Chapter 3: Devils in Angel Masks

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Some people put on a good show for those outside their circle. Acts of charity. Politeness. Exuding a sincere aura of goodwill and wanting to do good for others out of little more than a sense of altruism.

For some, the act is genuine, a true indication of the good soul that resides within. For others, it is a façade, used to hide things ranging from mildly asinine to outrages the likes of which spur mobs into frenzied rages.

And, regrettably, some masks are intricate and well-played that no one notices the deception until the damage has been done.

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"One of the most powerful techniques an agent of Rod and Whip can use is that of turning the parents against the child. This not only gives the agent more trust with the parents, but also damages the psyche of the target child and softens them up for further psychological punishment."

"Methods used to achieve this vary from outright accusations to playing off of simple paranoia. While the agent should try to sway them into an offensive mindset via hopes of rehabilitation or correction at first, the eventual goal is to get a parent to punish for the sake of punishing…"

-Rod and Whip Manual, "On First Contacts with target families"

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Researching. During summer. Surely somewhere, someplace, there was a council of adolescents his age that would lynch him for such an outrageous act.

But Calvin needed answers regarding the crazed drill sergeant who had burst into the principal's office, tried to detain him by forced, attempted to break his face, and had a small arsenal on his person.

Why the hell had they sent someone with such weapons to get him? He hadn't done anything that bad, and a jury had agreed the noodle incident was not an intentional act of terrorism. Had the agent acted on his own, simply being psychotic? He seemed too confident to simply be acting on impulse.

Message boards concerning such incidents were few, and a disquieting feature on many of them, he'd found, was that many posters claimed to be from other sites dedicated to victims of such camps that had been shut down without notice, with no reply from the site owners. Paranoid ramblings of assassinations and kidnappings invariably followed. There was hearsay related to certain members hearing of incidents of outright assault- horror stories of men coming in black vans to take away children signed up for such camps and their victims never returning home were commonplace.

Perhaps most disturbing site of all was one dedicated to victims of a 'Camp Grindstone', a summer camp supposedly geared towards physical fitness and military discipline. The information link "Causes of death and injury" was alarming enough- clicking on it brought a wave of disbelief as a long page chock full of horrific demises such as "head immersed in deep fryer" and "stoning" loaded.

Calvin blinked for a few seconds. Surely there was an exaggeration here, as often was the case on the internet.

Adults didn't do this sort of thing. Not unless they went crazy.

But what if, the thought struck him, what if a group of crazies focused around an ultracrazy, like those cults he'd read about?

At one time, this was the stuff of bad first grade books and nightmares, a group of adults devoted to making life for children miserable. He'd all but dismissed that sort of thought, accepting that, although often misguided and not sympathetic to emotions of children, most adults didn't harbor outright hatred for today's youth, at least, not so much to set up a series of age-based Guantanomos.

The internet was full of hoaxes. Chock full.

These websites could all just be someone's very sick idea of a prank.

That still didn't explain the man's psychotic, confident behavior.

One thing he'd come to accept of his elders was that they were less likely to take stupid risks- that meant the man who attempted to detain him had likely gone through this sort of procedure before and succeeded, which is why he became alarmed when things didn't go as he had apparently planned. Either the man was functionally psychotic, or he had been trained by something much greater than a self-generated zeal. The weapons they had found on him during the incident supported the idea- some sort of organization equipped him for this task.

Scrolling over the website menu, Calvin looked for contacts- and cursed under his breath as he read a disclaimer quoting – 'to protect the identities of victims, their families, and those who speak out against this injustice, we cannot disclose names, emails, addresses, etc.'

It made sense.

It also made verification harder.

He looked briefly outside through his window. It was a beautiful day, and he could use the exercise… but there was work to be done.

And there was more at stake than a few months of freedom.

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"An agent, no matter his or her zeal for the principles of perpetual punishment, must remember that not all potential targets can be turned in for reasons of grades, rebellion, or criminal activity."

"Use your full arsenal- look for parents seeking summer camps for purposes of entertainment, physical fitness, religious experience. Do not be afraid to lie about your beliefs- remember, you serve a greater good than any temporary moral standard of honesty, and to that end, sacrifices- material and mental- must be made. The parents may be enraged, at first, when our true nature is revealed, but when they no longer suffer the ravages of their inherently disobedient and anarchic children, they will love us."

-Rod and Whip Manual, "On dealing with 'innocent targets'"

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Faith had trouble remembering what happy was.

Was happy when you weren't getting punished? Was it when the punishment stopped for a little while? Or was it something more, something intangible?

She kept making sandwiches. Her father, a pastor, was holding a party. No time for her to do homework. Or rest. Going out by herself was out of the question. All her dwindling resources had to be devoted to aiding her father, a respected member of the Christian community.

She couldn't even join the party- God forbid they see her black eye and bruised arms from where her father 'disciplined' her. That would raise suspicion as to her father's worth as a spiritual leader. He still needed to concoct a story ( a parable, he called them) that would blame her for her injuries and teach a lesson in unquestioned obedience to the youth of the church.

Humiliating her by lying about faults and wrongs undone, her father had said (in between the incidents where he was pummeling her), was a necessity God had permitted to allow him to preach to the youth. Her shaming and pain on earth would be rewarded in heaven as long as she was obedient.

But not getting her homework done was disobedience, which he preached damned a teen to hell, the blood sacrifice of Jesus regardless. And she couldn't do her homework if she was here, in the kitchen, doing all the work- making sandwiches, refilling punch, making cookies- and leaving here was disobedience.

Her most recent injuries were a result of asking her father about the paradox. He had taken belt and fist to her, battering her in a fury while preaching about blasphemy, until he too, had realized the paradox.

In what passed for apology from him he said that if she did everything right, she could have two hours to work on homework. She was grateful he could not hear her mental retort to that boon- Whoop-de-fucking-do.

"Sweetie?" her mother's voice. She kept making sandwiches. She didn't bother to turn. If her mother couldn't be bothered to interject one word of reason, some plea for mercy on her behalf during 'disciplinary sessions' she sure as hell wouldn't acknowledge her.

An awkward silence followed, broken only by chopping of meat and veggies.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that he appreciates you doing this as unto the lord, despite everything-"

"He doesn't." she spoke finally, using a matter-of-factly tone. Tone was everything. If she was out of breath it was interpreted as exasperation. Exasperation meant ten lashes with a belt.

"Sweetie, he's trying. Being a parent is a hard thing, and I know you're hurting, and I know we lied, but it's for a good cause, sweetie!"

"Sure." She kept her voice flat. God forbid she detect sarcasm. Sarcasm was worth twenty.

"We don't like hurting you. Or humiliating you. But it serves a purposes that is stronger than anything you can imagine, and we just need you to be strong with us no matter how much it hurts or how embarrassed you get-"

"Okay." She tried to avoid any tone of rebellion. Rebellion… the punishment for rebellion had left her unable to walk straight for days.

A longer silence.

"One day," her mother spoke softly, "when you have children of your own-"

"I'm not going to have children."

Her mother stopped. "Why not, honey?"

Faith kept making sandwiches. 40 down, 50 to go. "Because if this keeps up, I don't know if I'll live long enough to."

She turned, letting her mother see her badly swollen eye and the cut on her lip. Her bruised cheek. She was beautiful, with her blonde hair and figure, her current injuries regardless, but her appearance clearly showed these disciplinary sessions were taking their toll physically and emotionally. She limped as she walked- her father had thrown her during her punishment and she banged her knee bad as she fell.

And for once, her mother did not have a sermon ready for her.

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Grace Wellfields entered her husband's study as he sat, writing.

Her husband, Matthew, looked up. "How is she?"

Her expression said it all. Downcast eyes, hinting at tears to come. Hugging herself.

Matthew sighed. "I know, I know… I went too far again, but if I let up on her now, she'll become rebellious. We have to keep clamping down on her, keep punishing her before she sins, and you know that-"

"-I do know that, but… honey, she's getting worse grades because you keep holding these parties and insisting she do the work, and she's not having any time to study. Or rest."

Matthew's face flooded with guilt, but only for a moment. "God will show her a way to excel and obey."

Grace refrained from stating that was at least the 267th time he'd said that incredibly corny rhyme regarding Faith, and he had yet to offer a solution beyond divine intervention or breaking the laws of time and space. He had made the rhyme, 'find a way to excel and obey' to put the burden of total obedience to every whim of a parent and still maintain perfect grades and standing in society on a child's shoulders. It was an oft-quoted one by parents who attended his sermons on child-rearing, but now, after being used so many times, it was hollow, shoddy.

