Anointing

Chapter I.

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Eric woke up in a cold sweat and immediately sat upright in bed. A loud knock on the door of his modest studio apartment in the rear of the old lady’s house in Bayside startled him.

“Elder Walter! Elder Walter!” yelled a voice outside his door.

“Oh shit!” exclaimed Eric. “Um….I’ll be right out Elder Dominick.”

“Okay. Take your time Elder Walter. But be quick about it. Um, did you just curse and stuff?”

Eric smiled and thought to himself momentarily. Who says that Jehovah’s Witnesses didn’t have a sense of humor? “No Dom, I said “Praise the Lord!'”

He quickly dressed and met Dominick. It was February and quite possibly the last month of his Ordeal gaining insight as a hardcore conservative Christian, and who more conservative than a Jehovah’s Witness?  As Eric, or “Elder Walter” as he has been known for the past three months.

They took the downtown bus to nearby Auburndale and went house to house preaching the Word of God according to the JW’s to those few willing to entertain them.

It was simple enough to spot them. They wore plain black wool overcoats over white shirts, black ties, black slacks, and black shoes. They also had black name tags with white lettering displayed on the outside left side of their overcoats. A boy, no more than 13 years old riding a bike yelled at them, “Oh hell no!” and rode off. Eric had to suppress a giggle. Dominick looked straight ahead and pretended not to hear.

Eric thought about what he felt he learned from this experience and wrote it in an almost daily journal. He wrote that he felt a certain camraderie with his fellow “Elders” and actually felt disappointed with people who did not care to listen to the Word of God. He loved playing basketball and other sports with the Elders and the kind way that they seemed to treat each other. He felt himself almost believing that he, as a Jehovah’s Witness, was worthy enough to partake in the rite of the Last Supper, and not the pseudo-Christians. He loved those peaceful nights and the fellowship that arose from the Lord’s Work.

People weren’t too into Christian values in the Profane world anyway. Everyone is too concerned with paying their bills, worrying about money, the kids, etc. and possibly in that order. No one had anytime to live what they actually say that they believed in, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, whatever. JW’s brand of Christianity? Hell no! Jesus didn’t die on the cross, but on a torture stake? God forbid! The Armageddon was to be in 1975? Jehovah’s Witnesses have links to Adventism as the infamous Branch Davidians? It would probably be easier to infect people with the Progressive Satanism meme, joked Eric/Walter in his head.

Eric felt that it was time to travel to the other side of the spectrum. He learned all that he could, that this lifestyle was not a natural state. This was a reaction to the Profane world that humans had created in an attempt to figure out the Cosmos and themselves. It was also a means of manipulation, using others to spread this religion, this Word of God.

After the day of preaching, Eric played his last game of basketball at the church gym. He ate an after game dinner with them and hugged Dominick, who was puzzled but accepted it. He went back to the studio and packed the few things that he brought. He entitled today’s journal as “Fini.”

 

Chapter II.

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Frank picked up the receiver. “Hello Brother Eric? What’s up?”

“I need some work, my Brother. You got anything?” Eric was calling from a payphone with his sparse belongings in a knapsack. He was still dressed like a JW preacher minus the name tag. He took the bus from Bayside to downtown Flushing, the site of the bank job four months ago.

“Of course! Anything for my Brother!”

Frank was the local “businessman” who acted as the middleman between a crack distributor and small arms seller and local gangs. Of course, Frank had no qualms about selling to rival gangs because Frank liked to say, “No matter if you red or blue, green is the only true.”  He had connections to the Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, MS13, the Tongs, and the last of the Italian mafia. Especially with the Don himself, Anthony DiGiovanni. Yet, that was neither here nor there because DiGiovanni’s uzi has seen more men than a Roosevelt Avenue whore. Virtually untraceable back to Frank or Eric unless Don liked to open weapons up and check their serial numbers like the military or the police department did. Weapons were more dispensible than the manpower that wielded them.

Frank also supplied weapons to the Acception free of charge or at low cost because of  his fascination with Progressive Satanism and most importantly, his fascination with Shawna.

“Come by my place. I’m no plans tonight Brother!”

Eric chuckled to himself. Frank was a great guy, but brutal when the time came. “Thanks. I’ll be there in about 20 minutes?”

“Yes. Bye Brother.” Frank tapped the head of the woman who was performing fellatio on him. I have to make this quick my sweet.” He picked the woman up, bent her over and entered her.

Eric stepped out of the taxi and entered Frank’s luxury building in the predominantly well-off Jewish area of Forest Hills. The doorman greeted him.

“Mr. Baldwin please.” Eric said.

“Of course, sir. He phoned in advance.”

Eric enetered the huge elevator and got off at the penthouse floor. As Eric approached Frank’s door, a woman, Mediterranean-looking with long brown hair and a hot pink tight dress and matching pumps was leaving. Eric turned to look at her and part of her dress rode up exposing her left buttock. No panties, as Eric suspected. Frank was at the door and hugged Eric.

“I’ve already got something for you. Transporting. Can you do?”

“Hell yeah.”

Within a week, Eric was transporting, dealing occasionally and using Frank’s cocaine. “Never get high on your own supply.” Frank would tell Eric. This still did not discourage eric from wanting to live the polar opposite of his life as a Jehovah’s Witness.

 

Chapter III.

