Scarecrow

The mind obeys order, the body discipline; while the soul wroughts its own image in nightly rosaries, and other rituals--like reheated leftovers from the dreamless dominion where the heart scurries from the thunder of passing sleep...

"Tonight in New York, a man was pushed in front of a speeding subway train"

Ben Assara sat at his station and watched the news. It seemed kind of crazy for a security guard in a nuthouse. Yet, here he was, sitting at the front door, well past midnight, as if someone was going to come in and steal something from the cracker-box. He felt pretty confident that his couple of combat tours over in the sandbox had made him competent to handle whatever may come, along with the sidearm of course. He might have felt a little better behind something larger than a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, but it did seem to him that what he was protecting was what nobody really wanted.

"Police in Milwaukee arrested the husband of a fellow officer who was shot down on Christmas eve"

... The mad muszak sprayed against the white walls of this asylum, like a spray of bullets or blood--feeding the devils, and keep them well fed upon those sent screaming into the black undertow of an apocalypse rising, like a Leviathan...

"Today, confessed serial killer tells local authorities that he hid in plain sight."

Ben was convinced that they could probably add a couple of more floors to this place, as he sat with his coffee and watched the world through the news program, as it seemed to be perpetually falling apart. You never really knew what someone was going to do next. And what passed for good news was that, despite the preaching about the end of these desert wars, not much had really changed.

And it kind of pissed him off.

"Today in Kenya, 56 suspects were arrested for a raid that led to the death of thirty villagers, including women and children."

... She felt its rise, like a dark cathedral, piercing upwards through the flesh of the earth, or perhaps come down from somewhere amid profane stars. It was coming... it must be coming...

"Syrian activists claim that over 40,000 people have been killed since the unrest began."

Ben's brow dipped as he watched the poor raggedy looking bastard shambling along the front walk. Dressed in several coats of cloth, his long black hair looked as if he pissed on it, though most of it was kept up underneath a stocking cap with a Detroit Redwings logo stitched into the front. Ben chuckled as the man took a rolling spill. It was a pretty nasty night to our running for the Night Train, praying to the Thunderbird--whatever poison he choose to try to get where ever he was trying to get. He had tried just a sip from only one selection from the beggar's wine list, and that was enough to assure him that he would never end up being a wino.

Gin was another matter entirely.

"Economist fear the worse, as Congress holds all night sessions to try prevent the United States from defaulting on their loans."

...The pain god was called her by blood, and it took much blood and suffering to even catch its notice from the other realm, where it held dominion, and only its effects could be felt here, a rippling of agony and misery that stirred into the heart, mind and soul. Broken bodies were all that was left in the pain god's passing...

"This just in, a woman was set on fire in the center of a public park in downtown Atlanta. Police are on the scene, and early reports indicate that a group of homeless that had been living under a bypass are being sought out for questioning in the murder."

Ben watched as the bum rolled over and looked skyward, as if he was trying to blame the stars, the moon or God himself for taking the spill. Ben continued to watch as the men propped himself up on all fours, weaving as he tried to right himself back up onto his own two feet.

Ben's attention was taken by a small group of youths. Freaks more like it, obviously whacked out on whatever the hell was going around this neighborhood at any given moment. They had probably just stepped out from the club across the street, a once upon a time Catholic Church that had been renovated into some place called the Dark Threshold. Only thing that Ben knew about that place was that freaks went and freaks came out; as well as local law enforcement. Drugs, violence and same ole, same ole. Ben had smoked a little reefer in his time, dropped some acid in high school, and still occasionally hit the bottle a little too hard when he was not deliberately keeping himself in check. Yet, there was a fairly long list of shit that was going on that he had never done, that he had never even heard of back in his day.  He had heard about some mother fucker actually trying to eat someone after taking bath salts.

What the fuck.

"This was also just received from our New Jersey office, a group of unknown individuals have apprehended a young girl and began tearing her apart."

... The ritual is complete, and the first shall begin to spill over from the far away domain of the old pain god...

"Police have opened fire on the mob."

'Holy shit,' Ben mouthed the words, but no sound passed his lips as he watched a group of cops open fire from behind their mob shields. That really didn't make any sense, as the police would only engage what they perceived as an active threat.

It was then that he noticed that one of the youths was walking over toward the wino, his hands balled into fists.

"Police in Toronto report finding the body of a local radio personality, which apparently has been found nailed up to a billboard. Early reports say that railway spikes were driven through his wrists and ankles, mimicking the crucifixion."

... Summoning their master through the veil of time and space...

"Toronto police say that Alexander Walters of KNXO radio was a local evangelist whom reached out to the suffering. His ministry was not to preach the word, but to try to live it by connecting those in the community in need with local organizations to try to heal the world's pain, one person at a time."

Ben stood up from his chair, his hand instinctively moving to his hip as the young man struck the old drunk down for no apparent reason. He had initially started toward the door, but stopped as he seen several of the others begin to move toward where the old man was now cowering and trying to crawl away. Ben could not hear what the big ass son of bitch was shouting down on him through the plexiglas building front.

Ben returned to his desk and picked up the phone. He was shocked when he heard the busy signal for the nine-one-one operator.

"A Muslim family was brutally slaughtered in their home this afternoon on the city's upper west side."

... Thou shalt have no other god than the one that you cannot hope but to keep...

Ben's jaw dropped as he seen the knife come out into the hand of these dark children of the night. He pulled out his gun and began moving toward the front door as he watched the hand raise over the quivering form of the old man, and then plunge downward, again and again.

Ben knocked the front door open, pistol drawn as the alarm sounded from deep within the bowel of the building. Ben had spoken, but the words fell off short as his eye drifted off heavenwards.

Uley