Notes from the Future: The Prophet's Reckoning, Part VII

"I see no reason why the Prophet should be offered such a simple gift ... but I also see no reason why he should not receive it!" Iron Rachel steps back and to the side.

"The Prophet is Mighty and Fearless!" I shout.

"THE PROPHET IS MIGHTY AND FEARLESS!" They roar. 

I step forward.

The Prophet has drawn himself up to his full height, and if I were in heels, I would be taller. He is sneering at me, eyes wide and crazy. His lips don't seem to know if he wants to smile, sneer or bite me. I don't know if anyone has ever made an offering to him before, he seems to be a little confused.

I'm about to pull back the blanket when Iron Rachel steps behind me and kicks me, hard, in the backs of my knees, shouting, "Kneel before the Holy One!"

I fall hard onto my knees in the sharp gravel, crying out when I hit and angry at myself for that, almost losing control of the box, able to steady it with my right hand as I support myself with my left. Some of the Rachels and Ezekiels make a noise, but whether out of concern for me or for what's in the box I do not know. Bitch Iron Rachel, I vow, If I get a chance I'mma cut you. I'm looking at her as I think this, and she purses her lips, raising her chin as if to say she doesn't fear me.  

Oh, but you might, ugly bitch. You might. 

Looking at the Prophet, I support the box with my left hand and reach up to draw back the tattered blanket with my right. I take a breath.

"Mighty and Fearless Prophet! Accept this offering in your fearlessness!"

"The Prophet is Mighty and Fearless," come some statements from the Rachels and Ezekiels. One or two have shouted it, but not many. This could be good. It could be bad. I would cross my fingers if I didn't need them for the box.

The Prophet steps forward, and I'm about to whip off the blanket, but he puts his hand on mine to stop me, then shifts his crazy gaze to the circle. He begins to shriek.

"Brethren! Reformed Whores! The filth of the vagina has touched you all in some form, thus are you besmirched by Womanly Deceit and Lechery! It is no mistake that the word Lech comes from the Mexican word Leche, meaning milk! Thus the dirty Mexicans of the world cannot help but hint to us that they know the filth of Womankind, which is why they keep women in their proper subservient place! So we have one use for our dirty little brown neighbors to the South, and we should thank them before we rape their women and send the men home without their testicles! Stopping them from breeding is the word of the Lord, Brethren! Stopping them from breeding is the proper path of the Righteous!" Gesturing to me, he continues, "This Whore is beginning to know her place! This Whore is on her knees to make me an offer! This Whore looks like she might be Mexican, which is why no matter her offer, today I will cut her and penetrate her and spill my seed in her as a holy blessing, even as she bleeds to death!"

I feel the blood leave my face. 

"See how she has fear? This is good. This is proper! Fear is good for you! Were she not a filthy Mexican, she would be allowed to pay a small price and stay here as my Concubine! Sadly, she is clearly of Latinate Descent and cannot be tolerated! But she, like all women, is drawn to make me an offering! She cannot help it, just as she cannot help being Mexican! Just as I cannot help the need to exterminate her to keep our Borders strong! So it is that I accept her offering in my Mightiness! In my Fearlessness!"

He looks at me, now.

"Show me, Whore! Show me what you bring to your Rapeday!"

With this, he whips the blanket off the box and reaches in, looking in at the same time.

You would think that the box were full of scalding hot water, from the way his face scrunches up, all twitchy. His hands dart into the box just a little, his mouth is open, gasping, he looks from the contents of the box to my face several times, also at the circle. Iron Rachel and the mismatched Tweedle Ezekiels are staring at him in obvious alarm. It's clear he is conflicted.

"Rachels! Ezekiels! What is the prophet?" I call.

"THE PROPHET IS MIGHTY AND FEARLESS!" Ezekiels, mostly; I'm betting they're bearded.

"I can't hear you!" I call.

"THE PROPHET IS MIGHTY AND FEARLESS!" It's beyond a roar, now, and as I hear it echoing back from the nearby hills (mountains?), I push the box toward the Prophet.

He stumbles back. I stand, he snarls at me, I push it at him again. He stumbles farther back, slashing at the air with his filthy claw-like hands, as if to ward me off. I'll risk infection from a scratch: I step forward and start to tilt the box toward him, ready to spill its contents into his arms. The circle is getting unruly, stepping out of line to get a better look. The Prophet sees someone nearby and grabs -- oh no, it's Becky. He grabs her and is pulling up her skirts, pushing his filthy pants down, he's got her upper arm in his mouth and is biting, tearing at it. She is screaming, struggling to get away, he is laughing as her blood starts to drip down his chin, his eyes locked on mine. His minions have fallen away somewhat.

I take a risk.