"We forgot her birthday. Again."

"We didn't forget, Grace, we agreed, remember, that we had to clamp down on her during her teens. That means no privileges, daily punishment, no parties…"

"But she wasn't rebellious to begin with!"

Matthew started to speak, then stopped. No, Faith had never been rebellious. The extra discipline, the sudden clamping down, and the beatings… especially the beatings- had all come as a shock to her on her 13th birthday.

"We promised after that one party we'd make it up to her." Grace said. "She worked even though she had a broken arm-"

A result of a miscommunication. Faith's hymen had broke during gym exercises, and through what, now, at least, seemed a comical series of misinterpretations, Matthew had gotten the idea that Faith was sleeping around, and had punished her with a baseball bat.

Thank God he knew a private doctor. One who was willing to look the other way for a few extra hundred. It meant dipping into the collection, but that was a necessity. He could blame Faith for that, and make a sermon on stealing from the lord…

"We have the party tonight, and then the prayer meeting next Wednesday." Matthew said. "We don't have time to cut her any slack. We need to keep the pressure on, or she's going to rebel. Big time."

"And whose fault is that?" Grace asked.

Matthew didn't reply. "We're so close to leading more people to God… and the sermons on dealing with rebellious teenagers are working. Teens are coming forward at altar call to repent, and thanking god for every spanking and slap! We just need a little more from her…"

More humiliation? More casting her as the bad girl? Using her as a rebellious example? It struck Grace that if they were going to make their own daughter out to be a slut who dabbled in marijuana and wicca they might as well LET her do the things they accused her of…

Matthew paused, in thought. "One month. One more month and then we will make everything up to her."

Grace smiled sadly. "We said that last month, didn't we?"

Matthew sighed. "I know."

The idea had been that they had believed that since, during their teen years, they had been rebellious, so would Faith. And so, at age 13, they had suddenly gone from loving, doting parents to tyrants with paddles and belts, demanding 200% from Faith and giving no praise in return. It was supposed to make her stronger in faith and in body.

But now, after 4 years, the truth was becoming plain to see- the regimen of endless haranguing, spanking, slapping, and lying about their daughter hadn't strengthened Faith. It was killing her, in mind, body, and spirit.

But if they were to admit their faults and let Faith do as she would, their ministry would crumble. Years of work undone overnight.

God will understand, Grace told herself. God will understand. He will forgive us and reward Faith beyond all imagination in heaven.

This was his will, and they were his servants. Faith would accept that soon, maybe once they made it all up to her she would see the wisdom his presence had given them all.

But, as Grace left the study and prepared to set up for the party, she stopped, realized something had changed, in the house, over those four years. The presence of her deity no longer left her feeling at ease in her own home. The light that glowed in the home was strictly artificial. One long ago Faith's school projects had adorned the shelves.

Gone now- she had received ten lashes for each one for 'making idols' on her thirteenth birthday. The first beatings. She had cried and asked Grace why they didn't tell her sooner that she was a sinner.

She had slapped her until her lips and nose bleed onto the carpet and had made her clean the mess, shouting her sermon against idol worship and whipping her legs with a belt.

The place had grown colder, she had told herself that it was a sort of spiritual exothermic reaction- they gave their all into the community and soon would need a spiritual retreat to recharge.

But at times like this, after punishments for the slightest mistake or question, it seemed, the presence of God had abandoned this home.

And something distinctly ungodly had taken its place.

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It had taken him two solid hours of tracing futile leads and hunting down email addresses, but finally Calvin had made contact with a supposed adult survivor of these camps.

He had told her about the attempted kidnapping, about the alleged boot camp under Rod and Whip. Now all that was left was waiting for a response.

Many of the stories, edited of all data that could be used to easily trace back the originator, told of second hand accounts of the effects of what were named "The RAW Camps", under the idea that these camps, based on injuries and methods, were at least partially connected. Almost all of the first person accounts- which were rare- helped collaborate this story.

His email account dinged, and he opened it up. A response.

All I can tell you is that nothing on that website was an exaggeration. The people who run these camps are complete and utter monsters who don't care about rehabilitation, discipline, or anything but satiating their own sick bullying fantasies. And even when I got out they never stopped. They kept calling my parents to speak to me, telling me that they were watching, and if I misbehaved in any way they'd come back for me. That's why no one on these sites wants to give out a name or anything traceable- these people are complete psychopaths.

Don't bother tracing this further. It's a remote account. And if they find out a kid has been looking into them, they'll find a way to brutalize you. Take it from a survivor- they can't be fought. Your only hope with them is escape. Don't bother looking for me.

And that was that. No elaboration. No telling of her story. Just a warning to lie down and hope they ignored him.

They were bullies. Bullies who grew up to be bigger bullies, but didn't have the guts to pick on other adults, so they turned to picking on kids. These were the people kids like him were expected to obey?

And when they crossed the line from authority to tyrants, the only solution was to hide and hope they overlooked you?

What utter and complete bullshit.

He sighed. 3:15 Pm and he hadn't touched any video games or played. So this was what it was like to become obsessed with something.

He needed to get out of the house. Run around the neighborhood. Swim. SOMETHING.

He had barely made it down the steps when his father stopped him.

"Don't leave the house." He said firmly. His tone was dark, nervous, and his face had a seriousness Calvin had never seen even during his worse antics…

And in a flicker of his eyes, he noticed his father held a death grip on a handgun.

Calvin looked up. Had dad snapped? Had he gone on a crime spree while Calvin wasn't looking? That would be awesome in a crazy sense. Was he going to kill him-

"The man who tried to kidnap you made bail and never came back."

It took Calvin a few seconds to process this. Good side first- the gun wasn't meant for him and no crimes had occurred. Whew.

Bad side- The guy who tried to punch his face in and had a gun meant for him was on the loose.

Fuck. That couldn't be good.

"Go to your room, lock the do-"

Calvin was already half-way up the stairs. Hobbes stirred from the bed as the door slammed and the lock clicked.

"What the hell-"

"The guy from the conference is loose! He made bail-" Calvin began.

"What kind of idiot allows an attempted kidnapper to make bail?!" Hobbes growled, looking out the window briefly before closing it, and pulling the blinds down.

Calvin didn't have a clever answer for him at the moment. Now, instead of wit, he looked to the trappings of his room for improvised defenses. The pocketknife? Maybe if it hit an artery. The baseball bat? Maybe if he hit them in the head.

As he made an increasingly futile list of what would and would not suffice as improvised weaponry, he realized this was no time to be stingy. Desperate, he decided to turn to something he had vowed never to abuse- an ideal he felt separated him from tyrannical adults and their abuses of power.

He pulled from under his dresser a locked box and took from his pocket a brass key, using it to open the padlock. Hobbes noticed this, and his feline eyes widened.

"You're going to-"

Calvin opened the dusty lid, felt the cool plastic handle as he gripped it.

"We're running out of options here."

"Yeah, but that? Remember the last time-"

"I DO remember last time- I won't forget the noodle incident- but these people are psychotic, and we need all the firepower we can get."

The Transmogrifier Gun was pressed back into service.

It was a black water pistol, looking something like a German Luger, aged by the years but infused with a resilience that would put the finest artisans to shame.

It had never been filled with water. Not once. Instead, it drew on equal parts raw desire and chaos, forcibly projecting a field of change, but only if the wielder believed that it could.

It was not an omnipotent tool, Calvin had realized. In areas where the observers were more numerous than Calvin and Hobbes, the disbelief- the acceptance that things supernatural did not exist- crippled the gun's power. It was, in essence, the most powerful when no one else was looking.

Using the gun offensively was out of the question- aside from a gross abuse of what Calvin could only assume was a divinely granted power, it likely wouldn't work- the mind of a typical adult revolved around rules and law, dismissing the metaphysical as hallucination, coincidence, or a trick of the light. It was why everyone never saw Hobbes as anything but a stuffed animal.

But defensively? Turning himself into an insect to evade capture was an effective tactic. And if his family was threatened?

Maybe he could create some rational danger that couldn't be disbelieved- a swarm of hornets. A car fire. It couldn't be too large- he'd found, with experience, the larger the transmogrification, the more fatigue it bestowed on him. The power of the gun carried a price, and he was loathe to find out what would happen if he were to try and bring about some too large and too unnatural into this world. Unconsciousness? Death? Could his very soul be consumed in such an act? He didn't know, and he didn't care to find out.

