shape-shifting abomination."
"That's true," admitted the 'doctor'. "He and I have our agreements. Our set of rules."
Parker stepped forward, "See here, this is proof," flashing the watch toward him. "And I have a holy-type witness. So take off, buddy. It's twelve o-nine!"
"Oh dear, what time did you say?" queried the physician.
"I said twelve o-nine," snapping back. Max checked again, "Oh, er, correction. Twelve o-eight. No, wait, twelve o-seven..." The minute hand moved slowly backwards. "Hey! What the hell are you trying to pull?" 12:06 am. He turned to the priest "Look at what's he doing!" 12:05. Parker smacked his watch, "Screw this!" 12:04, 12:03, 12:02. "Okay! okay! You've got the power to make clock hands spin around. You're not playing fair."
"Fair, Mister Parker? Was playing fair a big part of your second life? Did you deal fairly with other people? I think not."
In defiance, Max jut his jaw out and declared, "I had a job to do. I had an agenda."
"You had an agenda?" repeated the Devil. "Oooh... I have one too."
Max stared at the floor and shuffled from one foot to another without further comment.
"And you mentioned my having the power to move clock hands and actually turn back time? Is this a problem? You didn't have any qualms about it when I changed time back for you. Did you?" The 'doctor' stood up and stepped into the aisle. He waved to him, "It's time to stop playing games, Mister Parker. Come along. It's midnight. Time for you and I to take a little journey. Are you dressed warm?" He smiled, "You need not be."
Max screamed, "No, no." He threw himself against the priest and wrapped both arms around him in a death grip.
"Going to be difficult are you? Not a problem," commented the soul collector.
Father Paul was turning pink from being squeezed so hard.
Anguished, Parker cried out, "Save me, Father! Save me!"
Near choking, "I don't think' I can," he returned.
"Silence, Max Parker. Don't be a whinny butt. Man-up and come hither," beckoned the Devil. He raised his arm and extended an open hand as he changed into a hideous, red, pointed-eared, eight-foot tall demon. "I always liked this image the best. I save it for the uncooperative ones. I believe they get the point very quickly."
Max looked up under the priest's head covering. His eyes widened. Then he went limp and slid down into a sitting position at the priests' feet. He became mute and his arms hung as rags at his side. The Devil gestured with his hand, 'Come'. Max was slowly pulled across the floor by an invisible force. His shoes dragged on the worn carpet. It produced the pungent stench of fire and brimstone.
"Ah, the sweet incense," remarked the Devil. In a few short moments, he seized Max Parker's listless, but aware body by the scuff of the neck and began carrying him, his feet dangling off the ground, toward the rear of the church. With the glee of anticipation, "Now, Mister Parker, we will have some real fun!"
The Devil stopped just before the exit to the street. "Please pardon my manners, 'Father'." Snickering, "Love your costume. See you later." and disappeared with his prey in tow.
Father Paul, helpless, watched the depressing spectacle. The priest prayed, "Dear God, please help Max Parker and all the rest of us poor, lost souls." He sobbed as tears trickled from his glowing, red eyes.
The end
Bad Bones
1953 - The outskirts of Monroe, Louisiana
"Don't go in there, Cory. That rooster's done killed another hen," advised his twin, seven-year old brother, Luke. "He's the meanest critter I've ever seen. He's tore up four hens in the last six weeks. You know how much I love Ma's fried chicken but I thought we were supposed to do the choosing of which ones to eat."
Cory stepped aside to let his brother go report to Ma of what had happened again. She was going to be mad for sure. Luke, Cory and Iya all knew Ma and Pa were going have a sit-down real soon to decide what to do about that damn bird. After Luke passed out of sight, Cory eyed the twenty-hen chicken coop, one of two similar others. "I'm gonna take a look-see," he decided. He laid the egg basket down on the ground which he and his brother were using to collect before they went to school and quickly snuck in the coop's back door. Inside he found the hens were not sitting in their nests as they should be; they were cowering in the corners. A few panicked upon his approach and flew about aimless until they found the open door and burst outside, cackling all the way. Mister Rooster was waiting, strutting and pecking seed as if nothing had happened at all. He didn't cause trouble in the daytime but after dark he became a terror.
Cory saw the carnage right off. The hen laid crumpled, feathers everywhere, her eyes pecked out and her neck near ripped in two. Not much blood - chickens don't have a whole lot of blood.
