Oliver Benjamin
“We could pin the murder on him.”
“Maybe there’s some way. Can DNA survive cremation?”
“It’s worth a try. There must be some information in there.”
Heck uttered a soft cry of victory as the steel door unlocked. They
all turned to look.
“How did you do it?” Izzy said.
He held up a crusty bible in his hands and read: “I saw a star fall
from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the
bottomless pit.Revelations 9:1.”
“So…?” Izzy said, confused. No one took Heck for a religious
man.
“There was a key taped next to that verse.”
Colin tried to remember whether he himself had done this, but
there was very little he could recall about his life down there.
Nevertheless, it sounded like something he would do. Dark and
dismal and wholly celebratory about it. Plus, it fit in with his former
heavy-metal lifestyle, in which Satan and Hell were wholesome
symbols of righteous indignation with the status quo. What foresight,
he thought. What luck! What light!
They crept slowly up a short stairway to another door, a plain
wooden one, and found it unlocked. It opened easily to a long and
empty hall that in turn led to another door. Colin led the way and
soon they found themselves passing myriad rooms of storage and
utility which opened ultimately to a huge unlit kitchen.
“Wow,” gasped Sprout. The kitchen boasted more square footage
than most complete houses.
“My father likes to entertain,” Colin said, “Providing a bounty is
a good way for assholes to maintain friendships.” He impulsively trod
through the house with the others on his tail. “You know what his
guests used to call him?” he said, growing more frantic with each
footfall. “The Lord of Hosts!Imagine that! And he lovedit.” He
strode willy-nilly around the floor, taking in the territory. “What
gall!” he cried, “What wormwood! What artificial sweetener!” He
spat on Morris’ giant oil portrait hung above the fireplace, a thick gob
sliding down the unflinching eye like a tear.
“His followers are to blame too,” Colin exclaimed, “They
empowered his evil.” The others pled for him to slow down, to speak
more quietly, to stick to the business at hand, but the son was
transfixed by memories now flooding back. Over there, he ate meals
with his rapidly deteriorating mother, food going in her trembling
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