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Meeting the band and the French Archbishop |
| Hounds of Hell Chapter 4 The first text Damien sent to his manager, Adolph Stackhouse, about the arrival of The Book, consisted of only three words, "I got it." Calling Adolph usually amounted to a waste of time. You'd end up with voice-mail nine times out of ten. Adolph lived on his phone, but texting invariably brought a quick reply. The response, "Got what? Syphilis?" came less than five minutes later. Damien extended his middle finger, took a picture of it and sent it to Adolph with the accompanying message, "The Book, asshole." Responding in his customary, juvenile manner, Adolph wrote, "A book called Asshole?" and added, "Bet it stinks." As annoying as he could be at times, Adolph enjoyed a reputation as a brilliant manager. He conceived the idea to assign provocative names to the Hounds of Hell band members. Dante beat the drums. Pilot played piano and all keyboard instruments, while his identical twin brother, Cain, played bass. Lucifer was the lead guitarist and Judas blew the sax. The backup singers were Jezebel, Salome, and Delilah. After three years of non-stop touring, most of them were millionaires. Fans purchased close to thirty million copies of their latest CD, "Wash Your Hands," not to mention countless downloads of their most recent single, the Grammy Award nominated, "Cross to Bear." In the music industry The Hounds of Hell enjoyed a level of popularity equivalent to that achieved by Led Zeppelin during the seventies. Ignoring Adolph's message, Damien sent one more. "Call me. I have an idea you'll love. Have everyone meet at my place, tonight at nine." ~ ~ ~ Amidst a flurry of camera flashes, Adolph made his grand entrance as always, the last to arrive. Red flags sporting a Balkan cross in a white circle, rather than a swastika, fluttered from the short poles mounted on the the curved fenders of his 1943 Mercedes convertible. Standing in the black, German-Staff-Limo even before the vehicle came to a stop, he offered the gathered mob a stiff Nazi salute and shouted, "Sieg Heil." Groomed to resemble the monster whose first name he bore, Adolph sported the same hairstyle and strange, chopped-off mustache. Because it reeked of poor taste, whenever he appeared in public representing The Hounds of Hell, he wore a nearly-exact replica of the German Chancellor's uniform. His Der Führer imitation outraged the majority of those who weren't ardent fans of The Hounds, or into heavy-metal music. Adolph understood how to get under people's skin. To him, irritation was an art form. He admitted, in an interview with Rolling Stone, that he deliberately wore things and behaved in ways intended to annoy decent people, knowing that indecent people would love it. In large headlines, the tabloids quoted him as saying, "Thank God for the freaks." In further praise of depravity, he said, "Thank God for the sickos, the perverted, the stupid and the arrogant. Thank God they can afford CD's and concert tickets." While the band members avoided crowds, Adolph did his best to create them. He contacted every music beat-writer and editor in Paris to let them know an important, history-making meeting of The Hounds would soon take place. He made sure they knew when and where. Preceded by two black Dobermans and a German Shepherd, each one straining at the end of its six-foot leash, Adolph stepped down from the Mercedes running board to the sidewalk of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in front of the five-story building where Damien resided. Teeth bared and pointed ears standing tall, the Dobies and the Shepherd snarled and barked. They wanted a piece of anyone foolish enough to get too close. The black eyes of the dogs and Adolph's spit-polished black boots reflected rapid-fire flashes of light from the paparazzi cameras. Adolph adored the attention. He craved the crush of the mob as they pressed in; excited fans screaming, photographers and cameramen trying to get a better picture, zooming in for a tight shot, TV news reporters screaming to get him to look their way, magazine and newspaper writers crying out for a brief interview. Der fake Führer laughed as they shrank back, intimidated by the agitated dogs. Handing the leashes to his driver, he raised his arms and bellowed, "Achtung!" Voices were stilled, microphones held aloft, and hearts raced as the crowd waited to hear the promised announcement. "Mark your calendars, people!" Adolph shouted in a semi-believable German