Modern Infidel: Filet of Soul
by
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Overture
Don't Feed the Cannibals
“Just keep the perimeter intact. I don’t want any citizens up there, and we don’t need any pictures on tonight’s news.”
Captain Chick Barceno Villanueva, a 24-year detective with the city police, smoothes his prodigious mustache as he addresses a milling clump of young uniforms, one of whom raises his hat to capture Villanueva’s attention.
“It’s a massacre up there, Cap. Gotta be gang related.”
“Garver, you think everything is gang related. You think the pajamas I sleep in are gang related.”
“I’m just saying ….”
“I counted fourteen bodies. Somebody say we have an eyewitness? Unger, make yourself known, son.”
“Yeah, Cap – one Eldra Frye, the babe at the front desk. Says she watched the whole thing. But she’s hysterical – claims one perp did all that. I don’t think she’s reliable.”
“You and Garver are making my gastroenterologist rich.”
“Huh, Cap? You think there’s a Cuban connection?”
“Shut up, Garver. Even an unreliable witness can give you probative evidence. The Razor of Occam, gentlemen. The most simple explanation is the most preferred. I will interview this Eldra Frye now. Where is she?”
At Unger’s nod, the austere detective lumbers up the steps to a nearby EMT trailer. Jostling a serpentine path through the fitful hive of first responders, he clomps the length of the trailer to find a tremulous Eldra cowering in the floor next to the oxygen tank that inspirits her nasal tube. Chanting underbreath, she works a rosary strand in each frenetic hand. He takes a seat on the floor across from her – no small feat for a man of his girth.
“Dios te salve, Maria. I am afraid that is all I remember.”
“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
“My wife, she often prays. Me, not so much.”
“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women …”
“Ms. Frye?”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners …”
“Ms. Eldra Frye?”
“ … at the hour of our death. Amen.”
“What troubles you, my dear?”
“Azrael.”
“Who is this Azrael?”
“I saw him.”
“Yes, but who –”
“He wore the hooded cape, he … swung that merciless axe.”
“Good, Eldra, good. What color was this cape?”
“Dim. Foreboding. Like the dirt at the bottom of a grave.”
“You’re doing fine. Describe for me this weapon of his.”
“It had a knotty wooden shaft, half as long as the one my grandfather used on the ranch, and a leather strap that ran its length. The head … I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What was unique about it?”
“The shaft extended an inch or so beyond it. The blade was slimmer … more rounded, like the waning crescent of the moon. And the heel protruded and tapered like a dibber.”
"I am not familiar with the word ... dibber?"
"A round, wooden stick that narrows to a point. I use one to plant bulbs in my garden."
“You draw the picture in my mind of an eighteenth century tomahawk. Are you telling me one man with a Native American artifact is responsible for the slaughter I have just surveyed?”
“That was no man. It was … a machine. It gave no quarter, even when the boy fell to his knees and pled. Yet it spared me.”
“Was there any gunfire?”
“No. Just that heartless axe. Like a pendulum, it would not stop or slow down. And with its other hand it used … a thresher sort of thing … like a folding knife whose blade was only partway open.”
“A scythe?”
“Yes. But smaller, and with that same brutal crescent shape.”
“Did this Azrael say anything to you?”
“When it was over. You need not fear me. I have not come for you. And this is how I know it was Azrael. The solid brick wall at the far end of the room retreated from its path.”
“Eldra, I must know. Who is Azrael?”
“The angel of death. It made me its outrider. Don’t you see? The iniquities of the ages are forgathering in this place, at this time. What happened today was an augury – retribution is nigh. As it is written in Isaiah 13:6: Howl ye; for the day of the Lord is at hand; it shall come as a destruction from the Almighty. And if you’re on the wrong side of Jesus, Detective, you’re fucked."
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About the Book
Stalked by a hitman for a heinous crime of which he was acquitted, a church pastor suffers waking nightmares about a dysfunctional divine family, a grim reaper which bears a striking resemblance to Johnny Cash, four riderless horses and a looming apocalypse. Meanwhile, society is in turmoil. Federal laws have disarmed honest citizens while freeing convicted murderers. Runaway taxation has driven the everyday economy underground. Congressional assent to a United Nations treaty facilitates the deadliest terrorist attack since 9/11/01. As the Presidential election nears, an irresistible urge to be truthful seizes the incumbent and her Republican opponent. The incumbent’s revelation about systemic voter fraud triggers reforms which result in a landslide victory for the third-party underdog. Ironically, not a single voter remembers selecting the spoiler at the ballot box. Predator and prey finally meet at a funeral, but the ceremony is hijacked by General George Patton. After performing a slapstick resurrection and setting humanity straight on a few things, Patton solves the political mystery by explaining the evolutionary leap which has begun to expand human consciousness. The newly aware congregants proceed to reinvent the United States of America envisioned by its founders.
About the Author
Author of the groundbreaking nonfiction book Where We Find Ourselves: Portrait of a Modern Infidel, R. Thomas Risk storms onto the fiction scene with Modern Infidel: Filet of Soul, a gripping story of individual triumph over despotism and bigotry. His motley cast of endearing characters gore the most sacred of cattle – among them racism, federal governance and censorship – as they redefine independence and resurrect the time-honored building blocks of a free and fair society. Join Risk on his relentless rampage against empty tradition and all things socialist at ModernInfidel.com.