"Cory, boy, you get your hinny back here right now!" yelled his Ma, Beatrice Winnfield, age fifty-four, a late in life mother of twin boys. Was it a surprise blessing from God or a penalty from a different source? Unknown to the brothers, the Winnfield's had an evil spirit equalizer, Iyalorisha. She was a descendant of Nigerian slaves and a seventh generation removed African priestess. Her kinfolk had lived with and helped raise the Winnfield's prodigy since before the Civil War. Racial domination or discrimination didn't exist in their household - they all lived as family, abet with some extreme cultural differences.
As expected that evening after dinner Ma and Pa (Orwell Winnfield) decided that the rooster had caused too much trouble and a change was required. Roosters were valuable to country folk and their cache only had one to service their sixty-some hens. Money was tight as usual so they asked Iya to help solve the problem. "Yes'um, I be glads to help."
The next morning, Saturday just before daybreak, the boys awoke to find everyone outside in the backyard's open area instead of doing their usual chores with the livestock.
"Don't collect today, boys," instructed Pa. "The hens need some time to settle down."
Pa had dug a small, round pit which measured two-foot wide and deep, then placed a eight-foot high hoist about ten feet away from the hole. "Why use such a big hoist for a skinny chicken?" I wondered. We boys wandered over and peered inside the pit - it was nothing but fresh, loose dirt. I pushed my brother Luke into the hole and laughed. "Clumsy Oaf!" I always picked on and tormented him in any way I could. He was the 'good boy' and I was the 'problem child' who constantly needed correction or discipline. By the age of five I'd been whipped by the belt so often I couldn't feel it anymore. I'd grit my teeth and say, "I won't cry," as the strap formed welts and bruises. Another pointed reason why I hated everyone in my family including my brother.
"Oh, no!" wailed Pa. "Now I have to dig another hole! Iya says we need an undisturbed pit. Step off to the side outta the way, Cory. Your brother coulda broke his dang ankle falling in there. I'll deal with you later, boy." He turned to Luke, "Fetch me my shovel. Thank you, son." I smirked.
The sun crested the hilltop. Iya had a small pot in one hand and a carving knife in the other. Pa had already caught the rooster by using a Bayou throw net and had him tethered to a ground peg not far away. "Masser, would you give rest to the troubled beast and bring him to me?" Pa went to the rooster, grabbed him by the neck and ran his fish filet knife through its neck - down into the heart without blinking an eye. He brought her the bleeding carcass. She tied its feet to the rope dangling from the hoist and placed her pot underneath to collect the dripping blood. "It won't take long to drain him. Ya'll can catch breakfast if'n you're up to it," she offered.
An hour later the rest of the family rejoined Iya to find the rooster had been de-feathered, bled dry and all of its meat had been carved off - leaving just the blood stained bones hanging from the hoist. "Masser?" Pa dropped kindling wood into the pit then thrust a pre-lit torch in until it flamed. Iya cut the cord which suspended the chicken bones and tossed them into the awaiting fire. She next took the meat of the rooster which Ma had just ground fine and mixed it in a five gallon drum of fresh spring water.
Later, at sundown Iya went behind the wood shed and perf
ormed some kind of ritual using the pot, some candles and black rocks which resembled face carvings. I couldn't see clearly. She then added the chicken's blood to the drum and stirred it up. As she was doing this Pa returned, scooped out the bone ashes from the pit into a paper bag, filled the hole and packed down the dirt. The next morning Ma took the rooster's soul mix (Iya's term) in the drum and sprinkled it onto several vegetable and flower gardens but not on Luke's own private garden which only he had tendered since he was six years old.
I didn't have a garden so I'd sneak over to his and pop the flower heads off whenever I could get away with it. I quickly discovered it was pointless and quit because they would grow back the very next day even when I pulled the whole plant outta the ground! Ma would say: "It is a beautiful and a blessed creation," which made me resent him even more.
Exactly one week to the hour Luke and I found a new rooster strutting in front of the hen houses. He was spry, acted younger and as time passed, proved he never hurt even one of the hens. Egg production increased and the grown-ups were happy. Luke would smile every time he saw him and say something stupid like, "You sure are a lucky old chicken." I threw pebbles at him whenever Luke weren't lookin'. It was easy to hit him; unlike the other rooster this one had a bad wing and couldn't fly.
A few years passed,