The Digital Church

By L. Michael Grey

The Digital Church is a truly unique, apocalyptic sci-fi fantasy tale set in the near future, as the earth races towards an undiscovered black hole in the heavens.

The story's central character is Martin Henzel, a dark and cynical Hollywood underground artist in his late-twenties, who doesn't know who he is, where he's going, or why he's here. His nightclub world of alcohol and one night stands will come crashing in around him, when he goes on a date with his co-worker, Megan Jamison, whose rich and powerful father, Nathan, is involved in a plan to commit terrorism on a genocidal scale.

Martin suddenly finds himself being contacted by a bizarre spiritual entity that exists within the purple fire of nightmare visions, some of which are all-too-real, as the truth of impending genocide sees city after city around the globe methodically being destroyed. Ultimately, Martin will be forced to answer a deeply troubling question within himself: "Can you love?"

The future of the entire world rests in the balance of Martin Henzel's damnation or redemption as a violent roller-coaster ride of terror and emotion lands him center-stage within the towering walls of the last hope for humanity-The Digital Church.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595877935

L. Michael Grey

L. Michael ?Lizzie? Grey?s notoriety as a rock legend includes co-writing Motley Crüe?s ?Public Enemy #1? and rap hit ?Rainbow Bar & Girls?. Grey draws on his own experiences in the L.A. music underground in creating the tale of Martin Henzel and his bizarre redemption in The Digital Church.

Book preview

Chapter 1

RIGHT BEFORE YOUR EYES

It was hard to believe, but then everything was that you read in the World Reporter. It was a tabloid rag that featured news of the weird, the repulsive, and the supernatural, all aimed at useless morons otherwise glued to their television screens in the local trailer park on any given afternoon. Yet here it was in my hands. Today’s insanity du jour was the story of one Maxwell Zeus, a scientist who had made the ultimate connection. He claimed to have found a direct link to God, whoever that was, on his PC.

Yes, here was yet another glaring example of what happens to the delusion called religion, when you allow translation of its ambiguous instruction manuals from widely incomprehensible languages like Latin, Hebrew, or what-have-you into the deviant barking of the idiot masses. From the Catholic point of view, humanity had been on its way to hell in a hand-basket ever since. I had to agree with them, although for different reasons, and add to that my own observation that the speed of humanity’s descent was definitely on the increase. There was religion on every street corner, on the lips of every lying politician from Washington to Tehran, and in every terrorist bunker, with no end in sight to the violence. And now, God was on the internet, and the story was in the World Reporter. You had to laugh.

This guy Zeus was an astrophysics Ph.D., whose list of achievements, including a Nobel prize, made him seem almost credible and more than an anomaly in the World Reporter, where he shared the pages with the half-human pig baby and the woman from New York who kept her dead husband’s penis in her freezer. Prior to his discovery, he had been working for a research and development super-corp called E.Y.E.S. Unlimited. They owned or had a hand in practically everything, and operated think tanks around the globe, where geniuses like Zeus could spend endless time with unlimited resources coming up with new and better ways to explain the flawed universe and the fragile human beings who were so lost in it, claiming to improve both while turning a hefty profit.

It seems that while working on a program to develop some new space/time logic, Zeus had inadvertently broken through the most well-guarded barrier in human history. He had received a direct communication from God. So much for Mt. Sinai. The big question on my mind, however, was just what exactly this God of Zeus’s was communicating to him. The last thing America needed right now was some demented Rasputin running around in high places making the government even more paranoid and dangerous than it already was.

Listen pal, you gonna buy that thing or not?

Suddenly, my delusional musings were interrupted by a supermarket checkout girl, identified as Tina by her bar-coded nametag, glaring over at me. It was obvious that she, like so many others in post-911 America, cared nothing about reports of government conspiracies, lies about weapons of mass destruction, or the damage that dangerous fanatics like Maxwell Zeus could do to the already teetering Bill of Rights or to anyone misfortunate enough to come under the scrutiny of the NSA, the Patriot Act or the shoot-first-ask-questions-later military machine that had replaced foreign policy in the new millennium. What she cared about was some jerk-off in black gawking at the World Reporter and holding up her line.

