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Death To The Infidel


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The tobacco ash fell off the butt onto the keyboard. His eyes narrowed, focused on the bit of refuse like a sniper would if five football fields were stacked end to end. He expelled a small bit of breath and the ash landed on the desk in front of the computer screen. There was no fire danger, therefore there was no chance of accidental death. He returned his eyes to the computer screen and immediately remembered where he left off.


The words floated ethereally across the screen…


Since the concept of a triune God may be referenced in a book that true believers can take literally, that doesn’t mean it will stand up to scientific scrutiny at all. There is no conceivable way that a man can be taken over by a supernatural force let alone that a man can be both a natural and supernatural presence. It is both a philosophical and scientific impossibility. The reasoning is basically the same for a man being both His own Son and His own Father. A man may be able to be both a father and a son at the time, but not so if the physical presence is one and the same. Despite being able to prove this mathematically, it fails when examined with the basics tools of observation and logic. Therefore, the Trinity is just piece of Christianity that must be rejected outright like the rest of the religion itself.


The typist sucked in the rest of the carcinogens with gusto and smashed into the ashtray directly to the left of the keyboard. He blew the excess smoke at the screen and typed the final sentence.


This is what the Rural Atheist thinks, need more be said.


The “Rural Atheist” eyeballed in his work quickly and decided that if he found any typographical errors, he would correct it at a later date. He huffed a bit and pulled the soft pack of Marlboro reds from his shirt pocket, pulled a coffin nail out with his teeth and lit it up using his free hand. Spewing the excess smoke back at the screen, he was so surprised he had the free time necessary to complete it all. Life was passing him by at such a fleeting pace and there was no way he could halt it. He was so busy that the dishes in his sink and the laundry in his bedroom were like peaks that Tenzing Norgay could have climbed and surveyed. Since the piles were neglected for so long, the odors of each heap diffused in each other and the combined smell could easily be compared to necrotic flesh.


“All in a day’s work,” he muttered silently.


Prior to having the clicking keyboard ease his tightly wound spirit, he had greased up his outer hinge joints with glucosamine and chondroitin and toiled away at the nasty heap of green mold and food remnants left in the sink. He was home very little as is and when he was, he was consumed with the activities of being the neighborhood apostate. In recent years, some individual had been on a harsh vendetta against organized religion. It had started small with anti-religious literature being placed in random locales, such as the mail slots of local churches, the city hall and the county courthouse. From there, it had escalated to the defacing of public property with spray paint and bricks being thrown through windows. The most recent and most violent event occurred when a prairie landmark of dear significance had been razed by an inferno of hatred.


Small, smoky logarithmic spirals erupted from his nose and mouth. He had learned from past experience to make sure his bases were covered. Every act of subversion needed to be executed without notice because it was the aftermath that mattered that the most. Since the inferno, every congregant had cried their eyes out and made angry proclamations toward the sky that deemed them insignificant or made platitudes about how “God will provide” and “Our faith will strengthen us in this time of trial”. The reality of the matter relied on the underlying dynamics of groups in general. Every individual affected by the conflagration that consumed the landmark were struck in their own ways and one in particular was riddled with an unbridled bloodlust.


The impetus for the inferno was a shocking reversal of fortune for the neighborhood apostate. In the time before this obsessive male was an accident waiting to happen, a Ten Commandments monument had been placed in a public park that bordered the railroad tracks on which the man regularly traversed. Every time this neurotic apostate, a train engineer by trade, passed by this little town he would see this monument staring at him, taunting him like a picture of a stallion taunted a neurotic stable boy before he fell asleep each night. Every time he passed by this tiny hamlet, he would become incensed going to and fro through this country of rolling hills, rotating wind towers and flax fields. This man became a mathematical function that exhibited periodic behavior and that behavior always seemed to be located in the region where the domain and range were always negative. It was negative by definition.


But, humans are not mathematical functions. They are living, breathing beings capable of rationality and completing actions that are of great harm or health.


