Myth Man
Authors: Alex Mueck
Myth Man
Alex Mueck
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Bloomington
Myth Man
Copyright © 2010 Alex Mueck
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-4725-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-4502-4724-5 (cloth)
ISBN: 978-1-4502-4723-8 (ebk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010932917
Printed in the United States of America
iUniverse rev. date: 9/30/2010
The author would like to thank the following people. My parents, Michael Dadich, Toni Mannino, Brian & Jenn Dunn, Scott Jurow, Rocco Petito, Roseann Parker, Joe Shavel, Steve Demeo, Ewa Graves, Chris McCentee, Roopesh Amin, Lauren Klein, Laura McGrath, Jason Rich, Scott Coya, Phil Fecher, the Brewster/Sullivan gang, Andrew, Tristan and Victoria Mueck, John and Mary Jane Dreyer, William Dreyer, Cleo and John Roberts, Gay Wightman, and my guildies (Voch, Steelshadow (Rogue’s fault!), Sotirf, Green Harvest, Solty, Oprhias, Kyogi, Nervous, Beshaba, Xefron, Feefer, Nervous, Littledoor, Markymark, Galfame, Necaise, and the rest of my crazy gang.) Melissa and I would like to thank two great vets, Dr. Roiland and Dr. Cuccaro for all you have done for Paola. I would also like to thank the many religious people who helped me: Priests, Ministers, Rabbis, Clerics, Pandits, et. It was a rewarding experience to gain insights into the various religions. I would also like to thank Parobola Magazine for their excellent work on religion.
This book is dedicated to Melissa Wightman, aka, Mayor McCheese, and our loving dog Paola
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
B
ULLSEYE ENVISIONED THE KILLER of myths, faiths, and fables. He smiled at the twentysomething, curvy brunette and stared, neither at her inviting smile nor her ample and welcoming chest but rather at the ashen cross on her forehead. Oh, how he would like to place a bullet through her Ash Wednesday smudge, but the fun would have to wait for later.
She made eye contact as the subway closed in on his last stop. Staring at her cross, he unbuttoned the top of his gray overcoat and revealed a Roman collar.
Her eyes twinkled, and the left side of her mouth curved upward. She nudged closer, smiling. “Father?”
“My child,” the killer said warmly with a purposeful trace of a mideastern accent. “I see you started your day with God,” he said, eyeing her ashen cross again under the brim of his fedora.
Her head dipped demurely, and then she proudly declared, “Mother wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“God bless her,” he said while thinking,
this dirty slut probably performed fellatio last night
. “She must be a great woman, and I see the fruits of her labor have not fallen far from mother tree.” His eyes zeroed in on her forehead again.
The brunette smiled. “I must say, I have never seen a priest on a subway before.”
He laughed inside, but his lightly darkened, disguised-with-makeup face never wavered. “My dear, God uses many types of chariots to do his good work.”
She laughed as the subway jerked and then decelerated.
A mechanical voice plagued by static announced, “Forty-second Street, Grand Central Station.”
He spoke over the hiss. “My stop. Remember our sinful nature and recognize God’s forgiveness.” He folded his hands and bowed slightly.
“Thanks,” she said but then thought that he did not exactly seem the celibate type based on the way he had leered at her.
He stepped off the subway and looked across to where the local six-train platformed. He was encumbered with an over-the-shoulder bag, but he decided the weather was scripted for the day and headed for the stairs.
With several steps to climb, he saw a swirling gray sky punctuated by swiftly falling snow. He smiled as the first hard, wet flakes struck his face.
When he emerged on Lexington Avenue, an umbrella flew at him with deadly aim, striking him forcefully in the right thigh. His grin twisted to a grimace. He looked up angrily.
A gaunt, elderly woman sheepishly approached. “I’m so sorry,” she pleaded.
The killer smiled and handed her the umbrella. In a halting Indian accent, he told her, “It’s okay. Anyway, I have someone else to kill today.”
Her eyes widened, and she edged backward.
He smiled.
Tremulous, she asked, “You’re, uh, kidding?” Her face twitched like a timid mouse, but her eyes expressed hope, like maybe the cheese was not attached to a trap.