Shit! What was I doing? Maxwell Zeus, the NSA, and God could wait. I was late for my dream-date with Megan. I’d already invested at least six months at Chartbuster, the DVD rental outlet where we both worked, of never-ending compliments on everything from her latest Paris Hilton-hairstyle to her retro geek-queen glasses, which secretly I wanted to smash into a million pieces. Worst of all, I’d agonized through at least three break-ups she’d undergone with her cheating boyfriend Kyle, before the inevitable finally came about. He admitted that he had another girl. Thank God for the other girl, whoever she was, and thank you, Kyle, for giving me a shot at a genuine masterpiece.

Megan

Her sea-green eyes conjured up visions of sirens, lovely and desirable, beckoning lonely sailors to their ultimate destiny. Megan. Her fragrant blond hair delicately falling about her delightfully swollen breasts, she had the face of an angel and a body that speaks only of deep, dark pleasures. Oh yeah, foolish Kyle had certainly let a precious gem slip right through his fingers in his stupid, macho quest for the next piece of ass. They say that no matter how beautiful any girl is, there’s some guy out there who’s tired of putting up with her shit. I found that impossible to believe about Megan. However, I found it very easy to believe about Tina the checkout girl, as she snatched the World Reporter from my hands.

Hey, I’m buying that!

Figures, she sneered, tossing it back at me.

It was an impulse buy, brought on by Tina’s unprovoked attack, but I decided that Megan might get a kick out of the rag along with a never-fails-to-turn-the-key-in-the-lock bottle of Cordon Negro champagne. I don’t know what it is, but that mysterious black bottle seems to contain within it some kind and benevolent genie, who has always granted me my wish. That evening, the wish was Megan, all mine if you please, courtesy of the Freixenet genie.

As I bid farewell to Tina, complimenting her on her rudeness, I gathered up my purchases and headed out into the warm August evening. The night air was alive with the kind of energy one senses before some great natural phenomenon. Perhaps Megan would look even better in silk lingerie than I had imagined. I breezed my way through the parking lot, towards my destiny, as overhead, the full moon smiled its approval.

Having said a short prayer to the god of piston rods and intake valves, I started the engine on my ‘67 MG Midget. First try, a miracle. Soon after, I was headed over the hill to Megan’s place. Her apartment was in the heart of the Valley on Coldwater Canyon just north of the freeway. I couldn’t understand why everyone was always talking shit about the Valley. All the hot chicks lived there, and you didn’t need to buy them a Mercedes to get them to sleep with you.

As I pulled up to the pristine, Spanish-style building, complete with rose gardens and a gently gurgling fountain, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast to my barren dump in Hollywood. Ascending a set of glistening, white-marble stairs, I nervously preened my spiked hair and keyed in her code at the security gate at the top. Megan’s voice immediately came online, and electric waves of lusty anticipation shot up my spine, as I pushed open the heavy, intricately-decorated, wrought-iron gate. Reaching her door, I knocked, and she immediately appeared, beckoning me into her bizarre, gypsy-tent world.

It was definitely not what I expected, even for the Valley, at least not this decade. The familiar scent of Megan’s intoxicating perfume mingled with jasmine and sandalwood incense to complete the silken-scarf draped scenario, at the center of which stood Megan, the Queen of the Gypsies herself. Never mind the trendy, designer gown that clung to her body with greedy fingers, grasping at every inch of her amazing flesh, or the sound of U2 emanating from the CD player. Megan’s beauty was from some long ago forgotten world, some ancient well, from which only the luckiest of men could ever drink.

Did you have any trouble finding the place?

No problem, I replied, glancing over at what appeared to be some kind of altar in the corner of the room.