He tucked the pistol away in his right pocket, then set to barricading the door.

If they wanted into his room, the bastards would have to earn it.

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"At some time, using the discipline of God on your children to purge them daily of the rebellion Satan sends into their hearts- and he's sending right now, ladies and gentlemen, the prince of darkness has a mainline of rebellion straight to your children's hearts that's pumping lies and sin 24 hours a day, seven days a week- at some time or another, while using the rod God has commanded us to use to drive out sin, you will hear them cry. Or rage. Or accuse you of being a child abuser."

"And your heart will break. There will be a little voice in the back of your mind, it will say "This is wrong. You are killing your child's spirit and you're breaking their body." It will tell you to at least… ease up. Ease up. That punishing them without solid evidence is unjust. That humiliation and physical punishment do more harm than good. "Ease up." It will say. "Ease up, and they will grow to love you.""

"YOU- MUST- NOT- DO- THIS. This is Satan speaking, the hotline from hell, and he doesn't care if you're on the no call list, Satan doesn't have a no-call list! He will interrupt you as you are disciplining, and he will say to ease up, because with every whip of the belt, with every swing of the paddle, you are breaking down his plans for the future, and it is driving him crazy! BUT YOU MUST NOT STOP! Paddle harder! Scream for help to the Lord! Resist the devil, and press on even though they beg for you to stop! No kid ever died of a few lacerations or a busted nose!"

"The hardest part for me was when Faith, my own daughter, was found out about participating in Wiccan orgies- don't be deceived, this Wicca business is not harmless new age, it's the same old Satanic deviance from God's will wrapped in bright new packaging. God commanded me to punish her like never before. I won't… go into the details. But during her punishment, blood was drawn, because God demanded it."

"And I faltered. I heard that voice. "Ease up, Matthew." "For God's sake, Matthew, you drew blood! You're killing her!" "What if she tells her teachers? What if this? What if that?" And I faltered."

"I am human. I won't lie to you. Being a pastor means you become closer to God, it doesn't mean you become one. I nearly dropped the paddle. I nearly apologized. I nearly apologized for disciplining my daughter for selling her virginity to Satan."

"It was hard, continuing the punishment. It was the hardest thing, because I thought I had gone from child educator to child abuser. By the time we were done, she feigned that she couldn't walk, and so I had, as God commanded me, to punish her again. And again. Until she got off her sinful behind and went to her room to beg God's forgiveness for being Satan's prostitute. And she was bleeding. I was going to give her some band-aids and some of that band-aid spray to ease the sting, but God said "No. She has to hurt, because she has to learn."

"And you know what? Come next morning, she was limping. She was sobbing at breakfast. She wouldn't talk, but she wasn't dead. That's right. Your child will not die when you discipline them."

"So, when you go home today, and you, if you've been heeding my sermons, pick up the belt or paddle and take your kids aside for their daily discipline, lay into them. Don't hold back. They're not going to die from it. I guarantee it."

-Recent Sermon read by Pastor Matthew Wellfields, to thunderous applause by the older attendants of the church

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Riley Goabes had little difficulty infiltrating the "Church of the Unyielding Rod".

He had snickered at the obvious innuendo the name had brought to mind, but knew what the Pastor meant- a rod of punishment, unswayed by innocence or intent, evidence or lack thereof, of pleas of logic or ethos. He had told his superiors at Rod and Whip he suspected potential candidates for RAW membership could be found inside. They had reluctantly agreed to give him a 12-month period to look for potential candidates.

He had found a gold mine. Parents convinced their children were tools of Satan no matter how hard the kids tried to adhere to an ever changing, ever increasing standard! Open advocacy of brutalization and humiliating children for nothing at all to keep 'sin' at bay! A pastor who was a Rod and Whip agent in everything but title who practiced what he preached!

He had watched his daughter, in secret, go about her business, desperately hiding all those bruises and cuts and scars that were the product of her father's rages. He had wondered how the father had kept her from talking, and a covert op had revealed he had planned ahead two-fold- he had spread such inventive stories about her misdeeds that never were- prostitution, drug use, rebellion, paganism, cheating on tests, lying, and so forth. No one would believe her, and even those who knew her outside her home turned on her as the pastor's lies spread.

He was willing to sacrifice his daughter's well-being, both physical and emotional, just to advocate beating a child with whatever was handy whenever the "word of God said to do so". Riley knew, from his training, that all it would take is a few weeks of one-on-one training with a recruiter and the good pastor would happily keep on advocating the paddle under the banner of Rod and Whip.

Then his flock would follow, and they would, under the leadership of their beloved leader in faith, hand over their children to be disciplined by Rod and Whip, to be used to see what punishment techniques broke the body and spirit the quickest.

Riley was, from the start, an unapologetic sadist. He had no desire to instill order in the world- RAW had his total devotion the moment they told him he was allowed to destroy the lives of those younger than him.

He'd discovered what he'd come to accept as his true nature as earlier as high school, after a disastrous relationship with a freshman girl in his senior year ended with him both physically abusing her and using the photos of her naked form he had taken under the guise of arousal and trust to destroy her reputation. He had been so careful not to leave a mark when he hit her, so careful not to leave evidence he was out to destroy her life, and it had paid off. The girl got a full page in the yearbook after they found her hanging from her room's ceiling fan.

To everyone else, it was a senseless suicide, a statistic. To him, it was an epiphany- he was a sadist who enjoyed the destruction of a soul as an art form. That was who he was, and there was no reason he could see to change that.

The little shits running around with their own hopes and dreams for a future would accept soon enough they were nothing more than canvases for his cruelty, Or, rather, he really hoped they wouldn't.

He found the strugglers so much more satisfying to destroy.

He examined himself in his car's mirror- suit was clean, hair was neat, blemishes removed. To the other members of his church, "Joshua Shepards" was a upstanding Christian who had assimilated well into a doctrine that had other nearby churches in an uproar. Occasionally these outside churches would protest, chanting outside the church against the 'cruel and unchristian methods'. Apparently one family who attended the Church of the Unyielding Rod had a son who cracked under the mandatory harsh punishment rituals and killed himself- in guilt, the family had left and apparently started telling stories.

There was always one weakling in every group, he'd found- one person who couldn't or wouldn't go through when the going got tough. It was a sickening irony to him- they quit over something he would have called a success.

No time to dwell on that now. Pastor Wellfields was hosting a party, a 'religious gathering' he said. A continuation on the positives of perpetual punishment.

He laughed slightly as he got out of his car to go inside. The entire church it seemed was groomed for RAW from the very beginning- fanatical devotion, few allies… it was as if Riley's work was almost done for him.

It was going to be a shame, when he was done. Faith made the best sandwiches…

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Curtis went to work early, before anyone else woke up, had breakfast as he helped clean up the shop, chatted with customers, and all in all had a pleasant morning. Chutney came by briefly to chat, which put Curtis in what he felt was the closest thing he knew to happy.

After the hell had began, Curtis had steadily grown out of chasing after Michelle, and turned to Chutney as a friend. That friendship blossomed into something… warm. Warm and comforting, a source of strength when everything else was falling apart piece by piece. A while back Chutney had expressed her desire to be something more than good friends, and the hot and heavy makeout session that ensued… it had been a ray of light in what Curtis felt was a perpetual shitstorm.

He couldn't tell his parents about it, of course- their five year war against his happiness had shown time and time again how far they were willing to go to make sure life was hell for Curtis. Even now he wasn't going to talk to them about her.

He hated to say it, but he no longer trusted them. His own family couldn't be trusted with something as minor as who he was seeing at the moment, that was how far it had come.

Would his father beat her? He couldn't say he'd be surprised if he left her maimed or dead if he found out, considering what he was willing to do to family.

His mother would likely just lie. Spread rumors that she was giving him drugs or something. She was willing to lie about him for the past several family reunions, what would she do to someone else.

Barry… Barry could do anything. The little shit would pull any trick in the book if it meant a moment of suffering for Curtis. He might even go so far as to accuse her of sexual harassment. And if he did, Mom and Dad would happily back him up.

On he worked. Gunther did haircuts, Curtis did maintenance. Customers ranted about rude family, rejoiced about Obama's re-election, grumbled about work. Some asked, with barely hidden frowns of disapproval, how Curtis' family was doing.