accent. "On June 19th, Zee Hounds of Hell vill close zee Isle of Wight Festival mit zee most sensational act in entertainment history. It vill be an event you vill never forget, zat is, if you are lucky enough to survive it. Vhat do I mean by zat? Vell, you vill have to see zee show to find out." He stiffened, clicked his heels together, and rendered another Nazi salute. Pandemonium erupted as he turned to enter the building. ~ ~ ~ On the fifth floor, in the penthouse suite, the members of the band, with the exception of Pilot, who frequently missed meetings, wanted to know why they were summoned on such short notice. Deftly flipping a pair of drumsticks between his fingers, Dante sat sideways in a big, brown leather chair, his legs slung over the thick, cushioned armrest. "I went through seven layers of hell to get here on time," he complained. "So, let's get this mother started." Cain, the bass guitarist, sat hunched over on one end of a long sofa, his sneakered feet on the floor, thumbs working overtime, sending a text message to his keyboard-wizard brother, Pilot. He looked up and asked, "Is this going to be another meaningless bullshit session, or are we going to make some serious noise?" "My bet's on bullshit," Lucifer responded while strumming on an acoustic guitar at the other end of the sofa. Pacing in front of the bar, Adolph waved his arms in frustration and spoke in his native, Texas drawl, rather than the faux-German accent he reserved for the public."Cain, where the hell is that brother of yours? I told him nine o'clock, sharp." "Am I my brother's keeper?" Cain replied with a smirk. "Save your canned, smart-ass answers for the press. Geez, I get so sick of you overusing that line." "You're the one that told me, ‘Use it all the time, Cain,' that's what you said. Make up your mind, man." "You want me to make up my mind? At least I've got a mind. I give you guys biblical names and prop phrases to use, and your stupid brother misspelled his so often in public we told the press we actually meant for it to be P-I-L-O-T instead of P-I-L-A-T-E, just to see what people would say. Why do I even try? Why do I even . . ." Adolph waved his arms again and walked away, shaking his head. Floating into the den from the hallway that led to the closest bathroom, female laughter and the click of high heels on tile preceded the three backup singers, Delilah, Jezebel, and Salome. Brushing silky black hair away from her porcelain complexion, Delilah asked, "So, are we still waiting on Pilot, or what?" She wore black, patent leather knee-high boots and shiny, black leather shorts with a thin, black, cut off T-shirt that exposed the underside of her firm, unfettered breasts. Smokin' hot and incredibly smart, Adolph never needed to do anything to make her seem more provocative or interesting. A successful businesswoman who owned a hair salon and a brothel before she joined the band, Delilah acted as spokesperson for the other girls. Behind Delilah, Jezebel and Salome stood with hands on their curvaceous hips, content to let Delilah do the talking. They just wanted to sing, make money and party, but they were damned fine singers. Twirling her long, fire-engine-red hair around the tip of the index finger on her right hand, the freckled, green-eyed Salome sat down on the sofa next to Cain and leaned over to see the text he sent to Pilot. Jezebel hopped onto a barstool and looked around, a frown spoiling her chocolate cream complexion as she searched for the booze that customarily flowed freely during the band's meetings. Although celebrated in the tabloids and on all the radio and TV entertainment news shows, not one member of the band seemed to care about Damien's twenty-fourth birthday, except for Judas, the saxophonist. Wearing a beret on his shaven head and a big smile, he sat on a barstool with a small, wrapped present on his lap. "Happy birthday, Big D." "What's that?" "I think you're supposed to open it to find out." Judas held the gift out. Pleased but puzzled, Damian asked, "What made you remember my birthday?" "I read the tabloids, man. Besides, when I saw this on eBay, I about flipped. I said 'Damien's gonna love this'." Obviously touched, Damien tore off the gold wrapping paper and ripped open the flat, cardboard package, revealing a gold, 45-rpm record. Layered in 24-karat gold, the record commemorated shipping over a million copies, a noteworthy achievement in the early days of rock and roll. "Damn," was all that Damien could manage as he stared at the title. Shaking his head, he spoke with genuine awe and reverence, "Wow. 