Justice Is A Clumsy Sword

“You like that, dontcha? You like it when I punch you in the ass. Giggle, bitch, giggle. That’s right.” Howard was Mona’s favorite client. He liked his sadism mixed with an element of the absurd. “Am I your sexy, silly, nasty queen, Howard?”

Howard mumbled through the ball gag. His reply was muffled beyond understanding, but the look on his face said that he was in heaven. And pain. Even though these one-hour sessions cost him a days pay, he could not imagine living without the joy and subsequent tranquility that they brought to his life. Mona poured hot wax over his nipples while flicking his testicles.

“You want Mistress Mona to fart in Howie Wowies face, dontcha bitch. That’s right, maybe ill just press my ass right up against your face so you can get a good smell. You like that? Maybe I’ll just leave your face snuggled right up in there until just before you pass out. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll piss on your chin.”

Mona was a big girl. She wasn’t obese, but she carried a solid girth on her almost six foot tall body. Most of the clients she had were men of a smaller stature, who liked being abused by Amazon-like women. She moved a small ladder over to the torture wheel, which Howard was shackled tightly to. “That’s right, giggle you little bitch, Mistress Mona gonna blow shit whispers right up your crooked, ugly nose.” She reached the top of the ladder and began to position herself as she had promised. Just when any mystery the scent of her anus may have held began to fade from Howard’s curiosity, the ladder broke, sending Mona falling heavily to the floor.

The room was filled with screams. The screams excited Howard, and he ejaculated immediately. The semen landed in Mona’s eye, causing the screams to do the impossible and raise several degrees in both pitch and volume. He thought all of this was a planned part of the session. If he weren’t blindfolded he would have seen that Mona’s leg had been broken severely during an accidental tumble.

“You fucking prick, you motherfucking prick. Nobody cums on Mistress Mona’s face.” She began to struggle as if to lash out at Howard, but the damaged limb and the accompanying pain made it impossible for her to move. There was still a half an hour before the session was over, and an hour before a new client would slip discreetly into her apartment, and hopefully rescue the mangled Mistress and the minister whom she had so thoroughly tied up. “You piece of shit, halfwit holy roller. This is your last session. LAST SESSION!”

Just as scheduled, Orson arrived for his appointment with Mona, and stood waiting in the reception area. Even there, closed off from the torture chamber, he could hear the distress in the mistress’s voice while she heaved harsher than usual insults and profanities at whatever client she was currently in session with. She had never spoken to him this way, and he was sure that he would not like it if she did. Either the current client must be a real sick fuck, he thought, or there was something very wrong going on. He tapped a bell on the counter several times, as loud as he possibly could.

Suddenly the hate stricken dialogue came to an end, and a short silence ensued. It did not last long, and was replaced by several high-pitched shrieks. “HELP!” came the manic cry, “Please Fucking Help!” Orson did not immediately make his way to the torture chamber. First he assessed the plausible scenarios that he might discover, and the possible consequences to his own person they might constitute.

After what seemed like an eternity of wailing her pleas to the visitor, Mona heard the voice of Orson come from the reception area. “What’s going on in there?” the squeaky effeminate voice attempted to bellow. “I broke my god damn leg, help me for fucks sake, please!” Another brief pause, then, “Is there anybody in there with you?” It pays to be cautious, he justified to himself. “Just some asshole Priest I got all tied up. Now quit asking me stupid fucking questions and get your ass in here and help me,” She begged with utter desperation. “Please.” Using the ‘P’ word with clients was not something Mona was accustomed to.

Dense was not an adjective appropriate in describing Orson. The use of the ‘P’ word by the mistress three times in so many breaths alerted him to the serious nature of her situation. When he came to the door to the torture chamber, he opened it slowly, half of his brain trying to assess the contents of this room, and half on standby for instantaneous flight. Finally something caught his eye, the priest. Underneath the eye mask and the ball gag was a face that would be forever etched into his memory. Father Howard Foster, the priest from the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, which he had attended as a child. Orson had not seen the mans actual face in fifteen years, but the ghost if it had haunted him in his dreams almost every night since then.

Despite the feeling of hatred for Father Foster, and the pity for Mistress Mona, Orson found himself laughing out loud. “What in the hell are you laughing at, get over here and help me you insensitive fairy,” Mona pleaded, adding a taunt just to remind this motherfucker who was the mistress in this house! When his laughter subsided, he attempted to affect a serious expression somewhat convincingly, and then he spoke to her. “I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and freed her of her various contortions, and gently propped her up comfortably upon some throw pillows taken from a black leather chaise lounge. As he did this, Mona related the gruesome details of the absurd scenario.