His face was dispassionate, but his tone was serious. “I wish I was.” He flashed a smile as if to suggest otherwise and then tipped his hat, revealing a dark bushel of wavy hair. “Be careful in this nasty weather.” Despite the gusting winds, his wig held firm.
She thanked him and gripped her umbrella tightly as she departed.
He pivoted and walked toward Fifth Avenue. Making a right, he saw the double spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral rise three hundred feet into the snowy heavens. Across the street was Rockefeller Center, where a sculptured Atlas held the weight of the world on his shoulders.
The killer laughed. The Greek gods once ruled the world only to be replaced by more elaborate fabrications. We’re mortals. No god or gods intervened in our mundane lives.
After all, there were no miracles against a well-aimed bullet.
He walked up a short flight of stairs past a few policemen huddled together and stood before two double bronze doors that weighed ten thousand pounds each.
Two weeks prior, a most helpful tour guide provided that factoid and gleefully answered all his questions. Ms. Giovanni appeared dazzled by his alluring smile, Armani suit, and Italian accent.
Despite his contempt for religious places of worship, St. Patrick’s was a magnificent church. The stained glass windows, the chapels, and the marble altars—indeed there was much to marvel. Not all religions managed to have such a glorious spectacle as New York City’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral, so today’s deed was an extra thrill.
As he finally strode through the bronze doors, he recalled the legend where St. Patrick banished all snakes from Ireland. The accounts varied, but one thing remained certain—it was as fictitious as the exploits of Atlas. Snakes were not indigenous to the Emerald Isle.
Myths
, he raged.
Warm, stuffy air greeted his nostrils, and he gagged in disgust before suppressing his revulsion. There they were—the faithful arriving to bear their crosses. Next to Easter and Christmas, what other Christian holiday drew such attendance?
He especially despised Ash Wednesday.
He gazed at the arriving flock and assigned sins they were here to ask God’s forgiveness for: cheating on taxes, adultery, alcoholism, domestic violence, racism, and clearly gluttony, by the size of one woman’s girth. Hypocrites. Your worthless devotion.
Faith
, he seethed.
He was a lion. The Christian cattle were his prey.
Since the sheep were forming to the right, he headed straight. Just as he stepped forward, a preppie, pencil-pushing plebe brushed into him and moved on without an apology.
Asshole.
He was blabbing with his female companion about getting a picture of the altar of Saint John the Evangelist.
Speaking of assholes. If only this apocalyptic shit-spreader had been killed like his brother James.
Today, if someone uttered St. John’s lunatic rants of the apocalypse, we’d squirrel that seed in the nuthouse. Instead, however, his revelations have sprouted and strangled mankind with an atmosphere of gloom. How many times had he scoffed as some windbag preacher forecasted a date for the arrival of this so-called Antichrist? The date always passed. The excuse is always, of course, the human element of miscalculation.
The only plus to the evangelist’s ramblings was the wealth of fiction it created, both in cinema and literature. Sure, God usually prevailed, but evil always grabbed a few souls before being vanquished. Today, he’d move the abacus in the devil’s direction, although he considered his musings as
funny talk
. Satan was no more real than Hades, Asmodeus, Baal, Iblis, or Loki. They were all just superstitions used to intimidate mankind.
Fables
, he stormed.
He was not intimidated. This was a time to spit back at generations of lies with an unholy vengeance. Let them grab their rosaries and other superficial talismans. Their monopoly on our minds is over. It was time to break free of religious institutions. It’s a new world order.
Walking forward through the nave, he reached the end of the pews and moved down the center aisle toward the sanctuary.
A few paces farther, he stopped. Slouched and snoring was a disheveled man, who had not seen a shave by the sight of him or a shower by the smell of him in quite some time. A vagrant. Perfect. When life was hell for the homeless, how could such a man believe in God?
He took the shoulder strap off and placed the bag on the floor. Nonchalantly, he sat next to the man, quickly seized his wrist, and with his other hand, injected a needle in his arm. The man stirred. “Peace, my brother,” the killer said in a soothing voice. “I’m leaving you a few things. There’s some food, but first, rest.”