"Boy, tell that man he needs to pull the brick outta his ass-"

"You gave 'em As, you give 'em everything, and they still giving you shit?"

"What about that little bitch Barry, uh- No offense, Curtis- what has HE done?"

He couldn't argue with that term.

"Back in the day they switched you, grounded you, or something, and then it was over, and that was that. You didn't pull this "well, it still feels like yesterday" shit."

It was nice to have some support. Soon he'd be gone, though. Gone to college, to army, to… somewhere else.

Somewhere else, where he could invite Chutney.

The phone rang as he swept and Gunther cut. No one ever called but telemarketers, so they ignored it.

It kept ringing for three haircuts and Curtis oiling the seats, when finally Gunther picked up the receiver.

"Look, I told you thirty times before, I'm NOT interested in…" He trailed off, and the expression on his face spoke that he was speaking with someone far less pleasant than a telemarketer…

"Hang on." He said icily, and held out the receiver to Curtis.

"Your old man."

DAMN HIM. He was in a good mood and he was doing a great job, and he was going to get to quit an hour early to meet Chutney for pizza, and now the belt-swinging maniac was calling him at work.

He took the receiver as if it were a snake. "Hello?" He was proud his tone held no fear. No longer would he be afraid.

"Hey, Curtis!" Cheerful, joyful. Kind.

Something was horribly wrong.

"We're going on vacation-"

"Have fun." Good. He'd have the house to himself. Maybe he could actually go out and have some fun.

"You're coming with us!"

He stood there, stunned, for three seconds before he found the words.

"Like hell I am."

"Curtis, look, we need to reconcile…"

His bullshit alarm flared.

"…and start over as a family. And you need to be a man and stop holding onto your grudges-"

Curtis coughed, choked. "Hang… hang on a sec…" Was this idiot really preaching about forgiveness to him? No, no, he must have misheard. But just in case he didn't…

He put his hand over the mic, and flipped on the speakerphone.

"I'm sorry, what was that dad? Hair got in my throat."

Now, the occupants of Gunther's barbershop heard. "…we need to reconcile and start over as a family. And you need to be a man and stop holding onto your grudges, because-"

There were jeers, curses, and laughs in the Barbershop.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"

"I don't believe it! I honest to Jesus don't believe-"

"Man needs to take his OWN damn advice-"

"Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuullshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"

Curtis spoke as the laughter died down. He wasn't smiling, the only person present who hadn't laughed. Let them laugh their asses off- the comedy of the whole irony had long lost its appeal to him

"Enjoy your vacation without me. I know I will."

Curtis hung up the phone before his father could respond, and went back to sweeping. Yes, there would be hell when he got home. But there was always calling the cops. And he'd be damned if he was going to take any more abuse.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Greg Wilkins hung up the phone, still recoiling after the blast of jeers and his son's cold rebuke. Harry, who had been listening in, raised an eyebrow.

"…That… could have gone better." He said sympathetically.

No shit. Though Greg as he put a hand through his fading hair. What happened? Did Curtis grow a thicker spine and bigger balls overnight?

"We need to move fast. If he's getting this bold, he's confident he can take you on. And that means either he has a gun somewhere, or he knows someone who can sell him one."

That remark prompted a brutal search of Curtis' room. Clothes were torn apart, his mattress cut open, books flung open… but no gun. No drugs. No knife. No weapons. Not even porn.

No huge stacks of cash, either. Gunther must've taught Curtis how to open a bank account to handle his pay.

All that stood out was the chunk of rock. What that meant, he didn't know, but Curtis had it on a shelf, like some sort of trophy. Cleaned well, for a bit of rock.

Among them, well written papers given A's. HIGH As. One stated in bright red ink that initially the grader thought it was a copied paper due to the quality, and was pleasantly surprised.

For a moment, a brief moment, Greg felt that perhaps… perhaps he had gone too far, again, with the raid on his room-

-but the Big Man inside him reminded him that fake red ink signatures on copied papers were still lies, and he flung the treasured works into a garbage bag.

And if they were real?

Then that was what happened when he talked back to his old man.

"So, no gun here… think his boss could supply him with one?" Greg asked.

Harry nodded. "Or tell him where to get one."

Diane shook her head. "This is so bizarre… you really think he would try to kill us?"

"Ma'am, he abandoned his little brother to die when he was in a good mood. What's he going to do now that he's in full pity party mode?" Harry retorted.

There was silence.

"When we get him to the facility, the punishment you inflict before handing him over must be more severe than anything you've done before. Do not worry about breaking bones or causing injury- when we are done, he will have no memory and no scars."

Greg nodded, as if perhaps Harry had mentioned his lawn needed mowing. "But how do we get him to come with us?"

Harry paused momentarily. "We may need to get him to come to you out of a sense of urgency. If he was led to believe his stunt with the phone caused you, to, say… attempt suicide..."

"But who will tell him?" Diane spoke up. "He doesn't trust me or his father, and…"

"I will!"

The three adults turned to Barry, standing in the doorway. Harry sighed.

"Son, this sort of thing will take a great deal of finesse and acting, and I frankly don't see-"

Barry suddenly, inexplicably, as if someone had hit a switch, began to cry and sob. "CURTIS! D-d-d-dad… h-h-he-he took a gun and… OH GAWD, HE'S BLEED-D-ING! I CAN'T MAKE HIM STOP!" Barry continued in this vein for a few seconds, then, as if the switch were reverted, promptly became serene again.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Harry stood there, stunned by the display, and the sincerity of the façade and willingness to crucify his own brother.

He had been warned, that, eventually, he would come across children who were… salvageable. Who were willing to aid. Who were prime candidates for neoidentification and eventual induction into Rod and Whip.

He'd been prepared, yes. But he didn't think he'd find a perfect example so quickly.

Turning to the parents, he smiled. "It seems I stand corrected. Whenever you're ready, we can begin."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jason Fox had got the news at 6:00 am that there was a good chance lunatics from Camp Grindstone were coming over, and not to leave the house.

Instead, he had spent the day rigging his room with a series of booby traps that would put any Home Alone spinoff to shame- a series of switches and buttons armed devices ranging from incapacitating to lethal. A dowel rod lined with razor blades on a spring-loaded lever would slash at the first uninvited person to head through the door. Wires rigged to batteries would deliver powerful shocks to anyone who touched them while armed. A supersoaker, modified to fire concentrated acid, sat nearby on a plastic tray, rigged with a co2 canister so no pumping would be needed- A cruel weapon, made a while back when bullying was a severe problem but never deployed. Another supersoaker, rigged with a lighter and liquid accelerant, stood by in case Jason needed to resort to fire.

Several crude spears made from pool cues loaded on powerful springs were aimed at the door as well. If anyone hostile wanted in, Jason had decided, he'd make them pay dearly.

He made sure Quincy wasn't immediately visible on entry, so that if worse came to worse, at least his pet would survive.

A computer-mounted camera on the front door, linked to his computer, gave him a view of the street outside. At the very least, maybe he could see these Grindstone loonies before they got to him.

A knock at his door made him jump and grab the acid supersoaker. He didn't know how they got inside without him seeing them, but he'd make sure as hell they'd pay-

"Jason?" his mother spoke cautiously. "Sweetie, aren't you taking this a little too far?"

Jason breathed with relief, set the corrosive weapon down on its tray. "No."

"We've got a court order against them entering the house or approaching you, honey. It's going to be okay."

A court order. How quaint- she actually believed that this little lethal game of cat and mouse was abiding by any set of ethical rules.

"Just because it's illegal doesn't mean it won't be done." Jason replied.

A pause. "How many traps have you set up?" the tone indicated exasperation and concern- only one of those Jason needed right now- but nonetheless he felt obliged to give an answer.

"Not enough. But as long as they don't send more than ten I doubt they'll break through."

"Tell me you can at least disarm them-"

"I took those precautions into account." He said simply. The killswitches would safely disarm the traps and allow him to exit and enter as needed. He glanced at the computer- the display showed a van pulling up to the Fox doorstep, and four men got out. Dressed in jeans and black shirts, a quick glance didn't show any weapons… but then they started knocking.

He set a remote control tape recorder on a stool nearby and moved over to a corner to the right of his door, out of immediate view on entry. Making sure the traps were armed and grabbing both chemical weapons, he forced himself to breathe slowly, igniting the lighter on the flamethrower supersoaker.

