Too Bad

Jonathan heard the letter arrive, but again he did not see its carrier. He dashed back upstairs to the window in a vain attempt to spy that spectral postman. A shadow slipped into the fog. No other life could be seen in the damp cobbled street.

This was the 9th envelope that had arrived in this manner. Each previous one had left him feeling more angry and rejected than the last. And after each, he had tried harder still to prove himself; to gain respect, acceptance. Thus far eight letters had begat eight victims.

He’d cut the last one’s throat and sodomized its still trembling body, laughing at its pleas. He’d lapped at the pooling blood and whispered obscenities in its ear. He’d carved the name of that most unholy order in its back and left its hairy arsed and pot bellied form curled and stiff in an alley… Wasn’t this enough?

He snatched the note from its envelope in anger, but his scowl soon faded.

Be with us this night, at nine.
It is your time.

TKOA

The grin that had crept onto his face soon became a black toothed smile, climaxing to hideous laugh. He reached for the whisky decanter, and held it up high, proposing a toast to the Knights of Abaddon, and pouring the fiery liquid into his gaping mouth, until it overflowed and spilled down his front. At last he had been accepted.

--------------

Jonathan knew the way. He’d been before as a voyeur; an uninvited guest clinging to a drainpipe, peeping, wishing he could be one of them. He knew what to expect. He would be taken to the altar, the High Priest would dress him in a red robe, and he would be awarded his own sword. But it was not the sword that excited him; each new member must spill blood with his new sword, he knew that, and he knew the orgy and the feast of flesh that would follow.

His heart pumped hard and his mouth watered as he stepped up to the door. He gave the knock and spoke the words. The door opened slowly. Stepping into the dark hallway he felt the excitement rising. The door closed behind, and the blackness closed in. Jonathan could not see the figures, but he was aware of the cold hands touching him, groping. They tore at his clothes, stripped him bare, and then lifted him by his arms and legs, running with him so that he felt as though floating in a wonderful fantasy.

He felt the hard wooden door crash against his head as they burst into the candle-lit hall. He scanned the room frantically for his bearings but all he could see was a blur of red robes. His carriers flung him onto the altar, and a roar went up from the crowd. Still dizzy, he struggled to his feet and faced his peers.

The High Priest placed his hand on Jonathans head, and began the ceremony.

“Mighty Abaddon, most unholy angel!”

The crowd answered with a low chant, “Abaddon, hear us.”

“This man has proven himself truly without conscience!

He has committed foul acts in the name of our order!

We must become one with him, so that we may find the courage to better serve you.”

The crowd answered again, “Abaddon, we serve you.”

Jonathan allowed himself a smile; this was praise beyond his expectations. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, raising his arms ready for his new red robe. He felt the priest grip his hair, it hurt like hell and he let go a cry of pain. Next he felt a punch, hard on his back. He opened his eyes in time to see the metal point emerge from his bare belly. His legs gave way and the priest, still holding him by the hair, allowed him to fall to his knees. Blood flowed quickly from the hole in his stomach, along the blade, and into a jewelled goblet. He watched it fill as the lights faded. He saw the blurred red figures bow before him to drink from the cup. He heard them laughing as they supped, each voice more distant than the last, until light and sound had gone. He felt them licking his face, clawing at his wound, biting his flesh; feasting.

The Priest held Jonathan’s heart up high, gave praise to Abaddon, then squeezed the blackening blood into his gaping mouth, gulping down the intoxicating badness.