Celibate Good Times
The preacher said it's hot as hell. Got the devil on his window sill, going down. His t-shirt read "the boys won't tell" but if you want to watch there's a tape he'll sell, going round. So pray it's him, not me. There are saints that should be hung. Forget the cross worship the gun. Bang bang. I hope your hell is hot enough. Forget the cross worship the gun. You're at the gates and almost home. Bang bang. I hope your hell is hot enough. The preacher said I'm gonna fail with three days left til he posts bail, going down. So grab your shit no time to pack. At the end, no coming back to this town. You can see through lies. He's scared for his life. When will he know?
Silas wondered if it was too late to redeem his life, as the recent events of his sins flashed before his eyes as death embraced his bleeding corpse. For all of his wrongs, his faith could not wash away; his ticket to Hell was guaranteed. He found himself in the fires of the underworld, and his eyes glanced at the maniacal grin that made up the Devil.
A glowing scroll appeared out of nowhere, seemingly startling Lucifer. He snatched it angrily out of the thin air it had appeared in and read it over. Upon finishing, his expression had changed to a disappointed grimace.
"You need not accept your fate, Silas," the Devil spoke to him. "There is a way you may purchase a ticket to Heaven."
"How?" Silas asked, eager to know a way to return to God's good graces. "I'll do anything."
"We have a proposition for you."
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The priest walked down the hall confidently, a satisfied expression fixed on his features. Sunday school had proved quite interesting that day, especially when little Thomas Turner had disobeyed the rules. Now, Father Murphy hated homosexuals as much as the next religious fundamentalist, but he had no problem "disciplining" the young boys with unique methods. His smile increased as he thought about it, whilst slipping into the confession booth. A smile that soon faded away when his ears picked up the distinct sound of someone cocking their gun. The aforementioned gun was pressed up against the wooden mesh that separated them.
Cold sweat broke out all over his body as fear clenched his heart; eyes widened with a surprise and the feeling of his impending doom reaching out to him.
"Forgive me father," came a voice from behind the gun, "for I am sin."
A loud gunshot sounded through the church as the bullet was fired from the barrel, shattered the wooden mesh and the priest's skull. Moments later, an albino man stepped out of the confession booth and walked down the deserted aisles. He pushed the giant mahogany entrance doors open with respect toward the establishment. A gust of cold wind billowed up his black cloth trench coat, exposing the equally black shirt and slacks he wore underneath. The silver crucifix that hung around his neck gleamed in the moonlight as he stepped out of the church and into the rain.
Life had taken a sharp turn since he had died that fateful day back in England. With each murder he had committed, he always felt a pang of guilt and desperately wanted to redeem himself. Silas thought what he did was for the greater good; he had been misled and betrayed by those he trusted. He had been naïve and had paid for it with his life. Death was the greatest enlightenment, the revelations he made during that passage couldn't even be fathomed by any living soul. Silas learned that god was not the merciful being most thought, and the devil wasn't exactly the nemesis he was portrayed as.
Now he had a new task to accomplish, a never ending battle with righting all the wrongs everyone had done in the name of faith. Given the new opportunity, Silas did his job not only diligently, but contentedly.
"Silas, my son, are you prepared to accept your true destiny? Are you ready to become my true right hand?"
"Oui, mon Seigneur."
"Then I grant you the task of being my avenging Angel. Go, my child, and purge the world of blasphemous filth in my name."