The Devil’s Drink

Oh the devil’s drink is so sweet, but as hell cometh crashing down I realize the impending pain will make the sweetness become as nothing.  As my soul wrenches in agony for eternity my earthly bliss will be… nothing


“Now Jeremiah pick up your bible.” Grandma nervously looks around as her handmade blue dress blows in the wind.  Making sure the neighbors were still walking up the steps into the white wooden church.
“I don’t want to go in there anymore.” A black haired boy becoming a man defies his only authority, grandma and god.  The hurt in her eyes, the anguish wells up with moist redness.  She is losing her grandson to him.  To his clutches.  Wonderful loving lady, treated the boy like a prince, but even her love for him ended at this.  She would feel loss, pain, but not enough to hold him close again and call him son.  Not if he was going to live in sin.
The boy turned and walked away.  The wind kicked up in a cliché way that was reminiscent of a western, bible pages turning with each gust, sitting in the dirt.  Grandma with her hands on her hips, watching as her ward walks straight to hell.  The a teary eyed boy looks back one more time, his example of love and tenderness also standing in tears, at her feet pages bare, his law, that thing that failed so horribly at protecting him.

A black haired teen toasts the coming of his twentieth year.  The fags in the bar know him in passing or sex, but nothing more.  Not one person here would stop fucking for a day if he was suddenly killed.  From across the building a presence stares.  Something that caresses Jeremiah’s face from a distance.  He thinks he hears a whisper from across the room, but it is full of hundreds of people and deafening music?   Quickly Jeremiah’s instincts hone in on the source.  Something so touching that every single thing in the universe fell away and only it existed.  The beauty emanated from a pale faced boy staring at Jeremiah.  This boy moves our birthday boy’s heart, it physically altered the beat and made him take an involuntary gasp.
The music’s beat pounds out of control, but Jeremiah is staring into another dimension, for despite the presence of probably one of the most fuckable pieces of human flesh, in the world, not one soul was looking at him but Jeremiah.  The whisper again, Morning Star.   The Morning Star looks him directly in the soul and begins walking towards Jeremiah.  Birthday boy’s legs begin moving and the crowd of shirtless fags parts like the red sea and in a writhing pit of sin Jeremiah met him.

Move to the top of a parking garage at night underneath the rumbles and flashes of a building thunderstorm.  A soft wind is blowing moving the Morning Star’s bangs, tickling his eyelids. Eyes staring, reading, broadcasting, hypnotizing…   cursing, his voice resonates and hums.  A thousand kings shouting at once would pale to the authority in one of his breaths, “I have been watching you all your life Jeremiah.”  He admires the enamored boy’s build with what appears to be pride, “You are becoming everything I have hoped for.”
Without a word he lays three items in front of Jeremiah, an old quill sharp as a dickens, a gold coin shiny as hell and a silver hand mirror, “I have many gifts for you, but today you must choose only one.”  His finger passes over the objects and they seem to move just a twitch.
Jeremiah examines them, but quicker than most would expect he snatches up the pen.  The new friend smiles a gleaming grin and the thunder crashes above, “Wonderful.”   He stares into Jeremiah’s eyes as lightening flashes upon the entire city.  Then the rain releases in a horrifying deluge.  The fallen angel stands up.  “I have to go Jeremiah.”
He backs away, turns, and quickly heads to the edge of the structure.  Jeremiah, still on his knees, only managed a small protest, “I love you.” as his new friend leapt over the side.  Screaming he ran over peering down at a crushed human body amidst a pattern of blood looking like a snow flake.  Rain and Jeremiah’s tears, quickly blurs the intricate pattern and drags the whole thing to a drain in the street.

A black haired man sits at a desk typing away on his laptop.  He has been given the gift of gab but it flows from his fingers.  His touch is like that of Midas and the people throng to his pages in hopes of some divine message that will make them forget their slavery for a brief moment.  In return they paid him in kind and the gifts promised were boundless and heaping.
His skill was timeless and untouchable.  The way in which, Jeremiah, was able to set a pen to paper was undoubtedly and heavily suspected as divine.  Those who loved his words were dedicated sycophants, and the ones who hated him, hated him with a zeal only, Satan, could foster.  It cannot be said every man, women, and child was uttering, Jeremiah’s name, but those who did read him would never forget one single word.  Their souls wouldn’t allow it.  Many people know and assume there are messengers of God, well, wouldn’t it be logical to assume there are messengers of Lucifer?
A prophet has power in his words by how they move people.  The ones who rule this world know this, and they have become quite efficient at nipping the, ‘prophet process’ in the bud.  Like hawks they sit and watch the airways, cables, and screens, they look for those who will, simply by writing, challenge the positions they hold.  A yipping coyote can panic a herd of buffalo to plummet off a cliff, as can one pesky writer do to the entire human population.  It wasn’t long until these hawks noticed, Jeremiah, and his success.

Knuckles in his mouth, Jeremiah, cannot concentrate any longer.  He just stares off at a block wall.  The thick necked, close cut military officer asks again, “So the piece dated 07/10 of 99, you write and I quote, someone should kill that bitch.”  He flips through some pages, acting like he doesn’t know what he is about to say, “This is in reference to congressman Gourley?”
Jeremiah, is horribly wounded, but manages to speak in a raspy voice, “It’s just a story, I didn‘t mean for anyone to get hurt, you fucking douche bag.”   Jeremiah is tattered, bleeding from every orifice in his body.  He can’t remember if he has slept, he didn’t really know if he was sleeping right now.
“Sir you are aware of the Stiffords Act passed back in 2011?  You violated many aspects of this act.  Based on the ruling of a secret grand jury,  of your peers,  enough evidence was found, in your writing, to try you for inciting violence against elected officials.”  Without stopping the agent barely took a breath, “And, since harming, or threatening to harm an elected official is deemed as a act of an enemy combatant or terrorist, you fall under the parameters of the Military Powers act.”  He smiled, “That puts you here with me.  No lawyer, no trial, hell nobody even knows you are here, and it could stay that way until I deem you no longer a threat, or ready to stand trial.”
Jeremiah, mustered strength and spoke through swollen lips, “I hope you know, no matter how many people you imprison, maim, kidnap or murder, history promises, one day, you and your little fun bunch will be hung with wires with your hands tied behind your back.”
The officer stood up.  Then yelled, “Fuck this fucking faggot.  Zip up his wrists, stick a fucking bag on his head and send him to Pakistan on the next C-5.”

Jeremiah, is immersed in darkness now.  A dungeon, with no windows, no lights, just complete black.  Starving and forgotten the dark haired man weakly whispers to himself over and over in the stillness, “I have so many gifts for you.  I have so many gifts for you…”



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