I’m into meditation. It’s good for the soul, she explained, her eyes following mine.

Huh, I shrugged. No animal sacrifices or anything like that?

Only bad boys, she returned. But that happens in my bedroom.

Works for me.

Megan suddenly had a very sad look on her face.

I’m really looking forward to getting out, Marty, she sighed. Since Kyle, I haven’t done much at all. He really messed me up.

I can fix it, I assured her, wrapping my arms around her.

You’re so sweet, she whispered. But we were really close, or at least I thought. Oh, I’m sorry. I know the last thing you want to hear about right now is my relationship with Kyle.

No shit, I thought, but instead returned, I understand. When you’re with someone for a long time, you get used to them. And when they’re not there anymore ...

As if. I just wished Kyle’s cheating ass gone and forgotten and out of Megan’s thoughts at the earliest convenience, but I had to tread lightly. Even the Freixenet genie couldn’t fix things if they went too far in the wrong direction.

We’ll just go out and have a really great time. You’ll see. You’ll be just fine, I offered, as she slipped from my arm and I followed her into the kitchen.

What’s in the bag? she asked. Did you bring something to get me drunk so you could take advantage of me?

Yes. No.

Good, she returned. Break it out.

I knew there was something I really liked about this girl.

Subsequently, I released the mysterious genie from the black bottle, and within moments Megan’s lips and mine were pressed together in a champagne supernova.

Magic, indeed, I whispered breathlessly to myself, as she slid tightly up against me.

It was however, far too easy, far too fast, and I found myself pulling away from her, nervously directing her attention to the World Reporter that I had purchased earlier along with the Freixenet.

She seemed confused, and more than a little surprised, as she glanced down at the tabloid.

You don’t actually read that garbage, do you, Marty?

Of course I do! I retorted with mock seriousness. Doesn’t everybody?

Oh, I’m sorry, she offered apologetically, slipping out of my arms. It’s just that most of the stories in that thing are so, uh, strange. I mean tales of three-headed alien babies and Bigfoot sightings. It’s just ridiculous. I think a bunch of crazy people sit around in a room getting drunk or smoking pot or something and make that stuff up.

I know, I chuckled, letting her off the hook, as I considered that my reaction to her romantic fervor was as unlikely an occurrence as anything the kooks at the World Reporter could ever have dreamed up. Thus continued the now seemingly fitting discussion of things odd in the universe.

Check out this week’s headline, I began. ’Computer whiz reveals direct link-up to God.’ Is that wild or what? The implications are kinda scary considering all the terrorists out there right now, just waiting for a cue.

The guy’s just another crackpot, she scoffed. Besides, why would God want to appear on a computer? That’s what churches are for.

Yeah, I returned. But which church? Think about it. People have been killing each other for centuries over differences in religious beliefs. If there is a God, which I’m not at all convinced of, he hasn’t come around to set the record straight and put an end to the suffering. No, in a far more realistic picture of the universe as random chaos, God is a fairy tale explanation of existence for people who can’t handle the truth, that we’re all just momentary flashes of energy, with no heaven or hell, just an endless recycling of energy. That concept scares the shit out of people who don’t want to take responsibility for their own actions right here, right now. During the Crusades, Christians slaughtered tens of thousands of Muslims all in the name of a prophet who preached that people should love one another. That same kind of insanity is still going on, coming from everywhere now. When Jesus and Mohammad preached, I really don’t think mass murder was what they were selling. Killing in the name of religion is the worst kind of hypocrisy.

Well, I was raised a Catholic, Megan snapped. And even though I don’t go to church anymore, I won’t sit here and listen to you blame religion for the woes of the world.

She was serious, and I realized that I needed to lighten up. The truth was that I didn’t really give a damn about religion one way or the other. I blamed my sudden fixation on the stupid magazine and decided to resurrect the rest of the evening, as I took her back into my arms.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, I whispered. My parents were Protestants, but I’ve always believed in mixed marriages. How about you?