Orson only caught bits and pieces of this conversation; his mind was busy going over other possibilities. That wicked abomination affixed to Mona’s wheel of torture, had himself been the instrument of Orson’s own torture. Since the priest first forced sodomy on Orson when he was eight, until he ran away from home to escape Father Foster when he was thirteen, this man had ruined his entire life. This holy man turned child molester had stolen his innocence and left him feeling cold and dead towards the world. He had made him meek and paranoid and deprived him of any sexual identity. And here this man was, right in front of him fifteen years later, tied up and helpless. It was as though the universe had finally thrown Orson a bone, and that bone was the blind, blunt hammer of justice.

Orson went over to the priest and removed the ball gag, and then returned and knelt down, whispering to Mona, “I know that you are in a lot of pain right now, and I promise that I will help you, I do. But first there’s something else that I have to do.” “What? What else could you possibly have to do at a time like this? Please, Mona begs of you, help me!”

“Reverend Foster, what a surprise,” Orson’s voice trembled with rage and his words peppered the priests eardrums like acid. “It certainly has been a long time.”

“Who are you? What do you want? Why don’t you help her? Please, just untie me, so I can leave before anybody else gets here. Please, untie me!” The priests voice stammered dizzily, and the sound of his voice threatened to freeze the very blood in Orson’s heart.

“Oh I don’t think so, Father Foster. I don’t think you will be going anywhere anytime soon. I think me and you are going to have some fun, just like the good old times, Father.” Orson walked over to the priest and grabbed his flaccid member, gently squeezing and stroking it sensually. “Does that help, do you remember me now?” he prodded.

“No, who are you, why are you doing this to me. Please just untie me!”

What the fuck is going on? What are you doing to him, fuck him, just help me. Call a god damn ambulance all fucking ready, for Christ’s sake!” Mona screamed indignantly.

“Sorry Mona, not just yet, but soon.” Orson said sympathetically. As quickly as the icy hatred had melted away, it returned. “You don’t remember me? Well, isn’t that something. Because I remember you, Father. Every day and night since I was eight I have remembered who you are and what you did to me. Is this starting to ring a bell, father? Now do you remember who I am?”

“Adrian, is that…no, you couldn’t be Adrian. Matthew, is it, or, no…Christopher? Oh Dear God please help me! Who are you?”

“Its me Father, your little tit-mouse. Or did you have more than one of those too, you depraved fuck.” It had never occurred to Orson that he wasn’t the only child the priest had ever taken advantage of. Learning of it steeled his resolve for vengeance. His primal instincts begged for him to kill this monster, but his remaining cognitive facilities suggested that something more symbolic might be appropriate for this opportunity.

“Orson? Oh God, Orson! I am so sorry. Please untie me and we can talk about this, I promise, I never meant to hurt you. What do you want? Money? I can get you money. Oh please God, help me!” The priest was sobbing pathetically, now. The pitiful sound brought new waves of rage swelling up in Orson.

“I wouldn’t bother begging your God, Father. Don’t you remember when I used to try that? It didn’t help. Your God doesn’t exist, Father, you taught me that. More or less.” Orson removed the eye mask and spat in the priest’s eye. “Now lets see if I can repay the favor.”

“What the fuck are you doing? Help me!”

“No, please no!”

“Leave him alone, cant you see I need a fucking doctor you asshole! PLEASE!”

“Why are you doing that? Please stop, oh dear God…why?”

Orson took the priests penis into his mouth and began to work it slowly, and masterfully. When he started, the thing was completely limp; but despite the protests emanating from Howard, the warm wet mouth brought his cock to life. At this rate his vengeance would be swift, exacting it right before the moment of the priests release. He still remembered how the mans toes would begin tapping right before ejaculation. He would wait for this sign and then he would know when it was just the right time.

“This is seriously fucked up, Orson. How can you suck dick at a time like this? Holy mother of fuck, knock that shit off and help me! Help me you twisted prick!” Mona had a vague idea of what was happening but didn’t care. After the priest had came in her eye, she too, had wanted to make him suffer. But not now. It was too fucking obvious. She gave in to her pain, desperation and rage and began sobbing.