'Great Balls of Fire' by Jerry Lee Lewis." He looked up and added, "Sun Records — that's the label Elvis and Johnny Cash started out on." Holding the record up for everyone to see, he said, "This song blew everyone away." Smiling, pleased to see his gift so well received, Judas nodded and agreed, "Classic stuff. Fit to hang on a wall. Maybe in your office, or . . ." Damien interrupted and surprised Judas by crossing the room and giving him a big hug. "You never hug me like that," Lucifer complained. "Of course you might if I bent over for you, the way Judas does." "I think he's gonna kiss him," Cain joked. “Wouldn’t be the first time," Lucifer added, "or the last.” Damien turned and nodded. "Hey! That's not a bad idea, guys." "See? I told you." Cain nodded towards Lucifer, who nodded back. Ignoring the remarks of Cain and Lucifer, Damien launched into the proposal of a new theatrical twist to their stage act - a way of introducing the hit song, "Thirty Pieces of Silver." "Roman soldiers can claim to be looking for the musical messiah and Judas can reveal me by planting a disingenuous kiss of betrayal on my cheek." Everyone liked the idea. Jezebel, Salome, and Adolph brought out glasses and six bottles of Dom Perignon. Facilitated by the bubbly, attitudes brightened and more ideas surfaced as the bottles were emptied. The evening moved along smoothly until Damien unveiled his plans regarding The Book and his idea to expose the Isle of Wight concert audience to it. Damien asked his new chief of security, Francois Delaflote to tell everyone what he knew about The Book. Judas, who had been in a great mood up to that point, interrupted Delaflote as soon as he heard the part about souls being sent to hell. “Hang on, there," he complained. "Let's say this book is real, which I seriously doubt. Let's say it's real, Damien, and you haven't blown your money on some scam. What gives you the right to play God? Some of the people that get sucked into this book might've turned their lives around and made a positive contribution." Damien shook his head and explained, "That can't happen, Judas. The Book only takes those guilty of mortal sin, souls beyond redemption —" "Who the hell are you to say no, Judas?" Sounding like John Wayne, reincarnated, the band's manager pointed a finger. "When Damien asked me to hire you, you were blowin' your sax, as well as anyone who could come up with fifty Euros, on the corner of Rue De Shit. You were washed up! Your only claim to fame was a geriatric tour with Tina Turner when she turned seventy. Since then, until we came along, you were making whatever small change passers-by threw in your beret. So let me ask you again, who do you think you are?" "I'm a serious musician, from Memphis, Tennessee, that's who. I'm not some fool with a stupid, toothbrush-moustache, who’s really from Dallas, Texas, goin' around impersonatin' some sick German monster from the past." Adolph gasped. Their ears at attention, sensing discord, his two Dobermans and the German Shepherd rose up from the rug in front of the dark fireplace. "Ralf, Rolf, sit down. Blondi, it's okay, boy. Sit." He turned back to Judas again and said, "Why, I ought to feed your ass to these dogs, you ungrateful piece of —" "Nobody's ungrateful here." Palms out in a peacekeeping gesture, Damien directed his words to Judas, whose eyes remained fixed on Adolph. "Everybody has a right to their opinion, even if it's stupid.” As the two men continued to glare at each other, Damien shook his head and said, "Calm down, you guys. Listen to me for a minute." Arguments within the band weren’t infrequent, but Judas and Adolph rarely butted heads. Playing peacemaker, Damien said, "Come on, now, Adolph. You know whenever you need positive PR for The Hounds, Judas is your go-to guy. Just last week you and I stood by his side when he told the press about the pauper's cemetery he plans on the outskirts of Paris. He made it sound like the idea came from all of us, but it's his money funding the whole thing." Damien pointed at Judas and said, "You need to remember you wouldn't have enough money to finance a project like that if Adolph wasn't such great manager." Adolph and Judas both simmered down, a little. Judas kept his mouth shut as Damien finished telling the group about his idea. Later, when the two were alone together, Judas expressed his concern about trying to carry out what sounded like an insane and extremely dangerous plan. "Damien,” Judas pleaded, “do you even know what constitutes