From blasphemy to marriage! Megan huffed, squirming in my grasp. I’m not even sure I want to go out with you, now.

Please, fair lady, the night is calling, I pleaded, in my best Errol Flynn, as I tossed the World Reporter into the trash. God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world. Won’t you join me and my faithful steed as we encounter Babylon?

The gleam slowly returned to Megan’s eyes.

Very well, fair knight. I’m yours for the evening.

Even God couldn’t stop the Freixenet genie when he was on a roll.

We strolled through the Spanish courtyard back at the entrance to Megan’s apartment complex, and I complimented her on the beautiful gardens. She seemed a little surprised. I explained that my cockroach-infested tenement on Franklin Avenue was, on any given evening, decorated with a few transvestite hookers and the discarded condoms of their spent Johns, not to mention the occasional garden variety winos sleeping with their paper-bag covered, backwash-laden bottles of Night Train. It was a harsh contrast to the beautiful, rose-covered gazebo in which Megan and I paused momentarily.

It’s bad enough that we work in Hollywood, she replied with a note of disgust in her voice. Why would you want to live there, too?

Late at night, the boulevard comes to life, and the freak show provides an endless supply of subjects for my art.

I plucked one of the well-cared-for rose blossoms from its stem and gazed at it for a moment, tossing it to the ground. Over the hill, you get a taste of reality that isn’t about real life at all, and yet is its essence. Lost souls chasing fame that will never come, wandering in the shadows of decadent suicide stars who only want more; it’s a unique kind of torment. You’re smart to keep your distance. Here in the Valley, you can pretend that you’re Dorothy back in Kansas.

Megan was silent. I stared down at the rose, now crushed under my leather boot, and found myself quickly gazing back up into Megan’s mystical, sea-green eyes. There was so much beauty there. So much hope. My dark revelation concluded itself in a fizzled and plaintive, But to tell you the truth, I’m getting kind of sick of Hollywood. I could live in a place like this, with someone like you, and maybe even a couple of kids.

Sounds like someone’s jade is cracking, Megan voiced almost sympathetically. There’s a price for living on the edge; loneliness and pain.

I suppose so, I returned, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her close to me. I don’t want to die without knowing what it is to love, to really love.

You have to believe in love to know when you’ve found it, she replied, seeing right through me, as we stood beneath the pale moon that barely illuminated the summer evening sky.

Something rustled in the darkened garden beyond, and I tasted the delicate flesh of Megan’s neck, as she shuddered gently.

What was that? she whispered.

Jade, I replied, as we kissed, and I began to realize that I wanted Megan in a way that I couldn’t really explain. I found it comforting to convince myself that I wasn’t falling in love with her.

Moments later we were walking through the front gate of her apartment towards the street.

This is your car, Marty? It’s so cute, she sighed, as I introduced her to Mowog, my four-wheeled companion.

Hop in, I gestured, slapping my hand on the heavily duct-taped passenger seat. Feel the power of 1275 cc’s of pure, British engineering wizardry.

I turned the key, but nothing happened.

Fuck, I hissed under my breath. Don’t do this to me, you English piece of shit.

Megan glared over at me.

Is this how you treat all of your faithful companions?

I avoided her eyes.

Patting the dashboard, she voiced, C’mon, Mowog, take us for a ride.

Yeah, right, I puffed, trying the ignition again. I knew that when things were fucked in this world, they were just fucked.

The tired starter motor miraculously spun into action, and the MG revved to life.

Megan beamed with delight.

All it takes is a little belief, and of course, a woman’s touch, she laughed.

I’ll be damned, I muttered.

Belief had never been one of my strong points.