The knocking grew louder.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Roger Fox had black matte boards taped over the front windows so that no one could see in- a move that initially felt paranoid, but now gave him some reassurance. Taking out the revolver had felt utterly insane. Now, it too, was a comforting weight in his hand- if legal threats failed, there was always ballistics.

A knock from the door prompted him to cock the gun.

"Mr. Fox? It's the Grindstone association."

"We have a court order against you being within 500 ft of this house or our children, and I'm not interested in your camps. LEAVE."

"Mr. Fox, we just want to talk to Jason…"

"Too damn bad."

"I must insist, Mr. Fox, that you let us speak to Jason. Children his age need structure and discipline, particularly those with abnormal interest in sciences. They need to be taught humility and obedience early and often, and for the sake of his future and ours, I am going to have to demand you open this door." An authoritarian tone, the kind not used to being denied.

Roger simply hit the speed dial on his cell for a police officer's number. "Yeah, Officer Barkley? They're here, and they're trying to get in-"

"Mr. Fox, let's be reasonable about this- your son is a danger to society, and his little experiments with rockets and other acts of questionable legality warrant intense disciplinary action-"

Were these people completely and utterly insane? Coming to complete stranger's houses because they picked up a pamphlet? He'd saw some articles describing agents of Grindstone as pushy and arrogant, but nothing like this…

"We're on our way. Three minutes, tops." The cop assured him. Sirens blared in the background.

Roger leveled the pistol at the door. "Hurry." He hissed. "The Cops are on their way," He announced. Maybe that would deter them…

The door rattled as something heavy hit it.

-or maybe not.

Sharp ears picked up rapid footsteps outside the walls of his home. It took him only a split second to understand- they were going to attack from both doors.

"ANDY, GET UPSTAI-"

The front door fell. Roger fired at the man, caucasian and powerfully built, as he entered, hitting him squarely in the stomach- the .44 round ripped through him and he fell onto the floor, gasping in pain.

He saw his wife dart up the stairs even as the back door crashed open, he rounded the corner and fired…

…missing due to suddenly having to follow his wife upstairs as multiple handgun rounds shot past his head.

The world had gone completely mad. People from nazi death camps were trying to steal his children and were willing to kill him to get to him.

He had cleared the last step, firing three wild rounds behind him- two missed flat out. One nicked a handgun wielding man and he staggered. His partner fired two more rounds, both narrowly missing.

One round left. Two men. He had to reload, and he cursed himself for not carrying more bullets…

He fired his last round as he made a mad dash for his bedroom- missing but forcing the uninjured assailant to duck to avoid being hit.

His wife slammed the door shut even as he fumbled with the rounds.

His son had told him, earlier, had he was going to rig the room in case this sort of thing happened. He had dismissed it as paranoia- sane adults simply didn't DO something this blatant- but now the rules had changed, sanity was gone, and in its place something out of a bad horror movie.

Many times he prayed that Jason's machinations wouldn't hurt anyone. Now, as he realized painfully, slowly, that he couldn't get to them before they got to him, he prayed that God would make each of Jason's traps a lethal deathtrap in their own right.

He would defend his son in court even if it cost him the house- he just didn't want him dead.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jason had heard the noises from the wall outside his window, and immediately deduced that someone was trying to scale the wall to his room.

Bold. Almost admirable. He had to give the man credit for going for a tactic that was considered outdated and thus unexpected.

Terribly ineffective.

He pulled a lever, and a bucket of the same concentrated acid he'd placed in his modified squirt gun tipped to spill its contents down from the window. A scream, followed by a dull thud. The acid likely hit the climber in the face, and knowing the potency would leave him blind, in agony, or both. The fall probably didn't help him either.

Kicks rattled his door and brought him back to reality.

"Open up, kid, and this will go a lot easier…"

He clicked the remote rigged to the recorder. "Fuck you and the mother who never loved you." It was a two-fold ploy- one, to give them a false idea of where he was in the room to draw their fire, two, to enrage them to open the door without thinking.

Please be stupid. He prayed. Please be stupid and open the door-

Apparently his prayers were not unheard, as the door gave, and the first trap, the razor stick, inspired by ancient Aztec weaponry, swung at what he'd calculated to be neck level…

A staggering adult white male, clutching his bleeding neck, told him he was correct in his assumptions. He stumbled into the mass of wires, spasmed and smoldered as the electricity suddenly surged through him, and went down.

The second man kicked his smoking companion aside and fired, nicking Jason's left arm…

But through the pain he growled, and lifted the caustic-filled water gun, firing it at the man's face even as he stepped on a homemade pressure plate. The jet of acid struck him in the left eye, and as the scorching liquid continued to corrode his face he screamed, dropped his pistol…

And that's when the pool cue spears shot forward, propelled by powerful springs, stabbing him in the arm, leg, and through his gut. He gargled a scream of agony as the acid found it's way into his mouth, Jason not easing off the trigger until the reservoir was spent. The acrid fumes filled the room and he closed his eyes to avoid going blind, fumbling for a pair of goggles…

His left arm hurt, but was still working. That was a plus. The goggles in place, he opened his eyes…

Okay, damage assessment time. He was hurt- that would require stitches, maybe, but he wasn't maimed. The same could not be said for the agents. One lay bleeding out from his neck, still smoking from the wire trap. The other's face was sloughing off, and he bled profusely. He writhed, struggling, for a few seconds, then was still, no longer breathing.

For three seconds Jason dreaded having to clean up the mess.

Then, with a horrible realization, the reality that he had killed two, maybe three people hit him, and against his will, he doubled over, retching, vomiting and choking, trying not to breathe in the acid fumes…

He fled to the window, trying to get fresh air… looked down…

The third agent lay on the grass, upper torso burnt from the acid, neck at an angle that clearly spoke that he would never get up again.

Jason emptied his stomach until there was nothing left, breathing the unpoisoned air, then, dropping his empty acid gun, took the unused flamethrower in both hands.

The closet he locked Quincy in was still shut, and with the fumes ventilating, his safety wasn't an immediate issue. He stepped over the corpses, heard a footstep to his left, screamed as he brought the flamethrower to bear on the target…

"DIE YOU MOTHERFU-"

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY SO-"

Roger and Jason looked at each other momentarily, respective weapons leveled at each other for a moment, then, as one, lowered them.

"…a flame thrower supersoaker? Seriously?" Roger asked with a mixture of concern and incredulity. His gaze locked on Jason's wounded arm.

"You're the one holding the magnum. There were four. I got three."

Jason was glad he had nothing left to vomit, because how easily those last words came out sent him into dry heaves.

"…Okay." Roger said, not being able to conjure up words beyond simple affirmation. He went over to the stairwell, looked down, jerked the gun up and fired twice.

His father had killed a man. There was no doubt in his mind.

Roger turned, slowly, after seemingly making sure his target wouldn't get up. He looked as though he'd aged 20 years during the ordeal. "…went for his gun." He choked out.

Jason nodded, slowly.

"…you can shut the flamethrower off, Jason. It's over."

Jason clicked off the lighter, but knew, even as Paige and Peter emerged to ask what the hell happened, as his father hugged him as tears he did not ask for fell, that it wasn't over. Not when this could happen.

Paige screamed as she saw the body on the downstairs floor, and retreated to her room, slamming the door shut. Jason couldn't blame her.

Peter looked into Jason's room and swore. "…what the fuck… what the fuck… what the FUCK, man? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?"

Jason sank to the floor, drained.

What had happened? The world had gone mad. Whatever God was watching over them had up and left, leaving the keys to Pandora's box to a entity far less benevolent, and now the insanity and evil was flooding the streets.

Two days. Two days ago he had been planning to make rockets and play video games, annoy his sister, surf the net. Two days later, his world had gone completely insane.

Sirens blared in the distance. The police were coming to clean up the bodies- a morbid garbage disposal service.

Our tax dollars at work. He thought bitterly.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Calvin had seen the car pull up, a single man, powerfully built, in military fatigues, step out.

"Hide in the closet." He instructed Hobbes.

"He's just one man, I can take him-"

"He doesn't believe!" Calvin countered. "He doesn't believe, so you can't hurt him!"

Hobbes growled in protest, but relented. The words were too true- even as the Transmogrifier gun failed to yield results when in the presence of disbelief, so he was inanimate when unbelievers looked at him, and so he was best left in the closet for now- if his doll form was damaged, then so was his real form, the one Calvin saw.

Banging from downstairs.

One chance. Calvin promised. I'll give the fool one chance to walk away, then all bets are off.