a mortal sin?" "Yeah, I think so," Damien replied. "But I suppose a little research couldn't hurt." ~ ~ ~ Admiring the architectural wonders of the famous Notre Dame cathedral, Francois Delaflote walked a couple of steps behind his new employer as they listened to seventy-seven-year-old Cardinal Jean-Louis Dubois, The aging Archbishop of Paris who granted Damien's request for a private meeting and personal tour. Replying to his guest's first query he said, "A mortal sin is a knowing, flagrant transgression of God's most fundamental laws, such as, 'Thou shalt not kill,' and 'do not bear false witness,' which would pertain to perjury." "What about fornication and adultery?” Damien asked. Wondering if the Archbishop might take offense at his interest in these transgressions, his eyebrows rose as he waited for a response. He turned and glanced back at Delaflote, curious to see his reaction, as well. Several paces behind, Delaflote seemed not to be listening. His attention seemed to be focused on a tour group, some of whom recognized Damien and were pointing excitedly. The Archbishop never flinched as he replied, "Adultery and fornication are sins listed among the Ten Commandments, however, there has been some softening in how affairs of the heart are viewed. They are serious sins, to be sure, but are considered by some to be less flagrant than rape, or any act of violence or torture in which one gains pleasure by inflicting pain, or gaining control over another." "Are there ever situations where a mortal sin might be overlooked, like justifiable homicide?" The Archbishop stroked his chin as he continued walking and replied, "Even sins of the most serious nature can be subject to mitigating circumstances, such as mental illness, or a myriad of developmental disorders." A Parisian for most of his life, but not a man of religious conviction, Damien had never stepped foot in the great cathedral. He had come to placate Judas and to seek additional information regarding his treasure. In the chapel, Damien pointed to a golden sphere, sequestered from the public by two rings of velvet rope, one inside the other, and inquired as to its significance. "That," Cardinal Dubois replied with heavy reverence, "contains a crown of twisted vines, minus the thorns, that adorned the head of our Lord, Jesus, during the Crucifixion." "What happened to the thorns?" Damien asked. "Over the centuries, the seventy thorns were divided up by Byzantine emperors and Kings of France. The crown was purchased by King Louis IX of France in the 13th century for an incredible sum. Along with the crown, the sphere also contains some tiny chips of wood from the true cross." Francois seemed awed to be in the presence of such important religious artifacts; Damien, not so much. After the tour, seated in the comfortable, leather chairs of the Archbishop's office, Damien asked, "Have you ever run across accounts of a soul-harvesting tool, referred to as The Book, supposedly commissioned by God and penned by Satan?" The Archbishop's eyes widened at first and then narrowed, as if sensing a need to more carefully study this visitor. "I have heard rumors of its existence," he nodded. "However, I have never seen this book.” He leaned forward in his high-backed, red and gold, cloth covered chair, rested an elbow on his desk and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Monsieur Faust, I am intrigued to know how you come by knowledge of this relic." Cardinal Dubois smiled expectantly, clasped his pale, wrinkled hands together on the desk in front of him and waited for the answer. "I own it. I bought it from him," he motioned towards his bodyguard. Now, Damien smiled. The three men stared at each other for a moment before The Archbishop recovered and said, "I see." "Tell me what you know about The Book, Cardinal Dubois. I've heard what this gentleman has to say about it," Damien nodded in the direction of Delaflote, "and I've spoken to Tatsuo Takahashi, another previous owner." The Archbishop’s attitude changed. Seeming less amiable, he cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "From what I have heard and read, The Book has the power to consume those guilty of premeditated murder, perjury, rape, or torture. It is said to drag its victims through its pages into hell." Cardinal Dubois stopped and pointed at Damien. "If truly you possess this relic, Monsieur Faust, I must warn you that even if your soul is pure, The Book is said to be able to place ideas in your head." “Really?” Damien nodded. He turned to his