He took time off the rails to establish residency in the town and became a member of a national anti-religious association. On his behalf under condition of anonymity, the foundation sent a letter of complaint to the courthouse in the nearby county seat but the judge refused to hear the case. As the complaint went higher up the legal chain, it was tossed out each time. With each small reversal of fortune, this man escalated his behavior from delivery of pamphlets to vandalism. The night after the complaint was rejected by the state court of appeals, he defaced the Ten Commandments monument by spraying a large letter A on it in bright red spray paint. Even though the monument was lighted at night, it was away from many homes in proximity to it. Yet, the brazen vandalism only seemed to galvanize the faith of the community and a number of dedicated volunteers worked hard to return the monument to its prior glory.


And so, Newton’s third law of motion was extended into the course of human events.


Over the course of one year, these kinds of crimes appeared on countywide and statewide law enforcement bulletins.


• An ornate stained-glass window on a Moravian Church was smashed by several bricks.


• A copy of the Bible was soaked in kerosene and left in flames on the doorstep of the home of a Pentecostal preacher.


• A crucifix in a jar of human urine was left on the altar in a Catholic church.


• A Molotov cocktail was thrown into the narthex of a remotely-located Franciscan abbey which caused considerable fire and smoke damage.


• Notes laced with death threats and attached to bricks were launched through the front windows of a few preachers’ homes.


• Several rural Lutheran churches had the sanctuaries completely destroyed.


During the crime spree, the biggest reversal of fortune occurred. The state Supreme Court followed the path of the lower courts and rejected the complaint. It was a Thursday night when he received the unwanted information. The diesel locomotive had broken down a few miles away from that day’s destination and he had come home angry enough to tear a large man in half. After hearing the phone message from foundation’s president, he was defeated beyond repair. The dam was broken and tears flooded from his eyes. He cried his eyes red as he lay on the kitchen floor beneath a pungent mountain of dishes. Suddenly, a coursing hatred flowed through all of his blood vessels from top to bottom.


The target he chose was the loneliest of white markers on the regional drift prairie. Surrounded by hills on all sides, this tiny Lutheran church had smallest congregation in the state and it was in danger of closing. It was known to the apostate that there were no homes in the area so the threat of being seen would be rather remote. Rather rashly, he drove to the location with three bottles of kerosene, four bottles of lighter fluid and a full box of matches. With the speed of a cougar, he jimmied the backdoor and doused the entire sanctuary with every drop of flammable liquid he had. Striking the match at the right moment, he felt like he had conquered the cancer of organized religion. As he darted back over the prairie to where he parked his vehicle, he hadn’t realized that he ignited a lust for vengeance and blood.


He lit another coffin nail and sucked the carcinogens down his trachea. He couldn’t decide what his next move should be. He was torn between defacing the monument one more time and torching another rural church. And yet, real life was staring him in the face. He was required to drive a trainload of coal from one end of the state to the other and he started the job in less than 24 hours. His laundry took precedent at the moment and he sauntered over to the laundry room. He rested his hands on the washer and gazed into the blackness of the night. The last thing he saw was the shattering glass flying toward his eye sockets.


Smoke was emitting from the nozzle the pistol and it rose slowly from the hole in the plastic soda bottle. It was a slow rise, almost ethereal in how the shooter saw it. He put the pistol down by his side and sauntered over the window and saw the red pool oozing from the back of the apostate’s head and brain matter splattered against the doorjamb. It was the perfect moment forever frozen in an instant. He huffed slowly a couple of times. Killing people was never a comforting action even though he had rationalized the options. In the end, he decided to follow through with his decision. He was there the night the tiny Lutheran church was set ablaze. It was his sanctuary in times of sorrow and he had access to it at anytime because he was the part-time groundskeeper. His dear minister had died of a heart attack after a brick with a letter jam-packed with death threats had been tossed through the man’s window. He figured it was divine will that he saw the license plate on the apostate’s getaway vehicle. He came over the southernmost hill at the right moment and his sorrow then turned to bloodlust.


He took a slip of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and tossed it on the washer through the hole in the window. He huffed once more and wandered off into the murky night.


On the paper neatly and concisely written in red ink: Death to the Infidel!

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Wow. Nice composition. Still pondering the messages sent by it.

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