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The Purified Priest

The Purified Priest

by Kynan Patram

Warning: Graphic Scenes

The moment Charles closed his apartment door behind him, a fist swooped out of nowhere and struck him across the face. He let out a sharp cry as his hands leapt up to cover his pulsating jaw. Before he could whirl around to see his assailant, a foot appeared between his legs and a sharp pain coarsed through his genitals. Doubling over, he fell to the ground, his thighs squished together with his hands cupping his crotch.

The sound of boots clicked against the hard wood floor as a figure rounded his quavering body. It was a husky young man wearing a leather jacket. He had short, spiky hair, a goatee and an assortment of piercings all over his face. A sinister grin was plastered across his lips.

“Hello, Charles,” he said, as he hoofed a boot into Charles abdomen. Electricity shot through Charles’ entire body. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again … since I was a boy,” the man continued. “But I’m not a boy anymore, am I?” He cackled.

“W-w-who are you?” asked Charles, his voice hollow, the pain still rattling through his aged body.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” said the man, folding his arms. “That’s funny – because I remember you. How could I forget … forget what you did to me.”

From his position on the ground, Charles studied the man’s face. But he didn’t recognize it. His mind drew a blank.

“Get up!” bellowed the man, pulling up a chair and settling himself into it. “I don’t like having a conversation with you groveling around on the floor like a baby.”

Charles struggled to his feet, clutching the stitch in his stomach. He teetered from side to side, and then finally rested a hand against the wall to support himself. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing in sight.

“Don’t get any bright ideas,” advised the man, reaching into his jacket and producing a pistol, which he calmly pointed at Charles’ chest.

“W-w-what do you want from me?” Charles muttered.

The man leaned forward in his chair. “To see you suffer … the way you made us suffer.”

“But I don’t know who you are!” cried Charles.

“That’s exactly it,” said the man, then he lowered his gun so that it was pointing at Charles’ thigh. A bang echoed through the room, and Charles felt his leg sting, as if he’d been bitten by a thousand wasps. He shrieked, almost collapsing to the floor before he shifted his weight onto the leg that hadn’t been shot. Blood appeared on his ragged jeans and began to spread out around the wound.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” cackled the man.

Charles’ head spun through a rolodex of people he might have offended, but nothing seemed to come up.

“I don’t know what I did to you,” he murmured, “but please … please don’t kill me.”

The man howled with laughter. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Charles. Where’s the fun in that? I’m going to make you suffer … for the rest of your life. An eye for an eye. Isn’t that what you taught us at mass?”

Charles scratched his head, as he leaned up against the wall. “So you went to my church when I was a priest, is that it?”

“Ah, I think he’s beginning to remember.”

“And you were just a boy then?” said Charles.

“Getting hotter.”

Charles suddenly grew cold all over. He thought back to his time during his post as a priest, and shivered. He’d never thought about what they might do when they grew up. His mind raced through the roaster of boys he’d taught.

“Jim?” he said at last.

The man shook his head.

“Matt – no, Mike?”

“Getting colder.”

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. The man’s nose gave it away. He gasped in horror.


“BINGO!” shouted the man, leaping to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” wailed Charles, falling to his knees, forgetting the pain attaching his body now. “I had a problem. I couldn’t control it. The urge was irresistible. I’m deeply sorry if I put through a rough time.”

“It’s too late for apologies, Charles,” Sam said, as he leaned back and pulled a knife out of his belt. “You have no idea what I went through – what we all went through … a lifetime of feeling worthless and empty. Do you know what that’s like?”

Charles shook his head.

Sam clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“What are you going to do to me?” wailed Charles.

“Pull down your pants!” Sam ordered.

Charles just stared, wide eyed.

Sam drew nearer and pressed his gun against Charles’ temple. “I said … pull down your pants.”

Charles immediately fumbled with his belt buckle, unzipped his zipper and yanked his jeans down to his knees.

“And your gitch…”

Charles felt numb all over. Had the past finally caught up to him?

“Drop ‘em, old man,” commanded Sam, pushing the pistol harder against Charles’ head so that it twisted to the side.

Charles pulled his gitch down to his knees, exposing his privates.

“That little thing has been the bane of my existence,” said Sam. “And I’m going to take it from you … just like you took my innocence.”

“No!” gasped Charles. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sick. I’m a sick man. You can’t blame me for something out of my control, can you?”

But it was too late. Charles’ crotch felt like it was on fire. It burnt as if it had been placed under a flame. He looked down. Blood was pouring out from between his legs. And there, on the floor, lay his shriveled up member.

“Well … goodbye, Charles,” said Sam, and he walked out the door.


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