Meanwhile, the priest began issuing little grunts of pleasure, in between pleas to a God he knew damned well he didn’t believe in. That was the outcome of an education in theology via the seminary. One didn’t need to believe in God, to preach about him, no more than one had to believe in Santa Claus to celebrate Christmas. And wasn’t it the churches policy of celibacy that had driven him into compromising relations with young men? “Oh God,” he yelled, and his toes began the tell tale signs of tapping.

Orson noticed this and waited just a few more seconds before biting down with all of his might, and severing the member of the priest entirely. He immediately spat out the ragged protuberance, and rose up to spit the remaining blood into the priests face. After the ecstasy of catharsis faded from his mind, he noticed the Priest wasn’t screaming as he had expected. Neither was he thrashing about as might be anticipated.

“Jesus Christ, Orson, you killed him. You killed him! Please don’t hurt me, please, help me. Help.” Her cries fell back to uncontrollable sobs.

Orson sat there stunned, unable to respond to his surroundings. This catatonic trance lasted several minutes, and then as if nothing had happened he walked out of the chamber to the reception area and dialed 9-11.

“Where are you going, please help me. Help me. Why won’t you come back here and help me? Where are you going?” Her appeals went on this way, all the while Orson spoke to the 911 operator in a frank monotone voice, relaying brief details of the situation. When he was done, he didn’t return to the torture chamber. He exited the Mistress’s and ran to his car. He didn’t know what he would do, but his first move would be to get as far from here as soon as possible.

In his frenzied attempt to start the old Chrysler, he accidentally pumped the accelerator frantically, causing the engines firing chambers to become flooded with fuel. The car would not start, and panic ensued. He made several more attempts to start the vehicle, but all of his efforts were fruitless. At this point he broke down in sobs not unlike the ones that had been issued from the mistress and the priests moments ago. Fits of dread alternated with bouts of resignation. Both thoughts made him bash his head against the steering wheel until finally he opened up a small wound causing blood to drip irritatingly into his eyes. After about ten minutes or so, he heard the far off cry of sirens. The sound sent an alarm running up and down his spine, and he tried the ignition once again. This time, the car turned over and started as if nothing had happened. After he wiped the blood from his eye, he put the car into drive and laid into the accelerator with utter abandon.

He managed to get about three blocks away before he got to a busy intersection. Unaware of his surroundings due to the paralyzing affect of fear on his psyche, he did not notice that the stoplight he was heading towards was red. He made it half way across the street before his automobile was struck on the passenger side by a speeding ambulance. The shift of the momentum sent him into a spin, and a moment later he was struck by another fast moving vehicle, this time directly on the drivers side of his automobile.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that. Hurry, get on the radio and call another ambulance. Strike that, call several more ambulances and about a dozen back up patrols. This is going to be a long night.” Police Lieutenant Mickelson stepped out of the car and shook his head under the light of a full moon. “A long night, indeed!”

It had been a quiet night so far. Lieutenant Mickelson and rookie patrol officer Laura Juarez had only been on patrol for two hours, but had yet to even make so much as a traffic stop. This ran contrary to the fact that there was a perfectly full moon. It was a simple fact in law enforcement, a full moon brought out the nuttiest of the lot. The last time there had been a full moon he had arrested a man for drunkenness and public urination, who claimed to be a vampire, who would eat his soul if he didn’t set him free at once. As it turned out, the man was a high school janitor who had just been fired, and had spent the past three days swaying to the gentle sounds of heroin and scotch.

Immediately following that debacle he and Officer Juarez were called to assist in a vehicle pursuit. The driver of the offending vehicle was a seventeen-year-old boy, who ended a thirty-five minute chase by sticking the business end of a twenty two-caliber pistol into his mouth and pulling the trigger. Authorities were still unable to determine if the gun wound from the small caliber pistol had actually killed him, or if it was the fiery chaos the ensued when his car collided with a concrete structure that supported an overpass.

At the end of his shift Lieutenant Mickelson was informed that the ‘vampire’ had later confessed to a gruesome murder, and claimed that he had drank the victims blood to obtain super-powers. Until a body could be found and psychologists could examine the ‘vampire’ in a sober state, nothing could be verified, and all details surrounding this case were to be kept completely under the strictest of confidences.

This was what the last full moon had been like, and it hadn’t been much stranger than any before it. Sure, there were a few that stood out over the years, but as a rule every full moon brought out the wholesale insanity of the supposedly ‘complex’ human mind. But tonight had started out slow, and that could only mean one thing, that by the end of it, it would be a very long night. That is what Lieutenant Mickelson was thinking when the call came in. It was the call that he had dreaded most ever getting, because it would expose him, and perhaps ruin him. The address he had been asked to respond to was one Miss Mistress Mona, bondage queen and humiliator extraordinaire, of whom he was a weekly client. He looked over at his partner and wondered if she noticed the horror and panic that was welling up inside of him.

