. He felt like a roman soldier preparing to walk with an army at his back to conquer the world.

There was no sound, no movement, no breath of wind to indicate a presence, but he was aware that someone had walked up behind him. His newfound feeling of power blossomed brighter, flooding into every corner of his body and mind.

"It is time to march, my soldier" a voice said.

"Yes, my lord" Anthony replied without turning around to see who had spoken. He did not flinch when a large, body moved passed him, dressed in what looked like a leather, Centurion style, skirt and a pair of sandals that laced up heavily muscled calves. His eyes rose and caressed the bared skin above the skirt, running over the clearly defined muscles across wide shoulders, which narrowed into a slender waist. Anthony did not stop of to think of what he was doing or why, he simply took what seemed to be his natural place, behind his master, as they walked toward the town.

On the outskirts he saw a small crowd of people who appeared to be waiting for them. Anthony recognized several of them; Steven Delany who was the local drug dealer, Rich Johnson who had moved into the area after he had served a conviction for child molestation in Los Angeles, Jesus Ramirez and his two brothers Juan and Pancho who were small time, local gang members, and Brice Hilton who was on the police force but always seemed to be in court fighting charges of brutality. These men swung in behind them as they passed.

The further they got into town, the larger the crowd around them grew until almost half the town was at the march. When they finally reached the town center their leader walked up the steps to the courthouse, turned and raised his arms as if in benediction, addressing the crowd. His face had the characteristics of innocence. His deep blue eyes seemed to be filled with compassion and his blond hair brushed the tender lines of his face.

"I am he, the true heir to the throne and its only legitimate contender. I am the morning star. I am Satan and the time for my ascendancy is upon us." There was a low murmur that ran through the crowd before it burst into a roar of approval.

"Hear my command my people. Any who do not believe, any who do not acknowledge my right to the throne, any who will not say my name in reverence must be punished. Deliver this town to me!" The crowd once again roared at his words, then turned as one dispersing in all directions.

Anthony could not feel the pain of his injury nor could he feel the alcoholic haze in which he lived his life. He walked quickly to the store closest to the town hall, Bennington’s Hardware. He stopped in front of the window barely recognizing his reflection. His hair was standing on end, leaning in all directions, his face was taut, and deep lines etched each side of his mouth which was pulled back to show his teeth. He ignored the image, feeling no sadness or remorse as he pickup up a child’s bike leaning against the wall, then hurled it through the display window, reaching in after it to pick up an axe that had been on display. He leapt through the opening and began to hack at everything and anything that came into his line of sight, mowing down the elderly couple, still in their night clothes, who owned the store and had come down from their above stairs apartment to find out what the noise was about. Blood flew, sending droplets onto the walls and over the shelves of merchandise. He left the store and moved next door to the doctor’s office, demolishing the plate glass door. He entered the reception area swinging the axe, hitting, slashing, destroying, the chairs, the walls, the counter. He wanted to destroy the entire town and all who lived in it. He felt nothing but his anger and hatred, which had grown until it consumed him. He had a purpose, given to him by Satan and for the first time in his life he had reason to be alive. It felt right and he would blindly follow wherever his master commanded.

In the distance a siren wailed and he stopped, his head swiveling to pinpoint the location of the oncoming police vehicle. He headed for the doorway, his eyes burning red.

The squad car’s tires squealed as the vehicle rounded the corner at the top of the square, then squealed again as the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid several of Anthony’s comrades who were standing in the street, blocking the way. He leapt forward, determined to get to the driver first, to be the one to erase the life force from the officer’s body. His hatred fueled his legs and he covered the short distance in seconds, pushing his way through to the vehicle, his hand reaching out to grab the door handle. He jerked, but the door was locked and would not open. He stared through the driver’s window and recognized the deputy on night duty, Aaron Schwartz, who had hassled him on numerous occasions. The man’s eyes were bulging with fear as he leaned away from the window, trying to put as much space between himself and Anthony as he fumbled to draw the weapon from its hip holster. Anthony swung the axe which shattered the window.