The Brotherhood #20
By Mark W. Meier
Prophet of Death
Back home, you and Amy parted ways on the second floor landing, and you hiked the final flight of stairs in a dream state. Recalling your time with Amy yesterday and this morning brought forth a witless smile. Anticipation of the next meeting filled you with hope for the future.
A hope I would crush.
Then you opened the door to your apartment and found Marshal Woods sitting in your desk chair, feet propped up on your nearby bed. An incoherent scream burst forth from your lips. Since your door was still open I had to dampen the noise so nobody else in the building heard you.
“Mr. Reymond.” The smirking marshal uncrossed his ankles and stood, taking out his ever-present notebook. “Good to see you again.”
I could have cheered. This man didn’t know it, but he’d helped my cause more than anything I could have anticipated. The time had come to finish my mission.
POP! The oven this time. You yelled wordlessly at the offending appliance.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” You stomped your feet. “You returned all my belongings! Why isn’t this case over?”
“We found more evidence this morning.” Woods looked up from his notebook. “To be honest, there’s so much proof that you must be guilty.”
“What evidence? I’ve been trapped here all weekend. I could only get to church because someone else drove.” Your blood pressure climbed, and I helped.
POP! Your electric razor in the bathroom.
You shrieked again.
Woods gave you a measuring look. “Remember Gaming in Greensboro? Turns out the game console he uses had a camera hooked up to it so players can see each other. It also records, even though he’d set it to not transmit to the boy at the other end.”
POP! Your computer.
Woods’ smile widened. “I have that video here.” He turned his phone around so you could watch my impersonation of you descend a flight of stairs and come up behind Gaming in Greensboro.
“That is not me!”
POP! The marshal’s phone.
Woods gloated. “When you told Gaming to go ahead with his planned weekend, you cautioned him to keep hydrated. He did, but he wasn’t about to interrupt a marathon session simply to use the bathroom.”
The video showed “you” approach the youth.
POP! Your printer.
Your eyes widened in disbelief as “you” rounded the end of Gaming’s sofa. You drove a fist into his abdomen.
Woods continued. “His bladder ruptured.”
You watched as “you” danced in glee while Gaming writhed in agony.
“But . . . .”
POP! Another incoherent scream ripped from your throat.
Woods’ smile turned especially nasty. “The video goes on and on while blood and urine pools in his guts, and you do nothing to help him. It took hours for him to die.” He blanked the phone and dropped it into his suit pocket. “You’ll get extradited to Alabama, charged, and tried on first degree intentional homicide.”
You screamed again. It was wonderful to watch your eyes protrude as your stress mounted.
“I believe that state has the death penalty, Mr. Reymond.”
I elevated your blood pressure even more. Then you clutched your chest and fought for breath. You did your best to remain calm, but failed miserably.
Your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell open. The pain must have been excruciating. To me it was fantastic.
Then you fell to the floor and died.
Woods looked directly at me and smiled.
He’s a Brother! Shocked, I appeared in my natural form for the first time in years.
A noise from the hallway.
Amy stood there, slack jawed.
Woods and I both vanished in a puff of ecru smoke.
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Next week: Act III - The First Horseman