He reached under his bed and pulled out a toy rifle, designed only to make a loud pop with the trigger was pulled. The orange cap was a dead giveaway as to its non-lethality, and using it as a bludgeoning tool was a futile gambit.

But once, while visiting Uncle Max, he had been shown, under Max's supervision, how to shoot and clean a real rifle.

Shown how it worked.

And that lesson, innocuous as it may seem, meant all the difference now, because with understanding how something worked, Calvin had found, it was a lot easier to use the Transmogrifier to make something that looked similar work like the article in question.

But… he had locked it away, out of the realization that using it too often would lead to too many questions, too much responsibility. And even if he could abuse it discretely, he was no better than so many adults who abused their powers…

But now was not the time for personal ethics.

He prayed whatever deity let him use this miracle would forgive his actions today.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Derrick Halgins held the semi-automatic in his right hand even as he called the police with the other, hearing the increasingly loud banging on his front door.

"I just want to talk to Calvin. If he's going to badmouth us he should at least hear our side-"

"We did. It was a psychotic rant. Now leave." Derrick retorted.

"Sir, I've heard about the incident, but I've also heard about your son. The havoc at school and the neighborhood? The disturbing snow sculptures? The noodle incident, for God's sakes-"

"That was an accident. A judge and jury decided that." He cocked the gun, silently feeling a twinge of pride for his son. The kid had become a legend.

"Accident or not, he needs discipline, and grades regardless, for the sake of our nation, I must insist you open this door. I just want to talk to him."

"You sent one psychopath after him already. You're not getting a second chance."

"Mr. Halgins, I can break down this door, or you can let me in and I'll go a whole lot easier on your son. Your call." The voice had lost any trace of reason, now.

"You set one foot in here and so help me God I will pump you full of lead…"

With one brutal kick, the door flew off its hinges, revealing the assailant- blonde with a crewcut, in military fatigues…

Derrick emptied the clip into the man's chest, and he staggered, grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling…

In the split second he had, Derrick realized the man had on armor, before a brass-knuckle covered fist crashed into his jaw. He fell, and the wind rushed out of him as the man began to stomp on his stomach and kick at his head…

He heard Betty scream, saw her lunge at the man with a kitchen knife… she managed to cut him twice before he slammed an elbow into her gut, knocked the knife from her hand, swept her legs from under her, and fell onto her, brutally slamming elbows and fists into her face…

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Issac couldn't believe the thrill he was getting.

Rod and Whip had promised him he'd get the same thrill he gotten from beating his wife and kids, and now they were delivering. He'd knocked out the dad, and now he was working over the Mom.

She scream, and he smiled as he slammed a fist into her chest, causing her to cough as he slammed an elbow into her temple.

If all went well he could have some fun with her, drag the boy down once his partner got her, show him the violated remains and-

BLAM "GET THE FUCK OFF MY" BLAM "WIFE YOU" BLAM "SICK PIECE OF SHIT"

Rounds pierced his unprotected arms and his left leg, and he staggered… he drew back his hand for one last blow- if nothing else he'd kill the bitch, and leave the naysayer without a Mom-

He then found this difficult as the mom, disturbingly less broken and more utterly outraged, retrieved the knife and plunged the tip into his right eye…

He fell back, heard them both get to their feet…

Then the blows came, and he tried to cover up, but they just moved to his unprotected areas…

First his good leg gave. Then the dad shot him again in his wounded left arm- once, twice… stomping on it…

His world became nothing but pain as the mother ground her heel into his crotch, and he screamed, only to be cut short by a stomp from the father to his throat…

Then there was blackness.

Then there was heat. Uncomfortable heat, like he was approaching a furnace…

Heat, and a distinct, unshakable feeling that what was coming next would make the prior humiliating beating seem like a picnic.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Calvin heard the commotion, heard the shots… feared the worst, but heard his father and mother cursing in ways he'd never dared, and knew they came out on top…

Good. Because now he had a bigger problem to worry about. One guy was coming up to the window, and from the glimpse he got, was armed… and he wasn't. Escape wasn't an option, his own barricade trapped him inside his room

He took the toy rifle, leveled the Transmogrifier at it, and thought deeply.

This isn't a toy. It's a fully functional .32 hunting rifle, fully loaded and operational.

He remembered the lectures Uncle Max had given, how a gun was not a toy and that it would kill, and if he screwed around, there would be hell to pay…

Change for me. He pleaded as he pulled the trigger. Change for me.

What happened next requires an acceptance of the metaphysical, a rejection of that which is and is not as concrete things. To fully understand what happened, one must accept that the very stuff of creation can be radically changed by a 13 year old boy, holding a pistol he believes will make something into something else as long as those present believe in what he's doing.

Before his eyes, the toy changed, shook, expanded, losing the orange tip that marked it as harmless, losing the childish sheen, becoming bigger, heavier, smelling of oil and shining as if newly made…

He picked it up, pausing a moment to admire the weight and feel of it. If this wasn't real-

He looked up, saw the man in fatigues entering through the window…

-then he was proper fucked.

He dropped his transmogrifier to level the rifle at the would-be assailant, who blinked, momentarily, clearly not expecting his prey to be armed…

BLAM. The rifle butt jerked back into his shoulder and he winced, but the agent, clad in what Calvin could only assume was black sweats with crude body armor underneath, nearly fell back out the window, saved only by his hand gripping the side…

Damn, that was a kick.

The man was still standing, staggered- the thickness of his chest suggested body armor- and Calvin cocked the rifle, fired again…

And this time the impact sent his target screaming out the window…

Looking out the window, Calvin heard two things that were music to his ears- the moaning of a crippled asshole adult and police sirens. The man's legs and arms clearly suggested he wouldn't be getting up any time soon, so he had a breather.

He grabbed the Transmogrifier again, and, pulling the trigger, willed it to change back into a harmless, plastic toy, and reality obliged, happily reverting the firearm to its previous innocuous state.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Derrick continued to drive his foot onto the bastard's face even when he suspected he wasn't breathing any more, rage at the violation of his home and mate fueling his blows.

He knew he'd feel remorse later, but the son of a bitch had hurt his wife and threatened his kid. And anyone who did that left in a body bag.

Eventually, he stopped. He looked to his wife. Nasty bruises and cuts. He probably looked like hell himself- his jaw felt like it was on fire, his stomach ached, and the side of his head where he was kicked was bleeding…

Two gunshots from upstairs brought him out of his daze. He and his wife, without a word, made a mad dash for Calvin's room…

"CALVIN!" his wife screamed! "CAL-"

"I'm alright," came his son's reply.

THANK GOD.

"Crazy bastard fell out the window."

"Did he hit you?"

"No, he missed when I stuck my head out the window. What the hell was this, anyway?" The sounds of furniture being moved- Calvin was removing his barricade.

"Fuck, son, I don't know…" He caught himself… "Sorry."

"No, dad, 'fuck' and 'fucked' are pretty appropriate now-" he opened the door, his eyes going wide.

"Jesus Christ, mom, dad-"

"It's just a few bumps and bruises-" Derrick's body throbbed to painfully correct his lie "we'll need a doc, but we'll be fine…"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

They had hurt his mother and father.

They had broke into his home, and hurt the two people he loved.

The rules of engagement had changed- neutralization was no longer the priority, elimination was.

Any guilt he felt about using lethal force vaporized as a rage overtook him- he went into his room, retrieved a small aluminum baseball bat, his eye twitching…

"Calvin, what're you doing…" He mother asked.

"Don't go downstairs-" His father shouted.

He noticed the dead body, and realized, with a chilling sensation, it did not bother him one bit. The moment they hurt his family, their lives were forfeit.

Fuck them and their sadistic kid-hate. They wanted to play "who's the biggest bastard"?

That was just fine. Calvin knew the game well, and was more than willing to give the last remaining opposing player some pointers.

He casually strode out into the backward, hefting the bat over his right shoulder, approaching the wounded man who lay sprawled in the grass.

"You rotten little shit-" the man spat. "You and your family are dead, you hear me! If we don't report back-"

God, these idiots could talk. Fortunately, Calvin had a solution to such an irritation.

In one fluid motion, he gripped the bat with both hands and swung it down onto the man's face with a sickening crunch. A howl of pain and incoherent attempts at swearing followed.

The battered agent reached for his gun a few feet away. Calvin strode over, and gently kicked it out of range, turned, and brought the bat down on the arm. Another crack like dry wood, a scream turned into pained gasps.

Calvin leaned down so the man could see him.

