Loud steps could be heard coming up the stairs, turning and moving towards their room, the door slammed open and four men walked in, moving towards the two beds and dragging the inhabitants out of the room and forcing them towards the ground floor, ignoring their protests and groggy questions.
The receptionist of the Emperor's Inn glared at both of his guests, "Where's the rest of your gold?"
It was at this point, El Presidente knew he had fucked up. "Heh… puta, we don't have anymore, that was the last bar."
Penutimo cried out as one of the men punched him across the face. El Presidente grimaced, he never should have paid for this hotel room with a solid bar of gold, but he had no local currency and he'd never sell off his clothing.
"I know you're lying, just tell me where the rest of your gold is and no one has to get hurt-"
"I'm already hurt," Penultimo said petulantly, earning himself a punch to the gut.
"I don't want to ask nicely again, so just tell me, where is your gold?" El Presidente sneered at the man talking to him.
"As I said earlier, we don't have anymore."
One of the Innkeepers goons came down the stairs shrugging his shoulders saying he hadn't found any of the gold in their room. The Innkeeper glared at his clients.
"Tu coño, I'll be sure to give you a one-star review" The ex-dictator received a nose shattering blow for that, reeling back and spitting blood onto the floor. The Innkeeper simply gestured for the men to leave his establishment.
The men groaned as they supported each other into the nearest alleyway, much worse for wear. El Presidente had had his aviators smashed, his face beaten and his uniform ripped, Penultimo had fared just as badly, having been punched in the stomach multiple times, even having his groin targeted for a few blows, his clothing also filthy and ripped.
Both men stumbled into the alley, hoping to recover with some peace and quiet when a gust of air caught Penultimo's attention.
"Jefe, did you feel that?" El Presidente didn't respond. Penultimo looked towards his boss and seeing the man standing still, his mouth open and eyes wide, Penltuimo turned his gaze towards whatever had captured his attention.
His eyes were assaulted at the image in front of him: a door in the alley wall, where there had been none earlier, on the door was a crucifix, which both men were already prostrating themselves before and beyond the door, a blinding white light.
"Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo. santificado sea tu nombr-" El Presidente had begun reciting the prayer when he got up, no longer in control of his body, and opened the door, dragging Penultimo along with him.
Both men stumbled through the doorway, back in control of their bodies and stood shocked at the scene before them. They were in a small room, the walls covered by frescoes of scenes of the bible, but nothing like they were used to seeing, instead of the majesty of Michelangelo or Raphael, these had been defaced, scratched out of existence and human memory. On the rotten, wooden altar in front of them, they found copies of the Bible, the Quran, and Torah, all missing pages, all desiccated and on the floor both men saw the wine and bread of communion spilled.
El Presidente and Penultimo were shocked, but after the last few days, how shocking could this be? And at the very least they were comfortable (and hopefully safe) in a house of God. That's when they heard the whispers, the pleas and worst of all: the stories.
Both men stood paralyzed as they saw the destruction of their faith; of God creating man and woman, of Adam's third son, of his own banishment as Cain killed Abel, of the mysterious advisor to the Pharaoh as Moses beseeched him, of Jesus forgiving this man and accepting him into his flock, of that man's betrayal as he kisses his leader on the cheek.
Both feel the breath against their skin, Traitor, the visions continue; the butchery of the Lord's chosen people, an indistinct man saluting the Third Reich, nuclear fire raining upon all people everywhere, the Lord's sorrow, the rise of the Usurper, the destruction of Jerusalem, the Kaaba being brought low and the burning of St Peter's Cathedral, Michelangelo's frescoes melting, it's characters crying in the face of the hatred of the Emperor's legions.
The men, no longer captive to horrific sights, collapsed upon the floor, weeping.
"Dios, que puedo hacer?" El Presidente cried out, his mind reeling from the images imprinted there forever.
Terra is lost, but you can cleanse Thuphinda, burn away the Usurper's men, salt his fields, a new flood shall come to clean this stain, and YOU shall be its prophet.
The room left them, both men sprawled across the floor in that damp alleyway, filled with holy fire, sure in their convictions and burning with desire to return his flock to the Lord.
El Presidente, gasping for air, looked up at the smog-filled, black sky and told Penultimo
"Seems we can't catch a break eh? A mal tiempo, buena cara." He attempted to smile, only grimacing in pain as his broken nose refused to cooperate.
