A Strange Dialogue on Religious Fanaticism

Note: This is just an oddly fun piece of flash fiction that depicts religious fantacism. It's hard to say what exactly inspired me though. I think I was trying to use the excess of ecclesiastical vocabulary I had attained from reading the Red and the Black by Stendhal (this is in no way inspired by the Red and the Black) and some other works.

“Sit down”, the figure growled, motioning. The man opposite baulked, trembled, hypnotically feeling his way to the chair. “Yes, yes, sit down. Why the shivering? Nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad at all”.

“What do you want from me?”

“I will get to all of that,” he responded, “Instead, let us talk of something else. I do want something from you, but it is not what you think. I want the truth, the truth to you, but once again, it is not what you think. Now, what was your name?”

“Trotter,” the man muttered.

The figure smiled, rather he scorned, “Yes, that’s what it was. I like that name. Not as a reflection of my taste but it represents you quite well. Like an aptronym. Uncanny, isn’t it?”

“How-erhm-how so?” the man stuttered, visibly nervous. The smile of derision remained on the figure’s face as he looked at the walls, at the blinding white ceiling, the colour of bones made incandescent by the desert sun.

“Good, Trotter, I see you every day. I sit in my car, parked across the street from your house. A black sedan. You remember?”

The man’s face pales to the colour of the walls. His mouth moves, but no sound is uttered. The figure notices the man’s now pallid face, and knows that that he remembers.

The figure continues, “I watch you because it is my job. You have something my employer wants back. Money, of course. It is a bit of banality at this point - the abject quest to unlawfully obtain those revered green bills. Usually, it is a swift series of actions that, always, result with me completing my job. But as I stalked you, I found something interesting.”

The man’s eyes shrunk to beads, soulless. He has no hope yet seems to not fear death, but the painful passage towards it. Thus, he plays the game, where a homily starts, an unnecessary question is asked which validates the figure, and the homily continues.

“Wha-what, do you find interesting?” the man queries, finally stringing together sounds that make sense, hoping to prolong the inevitable.

The figure’s smile grows into a rictus and he bares his yellowed teeth - the front slightly chipped, the canines separated with gaps. “You lie,” he states, “You lie to everybody around you and most importantly, to yourself. You are a fibber. Funny word, isn’t it? Well, you are a funny man - a jester - because I laughed when I saw how pathetic you are.”

The man, was about to indulge him with another query, but the figure is interrupted, “Do not speak. I will give you a chance, once my tirade is over. You speak dishonestly in your life. The money you made a mistake to embezzle, I understand your need to lie in regards to that. Though, it is still wrong. What irritates me, what infuriates me, is that what you stand for? I suppose, actually, I know you are a family man. You grin and engage in pleasantries each sunny morning. You do not care, but you effortlessly seem to. It is a talent I admire. And hate. You have an elaborate facade, but I see through it. Inside you writhe and wallow in vice and sin, and misery. Like a pig. You have, indeed, filched me of my morality.”

The figure expects some response, and his face suggests it. The man stammers, “I, I don’t know wh-what to say.”

“Repent.” The figure instructs, in a low yet powerful voice.

The man demurs, “I-I’m sorry.”

“That is not enough.”

“I am sorry,” he says in a louder voice.

“More. He is not sated.”

“I am sorry!”

“Stop. It is not enough. We must now explore another avenue. You see the altar over there? Beneath the baldaquin, dressed in the coloured light of the stained glass. We shall go there and I will raise you to the one above. To He. And you will cry, cry sanguine tears that are birthed from contrition. And you will bask, and be cleansed, in the holy ablution of His blessing. Then and only then will you be free of this parasite that tugs at your heart and always disposes you into doing the wrong thing. Come, Trotter.”

The figure gets up and lends his hand to the man. He grasps Trotter’s hand and tries to pull him up. But the man resists, he knows that under the disguise of noble intention, a far worse fate awaits him. Trotter pushes him away and tries running away. The frantic clatter reverberates amongst the vast space, between the walls all the way up to the faded frescoes and the imposing dome.

A shot is heard; chanting follows.