We headed for downtown L.A., with the top down on Mowog. The cool, summer night air was exhilarating, and mixed with the effects of the Freixenet, gave the excursion a wonderful, dream-like quality. On the freeway, our hair was blown into chaos, but we didn’t care at all. The engine on the little British sports car hummed along in perfect harmony with the dream, providing pleasant background music that replaced the need for useless small talk, as we cruised eastward on the 101.

Eventually, we came upon the enormous towers that are the Bonaventure Hotel. Parking there cost more than the price of a long-overdue oil change on Mowog, but tonight it all seemed worth it. Megan and I walked hand in hand into the glass elevator that would carry us skyward to our final destination, the rotating restaurant atop the central tower.

As we entered, Megan looked right at home among the high rollers that filled the place. I, however, did not. My black-leather, spiked hair, and eyeliner, more suited to a night of decadence on Hollywood Blvd., was eliciting stares and sneers from most of the trendy corporate-types filling the place. For once, in my misfit existence, however, I really didn’t care. More amazingly, I didn’t hate them. I was at the top of the world spinning around and around with a girl from my dreams, and that was all that mattered.

The view was spectacular as we turned among the collection of high-rises that make up downtown L.A. The entire city twinkled off in the distance, seemingly going on forever in all directions. This was what I loved about L.A., the sprawling vastness of it. The City of the Angels was the place where anything and everything could happen, and did. Gazing at Megan’s intoxicating beauty, I was my own god, and L.A. my own personal universe.

We talked and talked through dinner and dessert. It was amazing that someone whom I had spent the last six or so months of time with at Chartbuster, engaging in everyday banter between stocking shelves and locating the latest DVD, was such a complete and total mystery to me. I listened, a surprised and captivated audience, as Megan exposed to me her real self, not the rental counter person going nowhere. This was Megan Victoria Jameson, the daughter of billionaire Nathan Jameson, who was this millennium’s version of Howard Hughes. He was a mysterious recluse, who headed one of the world’s most powerful international financial empires.

Megan was more than a little defensive, as she painted a picture of her infamous father as a simple man, who was wrongly portrayed by the press. He had worked his determined heart out, all the way from the dusty, cow town of Cash-ion, Oklahoma to the top of the corporate ladder in a steel and glass San Francisco high-rise. I watched intently the calm, sea-mist of her eyes become ablaze with emotion as she insisted that she, too, was as determined as her father to make her own way in this world, with her fortitude, and without Daddy’s money. This state of affairs completely stupefied the old man, and apparently angered him even more. Yet, I imagined that Megan’s prideful stubbornness must have also pleased him in a way, demonstrating that she was truly a chip off the old block.

I remained silent, as Megan told me of her mother’s death, and of her father’s terrible loneliness, as he hid himself away behind a veil of security in locations that even she wasn’t privileged to. I was shocked to hear about how her visits with him even entailed blindfolds and secret meeting places.

I had always envisioned movers and shakers like Nathan Jameson as skirt-chasing hedonists, who made the most of their lordly position in life. But as Megan continued, it became clear that he was just a crazy old man hiding from his paranoid delusions. She went on to assure me that she still phoned her dad every weekend and visited him when she could, even though she hated the ridiculous secrecy. I told her that she was doing the right thing, as it occurred to me that I had never been much of one for compassion.

After Megan’s startling revelation, my story seemed a lot more mundane, so I kept it concise. Martin Henzel—struggling underground artist and occasional poet, who paints scenes of decadence and desolation from the streets of Hollywood. Born in the lousy part of Santa Monica, near Venice. Never knew my father. Mother moved to Vegas and plays keno with her social security money. My future? What future?

Megan finally interrupted the lackluster revelation of my dismal roots in this world with a preachy, Marty, you put down everything in your life like you’re ashamed of it. You should be glad that you’re who you are.

Glorious self-affirmation, I retorted. It’s a lot easier when your old man’s a zillionaire.

Don’t be so jaded, she snipped. I’m glad that you’re who you are. Being able to create is a gift from God. Art survives death.