bodyguard. "You never told me about that, Francois." Having been put on the spot, Delaflote defended himself. "I was not aware of it, Monsieur Faust." “What about the other commandments?” Damien asked the Archbishop. “Honor your father and mother. Keep the sabbath holy. Thou shalt not covet. Does The Book go after people who have broken those?" "I am not an expert on this artifact of yours, Monsieur Faust. From what I have heard and read, its purpose is to help level the playing field." Damien scratched the crown of his scalp and said, "I don't understand. What do you mean by leveling the playing field?" The Archbishop straightened up and explained, "Imagine a soul beyond redemption, whose continued existence threatens other innocent souls. It might be better if they were removed from this earth. A number of unexplainable disappearances are rumored to have been caused by this opposite, this antithesis of the Bible. The Bible was sent to save souls. The Book's purpose is to judge and, if necessary, to condemn and execute." The Archbishop leaned forward again, his face darkening. As if he considered it inappropriate to express his next thoughts in a normal tone, he lowered his voice. "Each soul taken by The Book is said to become a morsel of meat for the hounds of hell," he shuddered slightly before continuing, "to be devoured, regurgitated and devoured again, over and over, for all eternity." "Meat for the hounds, yeah, I like that," Damien nodded enthusiastically, first at The French Archbishop and then to Delaflote. The Archbishop's jaw dropped slightly at the outburst of enthusiasm for what should have been perceived as a gruesome demise. Feeling the time was right to ask the big question, Damien’s smile faded. He looked his host squarely in the eye and asked, “Cardinal Dubois, what do you think would happen if I exposed an entire concert audience to The Book, would they all disappear?" “Surely you would not..." Revealing his distress, Cardinal Dubois instinctively raised his left hand to his chest and grasped the cross that hung from a golden chain about his neck. “What?” Seeing The Archbishop's reaction, Damien backpedaled. “You thought I was serious? Oh, please. I'm only curious, that’s all. But tell me, would they all just go poof, or what?” A cloud of suspicion crossed The Archbishop's face. He leaned back and continued. "No. Only from one to three out of each one hundred would have committed a mortal sin, so you might expect a similar percentage would be taken from your audience.” "Really? Let me see . . ." Damien looked down at his hands and began to do a little math, "Three out of each hundred would mean thirty out each thousand and six-hundred times a thousand is six-hundred-thousand, which is how many people will be at the show, so six-hundred times thirty is eighteen-thousand." Glancing at Delaflote, he expressed his astonishment. "Damn." The Archbishop leaned forward again, vexed by Damien's casual attitude. He shook his head in vigorous protest. “Not damn, Monsieur Faust! What you mean is damned! Eighteen thousand souls, damned!" A moment of uncomfortable silence passed as The Archbishop stared at Damien. "We aren't talking about Euros here, Monsieur Faust. We're dealing with the souls of human beings . . . God's creations." Damien shook his head in disagreement. "We're talking bums, Cardinal Dubois . . . bums, rapists, and murderers - the scum of the earth." He started calculating again, using his fingers to help him count. "Okay, now, if only two per hundred are dragged into The Book, that would mean twenty out of each thousand and six- hundred times twenty would mean about twelve-thousand gone and if only one out of each hundred is to be damned, that would be about six-thousand. I'm going to metaphorically dump from six to eighteen-thousand pieces of trash down the old compactor. Not bad." "I should have known you weren't merely curious," The Archbishop shook his head in a most disapproving way. "And," Damien continued, "that doesn't count the millions that will be watching the worldwide HBO broadcast. I'll be doing mankind and God a favor. I'll be helping make the world a better place... I'll tell you what I think, Cardinal Dubois, I think this might be my ticket to heaven. In the immortal words of Robert Plant . . .” Damien stood, spread his arms out wide, tilted his head back, his golden curls cascading over his shoulders, and began to sing, imitating the Led Zeppelin vocalist before a surprised audience of two. "And I'm buying a stairway . . . to heaven." As if suffering from a headache, Francois Delaflote squeezed his eyes shut. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. He had seen it all before. Timothy Lynch's butler, Bradley Herrington, had committed the very same blunder. ~ ~ ~ In Rome, Luigi Lubrano, the Cardinal Chamberlain, hurried on slippered feet down a long hallway on the fourth floor of the Vatican Palace. Summoned by the Holy Father, the diminutive, middle-aged man knocked quietly on the door to the private chambers of Pope Pius XIII and let himself in. After crossing the expansive, dimly lit room, he waited patiently for the leader of the Holy Roman Church, who sat at his desk, engaged in a most serious phone conversation. "I do appreciate the urgency of the call, Cardinal Dubois. Yes, after what you have shared with me, I can see why you might feel that this situation calls for unprecedented action. I assure you, I will seriously consider your suggestions. May God go with you, Jean-Louis." He set the phone down in its cradle and collected his thoughts for a moment. Looking up at his personal assistant, the silver-haired pontiff spoke solemnly. "Luigi, I fear we have a problem, the likes of which no previous Pope may have encountered." The question that followed made no sense to his long-time, personal assistant. "Have you ever attended a rock concert?" ~ ~ ~ Weaving their way through traffic on the Champs-Élysées in Damien's red and black Bugatti Veyron, Delaflote insistented, "Monsieur Faust, you said you would hire me if I could prevent you from suffering the same fate as my last employer, yet you are making it very difficult to protect you." "What makes you say that, Francois?" "Bradley Herrington believed he could buy, as you put it, 'a stairway to heaven' by feeding his employer to the book. You are under the mistaken impression that by ridding the world of a large number of sinners, you will be saved. Do you not see the similarity?" "I see that you believe there is a similarity, but there is one, profound difference, Francois." "Oui? What difference is that, Monsieur Faust?" "I'm not guilty of any mortal sin. I know I have a wild reputation, but most of it was concocted by Adolph for the sake of sensationalism. I've never killed or raped anyone. I swear I've never lied under oath or derived pleasure by inflicting pain, and I've never tried to control or coerce anyone by hurting them. I admit that I have the morals of a bi-sexual rabbit or a rooster, as far as sex is concerned, but you heard the Cardinal, affairs of the heart aren't considered to be as bad as they once were.” “What about the influence the Cardinal said The Book can exert over your mind?” Damien shot a quick glance at Delaflote and said, “I haven’t felt any influence.” “When did you first get the idea to show The Book to a concert audience?” Downshifting, as an old, faded, blue Citroen DS pulled in front of them, Damien considered that for a moment. "The idea popped into my head right after The Book arrived.You had just gone to the bank to deposit my check and to tie up some loose ends at the Lynch estate." "Not before? Are you sure?" Delaflotes eyebrows rose. "Yeah, I'm sure. It could just be a coincidence, though, couldn't it?" Delaflote's dubious, "Hmmmm," suggested otherwise. Recalling his own experience he spoke as if he were just beginning to understand. "After I tried to burn it, I was determined to bury it, but something stopped me, again and again. I was so determined, but then . . ." Two bicyclists flashed in front of the Bugatti, causing Damien to slam on the brakes. Instead of screeching to a sliding halt, the sleek sports car stopped with only a slight chirp of the big tires that grabbed and held the road, throwing both men forward against their shoulder harnesses. The cyclists pedaled away, ipod headsets stuffed in their ears, evidently oblivious as to how close they came to being killed. Annoyed, Damien turned to Francois after he slipped the car into first gear, the sudden acceleration pushing them both back into the soft, leather seats. "Damned bicycle riders," he fumed. Manually shifting the semi-automatic transmission into second gear, he said, "What do I need The Book for? I nearly sent them to hell with my Bugatti." Authors note: Always buckle up for safety:
I would love to hear what you think of this story, so far. I always enjoy hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at georgelasher@Writing.Com or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414 |
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