"You're going to tell me who sent you, why they want me, and where I can tell the police to find them." Calvin did his best to keep his tone polite, friendly. The boy got a face full of bloody saliva for his trouble.

Clearly the man needed more education as to who was in charge here. He strolled over to the legs, and jabbed at a dislocated knee with the tip of the bat roughly- a scream and a curse.

He wiped off the spittle with his shirt as the man fought to regain his breath.

"You sick little bastard…"

"Sick?" Calvin chuckled. "I'm not the one breaking into homes to kidnap kids. I'm not the one running death camps. I'm not the dumbass who thought he could break into my home and walk away unscathed. You, however, are."

Calvin suddenly and viciously slammed the bat down on the right section of his ribs, and the man rasped in agony…

"I won't talk." He breathed out. "You can wail on me all day, I'm not saying shit-"

Calvin raised the bat, now smudged with blood, again- the man's bravery began to fade. "Interesting theory. Allow me to thoroughly test it."

"CALVIN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" his father, just a few feet away, looked at him in horror and disbelief.

Unbidden, Calvin felt the hot sting of shame tinge his cheeks, but that withered under the fact this jackass had just tried to kill him.

"Beating the living hell out of someone who hurt my family." He replied.

"Don't." His dad said firmly.

"His partner just tried to kill you-"

"And he's dead. Yes, this scumbag deserves to be beaten within an inch of his life, but he doesn't deserve to die."

"Why, dad?" Calvin said, disbelieving. "These shits torture kids for fun. Why the hell shouldn't we kill them?!"

There was a dark look on his father's face, bloodied and battered as it was, and even as it made Calvin shrink back in fear, he was impressed- he didn't think the old man had it in him.

"Because he hurt my wife and he tried to hurt my kid." His dad growled. "and anyone who does that is going to suffer-painfully- for a long, long time if I have anything to say about it."

Calvin looked down on the sad wreck of a human being that laid before him.

He'd be doing the world a favor if he just wailed on this asshole, wailed on him until every bone broke, every organ rupture, and-

…no.

He dropped the bat.

Just… no.

There were lines. Lines that separated people like him from people like the idiot he was going to beat to death. Lines that defined who was salvageable and who wasn't, and as macho as he may have felt, he realized that in the end, he wasn't willing to cross the line called murder yet unless he absolutely had to.

That was how the good guys differentiated themselves from the bad- they killed only when absolutely necessary.

He leaned up against the wall of his house, the adrenaline wearing off, hearing neighbors shout and sirens blare…

Starting the summer off with a body count and a police report couldn't possibly bode well.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Riley Goabes, under the guise of Jonathan Shepards, listened intently and took notes on Matthew Wellfield's sermon- the notes were two-fold, it made him look like a genuine member of the church, allaying suspicion and doubt.

It also gave him some insight onto religious children. He had thought, originally, that using religion and an afterlife to cow youth into accepting harsh punishments was at best a temporary strategy. But now, he saw, that as long as the target could be convinced of a hell, and that accepting these beatings and repenting for their being necessary might prevent descent into hell on death, the target would be less willing to break free.

And so as he wrote he did not have to fake his admiration and awe. Here he thought it would be entirely him teaching them.

"As you may know, this church doesn't preach a popular idea. God never promised popularity in the package, friends- "You WILL be a stranger in your own city." It doesn't help that two of our former members are out there, day-and-night working with Satan to ruin our church." Matthew spoke, his voice carrying throughout the living room.

"For those of you-" he nodded at Jonathan "-who weren't with us, the Farence family was with us and was willing to follow our way of discipline, and I'll admit they were pretty loyal- right up until their son, an obnoxious "I didn't do anything" little shit, had an emo-attack after a punishment session and hung himself."

"You know and I know that this is a sign from God that boy wasn't fit to live in his kingdom, and that he's burning in hell right now with the other liars, thieves, whores, and those who speak against the last few true Christians. But they wouldn't accept that, and so, after a failed lawsuit against us, they started working with all manner of hippie societies. 'No whipping zone', 'Hittinghurts', insane groups like that."

"Let me be very blunt with you- this is the end times. First, they will take away our rods. Then our paddles. Then they take our bibles. Pretty, soon, ladies and gentlemen, the entitlement-complex youth who aren't daily being beaten clean of their sin potential are going to start marching through the streets, the emblem of Satan on their foreheads, killing and raping and stealing, and all the naysayers and hippies will still say, "spare the rod". "Spare the rod" will be their last words."

There was silence as Matthew paused, eyes looking at him expectantly.

"…we have tried, with Faith. God almighty, how we have tried."

Here, Riley saw the telltale, nigh imperceptible shift of eyes and twitch of lips that indicated more false-badmouthing of his daughter.

"…We will continue to try, and we expect you to continue to try to drive out the sin in your children's hearts, but as God as my witness, I honestly suspect we were given her as a constant test of our faith, my wife and I."

"Sometimes, I see her, and I wonder if there's a fragment of the obedient little girl I knew in there. Then, I find out she's been stealing from the church offerings again for drugs, or sex- I don't know at this point- and I realize… she's gone. She's gone, and there is nothing left of her, because we started punishing her AFTER the sin showed up."

Sympathetic gazes and 'awwws.' Riley had to admit, the man had a shaky start, but once he got into it, Matthew could bullshit up a storm.

"If you want to see your kid become the stuff of parent's nightmares, if you want to see Satan's work manifest in your kid, then don't whip or slap them. Be my guest. If, however, you want your kids to be with you, in heaven, while the rest of the world goes mad, then press on. Hit harder. Do. Not. Relent."

Riley joined in the applause as Matthew continued his weary father façade even as he sat down.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

In her room, having showered to wash the dried blood and sweat off her, Faith realized that she simply didn't have the energy for math or literature.

Any motivation for trying to succeed when her father's lies had poisoned everyone's opinion of her- or, at least, the people she was allowed contact with- was gone. She'd just get punished again either way. They'd find something.

It took her twenty minutes to find a position on her bed that wasn't agonizing, but almost immediately, she began to dream.

She was inside a giant lavatory, with no stall walls, and on the toilets were the adult members of the church congregation, oblivious, it seemed to their exposure. They were sitting their, pants down, reading their bibles.

She was horrified for a moment that they might see her, but, as one's gaze swept through her with no reaction, she realized, by some… miracle, they had not seen her.

The sounds of defecation filled the air, devoid of shame or restraint. Faith felt herself blanch.

What the HELL was with her subconscious?

Then, almost in unison, the congregation began to rip pages out of the bible and wipe themselves with them… she suddenly became grateful her olfactory senses were not with her.

"This is what they are doing." A voice boomed.

Okay, Faith decided. It was official. She'd snapped. Completely and utterly gone ins-

"You are not delusional. Your father is."

Okay. That was mildly reassuring to know her sentiments were not alone.

"Run. Run past the school, past the church, past everything you know, and seek help."

And with a start, she awoke.

Had God spoken to her?

Was she finally cracking up?

Was her own mind turning against her?

She thought for a few moments. Staying here… her father and mother were never going to stop. Never. Not if it meant looking like they were fallible. Staying here, in this home, was suicide of the slowest and most painful sort.

If it was divine revelation, then God had finally taken pity on her and had given her his blessing to get out of there. If she was insane, she could get institutionalized. Both sounded a whole lot better.

Amens and preaching resounded from the living room. Painfully, slowly, Faith got dressed, put some minor possessions in a backpack, left a note she prepared for this occasion, and started for the front door.

It was the most agonizing 30 seconds of her life. Her steps seemed deafening, she dared to move only when the preaching grew loud, and soon, she was at the door…

It would squeak. It would squeak, and they would hear, and she would be caught-

His father began a loud, shouting sermon on how to punish a child. Thank God for ego-trips.

As gingerly as she could, she opened the door, and when her family and the congregation did not hear and pursue, she crouched, moving as quickly as possible, avoiding the windows.

Then, with stamina and power she could only attribute to either divine force or her madness, she ran/limped as fast as she could.

She would be free or she would die.

Liberty or death.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Out of the corner of his eye, Riley saw a shape limp into the darkness, moving away from the house.

His first impulse was to alert the pastor so the whole congregation could get in a good thrashing of the impudent little girl, but… he realized, there was much more he could do.

The pastor genuinely believed in divine intervention, divine appointment, and all that religious nonsense.

It was time, Riley decided, to test the pastor's faith.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

So he had lied yet again about his daughter and made her out to be irredeemable.