Smells of alcohol and vomit rose off the homeless man’s body. The killer winced as he placed two paper bags beside the vagrant. He moved back to the aisle, thrilled to escape the man’s aroma. He removed his overcoat and swung it over his right arm. With the same hand, he grabbed the bag and walked with it by his side.
When he reached the sanctuary, he turned right toward the south transept. Along the wall stood the faithful, awaiting their ashes. He turned toward two guards who stood before a rope partition.
With perfect Gaelic precision, he asked, “Dear lads, I’m visiting from Ireland. St. Patrick’s Parish of Wicklow.” He paused to gesture outside. “I lost my way in the storm. My destination is the rectory.”
One guard deferred to the other. The younger, thinner guard appeared to think for a moment and then asked. “What’s your name, Father?”
“Martin Balor,” he replied, heavy on the brogue. “From Wicklow.”
“I’ll call it in,” the skinny guard said. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Father. He has to check your bag, regardless.”
The guard nodded and pulled a device off a belt clip. He turned away and spoke into the thing and waited. After a brief moment, he spoke again, this time much louder.
“No problem. My pleasure,” he said without a hint of such. He said the right words but slouched and spoke in a slow, strained fashion. His wavy brown hair was disheveled. His eyes were red and underlined by black creases, like a hungover big leaguer during a sunny afternoon game.
With an apologetic expression, the other guard motioned to the bag.
“I understand, sir. You Americans have been through a lot, especially New Yorkers. Where I’m from, we don’t have this concern. Well, unless you’re a bloody Brit,” he said with a sly smile.
The killer opened his duffel bag. “All I have is a change of clothes and some holy books. I’m attending an interfaith seminar tomorrow.”
At first, the man’s darkened complexion caught the skinny guy’s attention, but the priestly garments and accent disarmed him. Half-heartedly, the guard fished through clothes, linens, books, and one bottle of water. He thought,
The man was an Irish priest. He looked like a decent chap. This didn’t fit his profile of a dangerous sort.
The killer gazed over to the pulpit and raged.
How much bullshit had been spewed from that stage over the past hundred and thirty years?
The guard broke his fury. “You’re in luck, Father. There’s a way to the rectory without braving the elements again. I’ll escort you.”
As I suspected
, the killer thought as he suppressed a smile. He clasped his hands together. “That’s most kind.”
A simple phone call a few months prior was all it took to schedule the visit. The real Martin Balor from Wicklow was possibly settling down with a pint of beer and a plate of corned beef and cabbage at this very moment. Tomorrow, Balor would step it up to scotch to forget his newfound infamy. Corned beef and cabbage was cattle food, but the killer enjoyed good Irish spirits. Not just the booze, but also the Celtic legends.
It was also those legends that led to the selection of Father Balor. He’d been scouting a list of Irish priests he’d easily found on the Internet when he spotted the name Balor. He loved the irony. In Celtic lore, Balor was a cyclops creature that represented death. The connection was too good.
A small smile breached the killer’s resistance.
Now comes the fun part
, he thought.
They came around a bend to the famous Lady Chapel. The marble walls were accented with narrow pillars that rose into arches and then tapered to long, narrow columns surrounded by stained glass, which depicted more flights of fancy, including the ascension of Jesus to heaven. The killer enjoyed this part of the church. He knew beauty, even if it was in the misguided form of religion.
His brown eyes sparkled. The optometrist, whom he later disposed of, found the request unusual. She raved about his dynamic blue eyes. Why did he want brown contacts? She was sweet, but she was a potential future witness. And, she was a meddling Jew, so she had to die.
His ogling was interrupted. “Just this way, Father,” the guard advised.
The excuse for security appeared overtaxed and/or bored. The splendor of the cathedral had worn thin from the monotonous ritual of standing around.
He might have to die.
Behind the sanctuary, in the ambulatory, a staircase descended. It led to the crypt and sacristies. Also, there was an underground tunnel that led to the rectory. This was not part of the tour, but he knew that anyway. The information was public from multiple sources, and his accommodating tour guide was most helpful with his follow-up questions.