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St. Raphaels Church, Long Island City, NY 1997:  Father O’Neill approached the precocious 9-year-old boy lighting the candles. The church was empty.

“Eric. Sister Agnes says that you were disruptive in Sunday School again today. Is there a problem, son?”

“No Father. I didn’t mean to make her mad. I was just telling Brian something and she got mad.”

“She hit your hand with the ruler, Eric?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Step into the office.”

Dad’s gonna be mad again, Eric thought to himself. They walked through the dark labyrinth-like hallway to Father O’Neill’s office, which was sparsely furnished with an old flower love seat against the wall next to the door.

Father O’Neill slammed the door behind him. “Let me see your hand Eric.”

“I got nothing there Father. She hit me pretty good but there’s no mark or anything.”

Eric held out his hand and Father O’Neill grabbed it and put it against his crotch.

“No! what are you doing!” yelled a terrified Eric.

Father O’Neill pushed Eric to the flowery love seat. He began to unzip his pants.

Eric wanted to scream but started to cry instead.

 

Chapter IV.

baphomet 2006: Eric and Jim were walking the service road of the Long Island Expressway drinking beers. They stopped by St. Raphael’s Church. Jim started to piss on the outer wall of the church and Eric giggled. Unexpectedly, a tear fell from Eric’s eye. He then started to piss on the wall. Then in a rage, he drank the remainder of his beer and threw the bottle on the front steps.

“Fuck you!”

“Dude, take it easy. If you want to do what you said, then you can’t be making a lot of noise.” Jim said, putting his hand on Eric’s shoulder. He reached into his inner coat pocket and handed Eric a spray can.

Eric sprayed in big letters, “Father O’Neill is a fuckin’ fag,” “666,” “Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.”

“Feel better?” Jim asked.

“Not much, but this’ll do for now.”

Two months later, a 10-year-old altar boy reported that Father O’Neill had sexually molested him. More victims came forward and claimed that Father O’Neill molested them too, dating as far back as 1982.

When Jim and Eric were watching the news, Jim turned to Eric and said, “Why don’t you say something?”

“The fuck for? My parents took that faggot’s word over their own son’s already and things fuckin’ went downhill from there.”

“Don’t you want to look for some closure or anything?”

“No, I want to chop his dick off and then kill him slowly and let them find him with his own dick in his mouth.”

I know that the shit that he did is beyond words, but you really have to move on with this, Eric.”

“Fuck you. That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t get fucked by a priest and have your parents believe the goddamn priest.” Eric tear again and started to leave Jim’s apartment.

“Don’t go, man! Let’s get some beers and talk about this. I’m sorry, you’re right. I don’t know shit. But don’t go off all pissed.”

“Let’s take a walk to the store then.” Eric said.

 

Chapter V.

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Flushing Meadow Park was empty at 3:20 in the morning. Frank knew enough of the command at the 107th and 109th precincts to pay them off to slow down the patrols. Frank had business and took Eric with him. They drove slowly through the path in a black 1992 Nissan Sentra.

“This car is a piece of shit.” said Eric. “But I understand.”

“And don’t do no hits now either. This is business. After this I go to Cali to see my Sisters.”

“Why though? You’re doing good here in Queens. You run fuckin’ Queens.”

“As they say in Malta, you can’t milk the cow too much in a day.”

“They say that in Malta?”

“No, not really.”

The black Lincoln Town Car was already parked along the side of the path. Frank parked behind it and flashed his lights once and Don DiGiovanni stepped out of the Lincoln.

“Oh fuck! Not this fucker!” Eric thought to himself.

“You don’t have to do shit but stand there and don’t look too high, Brother. I’ll be right back.” Frank said as they stepped out of the Sentra to meet DiGiovanni and one of his henchmen.

DiGiovanni and Frank hugged and walked off to the right laughing. Eric sat on the Sentra and DiGiovanni’s employee sat on the Lincoln. They faced each other. ” Smoke?” asked DiGiovanni’s bodyguard.

“No thanks. I’m Eric.”

“Vincent.”

They sat there in silence.

Suddenly, Frank pulled out a 9mm and shot DiGiovanni in the back of the head.

“Oh shit!” Vincent dropped his cigarette and pulled out a 9mm of his own and started running towards Frank.

Feeling forgotten, Eric pulled out the .22 and tackled Vincent, who dropped his gun in the fall.

Frank was already there with his gun pointed at the back of Vincent’s head. “You do it Brother. I need to see that you’re loyal.”

Eric never shot anyone before but gently pushed Frank’s gun out of the way and shot Vincent three times at close range behind the back of the head without saying anything.

Instinctively, they ran to the Sentra and took off down the path and into the Van Wyck Expressway.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to shoot him, Frank?”

“I wasn’t going to. He made fun of my accent.”

“You still going to Cali?” Eric tried suppress a laugh. If the last Don of the Giambi Crime Family could get it, who the fuck was Eric?

“Yes. I think you should just go back to college or something. I drop you at Trisha’s.”

Frank let off Eric around the corner from Trisha’s apartment, Eric saw Shawna’s black Mercedes parked out front. Eric then turned back and took the 8-ball of coke out of his pocket. He then threw the contents into a trash can.

I’m going to fuckin’ rehab. Eric thought to himself and walked into the darkness. A stray dog howled nearby.

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