So he had taught God demanded perpetual punishment.

It was a lesser sin than admitting fault and losing the congregation, he'd decided.

The last member of his church had gone home, all save for Jonathan, who remained in private.

He greeted him warmly and shook his hand. "Wasn't sure about you for a while, brother. But I'm glad to know you're genuine about your faith."

Jonathan nodded. "I am, pastor. Just not in the way you've come to believe."

Matthew's face fell a mile-

"I am not with the heathens who are out to destroy you and your God's work, Pastor. No, I am an ally, called here by a… guess, if you will."

Jonathan smiled, a warm grin that should have put him at ease… but didn't.

"Faith hasn't really been stealing from the offerings, has she? She hasn't been smoking, doing drugs, having sex, or… let's face it, anything, aside from growing more and more bitter."

Matthew's fist snapped out, trying to knock the man down, but with an agility he couldn't- shouldn't have, Jonathan jerked to the side and the punch met only air.

"Whoa, take it easy. I'm not here to rat you out- you are correct, Matthew, whether you believe it or not- perpetual punishment, from day 1 onwards, is the only way the kids of today can be turned away from lives of crime."

Matthew was about to strike again, but stopped.

"You think you're exaggerating. You think you're doing a lesser wrong to avoid a greater wrong. You're not- you have been righteous from the day you started beating Faith, and all these… doubts, these fears you're feeling? Remember your sermon? About easing up?"

Could it have happened? Matthew felt his stomach turn.

Could he have been preaching the TRUTH, all along, even without realizing it, and what he thought was the façade was real and the real was Satan's lies gnawing at him?

"She wasn't rebellious- not blatantly. But it's plain to see to anyone who looks at Faith- she's a traitor. She isn't going to love or respect you, belting or hugs or presents or paddlings regardless. She's a natural born backstabber, beyond redemption from the moment she began to breathe. And she's endured just enough beatings and bruising to collect enough evidence to tear down all your hard work."

DAMNATION!

How could he have been so blind?!

Faith wasn't rebelling because he was playing RIGHT INTO her trap. Her body was the evidence. If a police officer or a person from one of those… agencies got her… it was over.

He turned to head to his daughter's room. If he had to nail her to the wall and keep her on a ball and chain, then so be it-

He noticed the front door was slightly ajar, and panic took him. Rushing to his daughter's room, he found nothing, nothing save for a sheet of notebook paper. Snatching it up, he read.

You lied when you said you loved me. You lied when you said it was all for my own good. You and mom lied about me to everyone who'd listen. You're lying to yourself, me, and everyone, and I'm sick of living someplace where lies replace truth because you don't want to look bad.

I'm looking for my own truth, now. But first, I'm going to tell the world the truth about you.

Tell mom I said to burn in hell.

-Faith Wellfields X

His loud cursing brought his wife into the room, and he felt the ground beneath him begin to sway. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were going to let her be redeemed, tell the church they'd finally driven the evil out of her… if only she'd been a little stronger.

"She's gone. She up and left…" he choked out.

Grace did not take it well, falling to her knees and screaming, tearing out her hair. From the doorway, Jonathan watched, what passed for sympathy playing on his face.

"When she talks, it's all over. Unless you move your church… somewhere else."

Matthew looked at him incredulously. "Somewhere else?! Where? Where could we go?!" This was it. Game Over. Even with all the red tape the feds would move too quick for the entire congregation to relocate…

Jonathan smiled, and this time, it was reassuring…

"I know just the place. Filled with like-minded disciplinarians- maybe not of the Christian faith proper, but devoted to discipline, nevertheless…"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

It was getting to closing time for Curtis. Another day, another step towards independence.

The phone rang as he swept, and Gunther picked up. Instantly he saw his boss; face display shock and alarm.

"Okay, okay, I'll get him now- Curtis, it's Barry, something's happened-"

Curtis grabbed the phone. "Barry? What the hell-"

Panicked screams met his ears, and he recoiled… "Dad… after he… talked to you… started crying… he… he shot himself… I c-can't make him stop bleeding, Curtis!"

Grief and shame flooded Curtis. He couldn't have driven his old man to suicide. No way. No how.

Right?

Right?

"Barry, call an ambulance- I'm on my way."

He hung up, turned to Gunther. "I need a ride, now, home. My dad shot himself..."

To Gunther's credit, they paused only to flip the sign to close before he shot off towards Curtis' home…

All through the ride, Curtis wondered what the hell had gone wrong- his dad had only come around recently, why would he react so badly to him turning down a vacation with them? Wasn't he anticipating he wouldn't want to be spending more time with the people who beat him?

Was it the straw that broke the camel's back?

Did his father decide a world where his son didn't love him wasn't worth living in?

Then a nasty thought crept into his mind…

What if it was a lie?

Barry wasn't above lying, certainly. And his father had kept up a lot string of fictional offenses for way of explaining away Curtis' not being allowed to mingle with the family during holidays. Then there was the whole five years of beating thing…

Why the sudden vacation? Did the man honestly think that one unsuccessful reconciliatory meeting would change everything. He was a cruel, vicious man with a smoking addiction, and he had over the years become a liar to continue the punishments, but he wasn't stupid.

"…Gunther, wait."

His boss looked at him incredulously. "WAIT?! Curtis, your father is bleeding to death, and-"

"…I don't think he is." Curtis said.

"What?"

"I think dad wants me home… but I don't know why?"

"You think he's bluffing? Barry was-"

"Barry" Curtis sighed, "is a liar, cheat, and asshole."

But why lie to Curtis about that? Barry had simple motives- looking good to others, getting rewards, and hurting Curtis.

Lying about a serious event wouldn't accomplish either of the former, so that led Curtis to his conclusion that Barry was trying to get him in trouble. Or hurt.

Or both.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and crouched down. "Drive by my house, tell me what you see in front of it."

Gunther blanched, but obliged. His brow furrowed after a bit. "…A black van, your car…"

"No ambulances?"

"No ambulances." He frowned deeper. "…That van doesn't have any license plates on it."

A dozen scenarios ran through Curtis' mind, none of them pleasant. He wasn't sure why his parents would lie to get him home, or why there was an unmarked black van in front of his home, but he wasn't in a hurry to find out.

"Take me back." Curtis whispered. "Get me outta here."

Gunther obligingly made a u-turn, pulling away from his home, taking them back to the barbershop.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Sitting in his own private office, located in his own personal stronghold, the person known as Sir Father sighed.

This was getting out of hand.

He had meant for his troops, his enforcers of order, to be ruthless in their pursuit of naysayers, but he wanted them to act covertly. Intelligently. Subtly.

And kicking in the doors of two targeted children in broad daylight did not fit into the category of subtlety. Yes, the Halgins kid needed to be taken down, and soon- the consequences of one overzealous agent's actions- but that did not warrant more stupidity.

And the Fox boy- the rationale for him being named a target was that his parents had picked up a brochure and then backing out- that should have never escalated into a raid.

He had to, at least silently, assume partial responsibility. He had been worried the new recruits would get cold feet when it came time to administer the punishments they were called to do, so he had prioritized driving them into a frenzy, increasing their morale, instilling a sense of vindication. In retrospect, he felt he should have focused on the finer points of subtlety.

On his computer he relayed the orders to the Rod and Whip's legal department, telling the lawyers to avoid bailing out the survivors of the two raids. They would serve as examples as to what happened to those who got careless.

Three other agents, however, were at the very least acting more intelligently. Harry was working on a troubled kid in order to get a research subject for the forced neoidentification procedure. Mary was after some hippie single mother who was a staunch advocate against corporal punishment. Riley… Riley had hit a goldmine. A church full of people sympathetic to their cause was a boon- they needed new agents and extra labor.

That left Calvin Halgins to be dealt with. The problem being that the boy had seen too much and wasn't afraid, wasn't hiding. Moreover, the paper he had heard about- decrying the methods Rod and Whip refined- was an offense he could not simply overlook. The boy had to be made an example unto the children of the nations.

Calvin would need to be taken alive, and relatively unhurt if he was to be useful to the cause of Rod and Whip- an annoyance, but necessary. That being accomplished, they could break him physically, mentally, or both, as the situation demanded. If he could be pushed to recant, publicly, then they would have a stepping stone to use. If not, then he was at least silenced.

Either way the boy would suffer- he needed to suffer.

The youth of today had such a problem with talking back to their elder superiors.