Reflexively, and because he didn’t know what else to do, he just turned on the sirens and began speeding towards the scene. But the dread just kept building up inside of him the entire way. Only the horrible hope that Mona would be too fucked up or dead to recognize and address him calmed him even the slightest. Now only blocks from the house he was about to burst with the weight of it all, when a horrible accident that would take precedence over the call to Mistress Mona’s, happened right in front of him.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that.”

Orson O’Hara lay in a coma dying in a hospital bed. He was sure he was dying because he could feel the world around him shrinking. All he ever was, had ever been and would ever be was slowly spiraling into a funnel of the final nothingness. As he approached that final pinpoint of his existence, he felt a comfort he could not remember ever knowing, and then this last thought slipped into the eternal void.

Father Howard Foster was in critical condition. The stroke that had accompanied the severing of his penis should have killed him. Despite the fact that he had survived this, it was an even more amazing feat that he should survive after the slow response time by emergency vehicles, which had partaken in another emergency along the way. The doctors gave him a better than fifty percent chance of surviving, even though he was still unresponsive after twenty-four hours. Much of this was due to the Fathers reluctance to face what this nightmare had exposed. Surely Mona would have given all of the details uncovered in this mess to authorities who would investigate the depravities he had delighted in all of these years. Death was what Father Foster wanted so badly, and though he reached towards it and tried to pull himself in, life was not willing to let go of him.

When he finally reconciled himself to his continuing existence, he decided he would confess everything, instead of dragging this ugliness out any further than it needed to be. Forty-seven hours after the stroke, Father Foster gained consciousness, and was ‘on his way to a full recovery’. When he awoke he did not immediately reveal himself, he decided it would be best to wait until he was in better health. Nobody seemed to mention anything about any of it to him. Everyone just went about being concerned for him, and helping to bring the poor Father up to speed on the tragic events. None of these included a mention of Orson. It had been assumed that Mona accidentally cut off the Fathers Penis when she had fallen off the ladder. Authorities had completely botched the investigation, and Mona didn’t seem to remember anything. He learned of Orson’s death only because of how it related to the emergency vehicles delayed reaction time.

Somewhere during this he decided that maybe he wouldn’t reveal himself right away after getting better either. Maybe he would wait until this whole thing blew past him. He felt like a new man, and without that awful cock of his bidding him to become a monster, perhaps he could get a new start. If Mona didn’t say anything, then neither would he. Of course they’d figured out about his thing with Mona, and sure he could probably never return to the church, but with Mona silent and Orson dead the other thing would never have to come up again.

It was so clear to him that the instrument of his own evil had been that wretched insatiable prick of his, that without it he was perfectly free from the monster he was forced to feed all of his life. An assumption is a shaky structure upon which to build ones revelations. With the force of all of his might he managed to move a hand to his groin to feel the freeing absence of his penis, but when he finally got there his hand was met by a mangled stump of meat, reattached through the miracle of modern medicine. A pathetic muffled scream was issued from his throat and continued to ring in his ears throughout the rest of his life.

Mona stood back on her crutches admiring the new sign. ‘Mistress Mona’s Fortune Parlor’, underneath that it said, ‘Tarot, Palms, Crystals and Channeling’. After that horrible night, Mona was done with sadism. While in the hospital she had already decided to move on to her real interest, her psychic abilities. She knew it wouldn’t pay as well, but she had already amassed a tidy savings while in the beating business. She spent her days in recovery brushing up on her skills with the tarot deck, her palmistry skills and reading the subtle details of the future in a crystal ball. Never had she actually channeled an entity from another realm, but she was confident that if given the opportunity, she was unlikely to fail.

While reading her own astrological charts one day she came to realize that the terrible nights events had occurred not only under a full moon, but also with mercury in retrograde, as well. That night Mona had a dream that the universe would become a just place if only she were to build the proper temple. She set about doing just that, but for whatever reason the temple was to be built entirely out of cards. On an altar lay a tarot deck, from which the cards were to be drawn from and the temple built around. Whenever a card was taken from the deck it was immediately replenished, and no matter how many times she drew a new card it was always the same one, the ace of swords. Mona built and rebuilt the temple countless times, but whenever that last card was put into place, the temple would collapse back into the pile of cards from which it had been drawn.

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