I don’t know any God, I countered. "God is just a fairytale. And death? There’s no art in it. Just an empty black hole in the universe, where the illusory colors of life get dissipated into gray nothingness, like tempera in a glass of water.

I’m sorry about your mother and your father, but there’s really nothing unusual about their suffering, once you realize what life is really all about. Even if there is such a thing as ‘God,’ he’s a brutal bastard, who gets a kick out of watching children being murdered in wars over oil, and terrorists perpetuating misery and death over stupid religion."

That’s enough! Megan barked. I believe that bad things happen in this world as part of a higher purpose, and that there is a God, both just and good.

That’s justification for just about any behavior, isn’t it? I countered.

Megan fell silent, glaring at me.

Then slowly a gentle glow appeared in her eyes.

Maybe God’s purpose for you is to be the father of a child, who will grow up to be a great leader and right all the wrongs of the world, she voiced softly.

You’re precious, Megan Jamison, I returned with a half-smile, feeling stupid for unleashing such dark cynicism on her, as I added, So, when would you like to get started on this baby thing?

She didn’t get a chance to answer.

Suddenly, an old man seated at the table next to us stood up and started screaming. He was pointing at something seemingly just outside the window, but when Megan and I both looked out, there was nothing there. I’d noticed that he’d had his nose pressed up against the glass for about the last fifteen minutes, but hadn’t thought anything of it, figuring that he was either a tourist or was just trying to avoid paying attention to his incessantly clucking wife.

Then, he started screaming, and the screaming turned into ranting.

It’s here. The Final Revelation! The Almighty has come to redeem the world through fire!

Now, everybody in the place was craning to see the cataclysmic vision that apparently only this old codger could see, as he remained the singular main attraction.

The moment of Judgment is at hand, he howled, his eyes glazed over and his skin a deathly pale white. Those who have not belief will perish, their souls damned to wander the universe in eternal torment. Accept Him now, for He is your Father. The Father of the human race.

I rest my case, I chuckled, pressing my face next to Megan’s. This guy is totally out of his mind. I hope he’s not armed. I want to sketch him. Do you have a pencil?

It’s not funny, Megan snapped. He’s scaring me.

He was scaring everyone.

Thankfully, the maitre d’ reacted with lightning efficiency in escorting the would-be evangelist and his shaken wife up and out of the restaurant. I tried not to stare at the spectacle as they moved past our table, but somehow I caught the old man’s eye anyway.

Instantly, he wrenched free of the maitre d’ and pushed his face close to mine, as Megan uttered a scream. He reeked of the scent of flowers, not bourbon as I’d expected, and his eyes reminded me of some of the worst overdoses I’d seen at after-parties, where losers had done lethal drug mixtures. There was something else though, deep in his stare, that sent a shiver down my spine. It was a purple glow that seemed to be emanating from behind his pupils themselves.

He spoke at that moment in an almost normal manner, the heavy reek of flowers wafting into my senses like I was attending a funeral.

You think you’re invincible, but you’re not, he voiced, his bony fingers clutching my arm. The Hour of Redemption is at hand, and you are the one who more than anyone must believe. You hold the key to the future. You must believe!

Get the fuck away from me, you old freak, I cursed, prying his hand off my arm.

Thankfully, my tête-à-tête with God’s addled messenger was interrupted by the flailing hand of the maitre d’ as his arm wrapped around the old guy in a classic L.A.P.D. choke hold.

Don’t! You’re gonna hurt him! Megan cried.

I’m sorry for the disturbance, folks, the obviously moonlighting bouncer returned, assuring us, We’ll get this man medical attention right away.

What’s wrong with him? his wife sobbed, as they made their way to the elevator and shortly thereafter disappeared behind its silent metal doors.

Moments later, as was typical for L.A., everyone in the place was back to the business of eating, drinking, and talking, the latter activity now electrified with observations concerning the incident that had just taken place. I could practically feel the roving eyes cast upon