The Iesus Deception

By Gene Laurenciano

What if Jesus is the anti-Christ?
What is the connection of a present-day murder in Las Vegas to the murder of the Presbyter Arius of Alexandria in 336 AD?
Who is the man referred to in the Book of Revelation as the Beast hiding in the number 666?
What is the connection of the Catholic Church to world disasters?
Who or what are the Society of Essence?
What is the formula for predicting storms even for a thousand years in the future?
What are the secrets in the mantle of Adam and Eve that was passed through the generations until it was made into the dreamcoat of Joseph? How was Moses able to predict the disasters that were to befell Egypt?
Who is the Red Horseman of the Apocalypse?
What caused the Dark Ages? The Black Plague? The Inquisitions? The two world wars?
How far would the Catholic Church go to protect a secret?
Why was Abraham Lincoln assassinated? Who controls the economy of America and the world?

All these and many more will be answered in my controversial novel The Iesus Deception.

It was the last case that Yed Bergen Sr. had to solve days before his retirement – the murder in Vegas of a man who had made fortunes in betting when the next storm would strike. He would be murdered as soon as he found a clue. The man who inherited the case would also be killed in the manner of the first two halfway around the world from Vegas. – his blood sucked out from his body, not to mimic a vampire prowling but as a warning to a certain clan,
The murder has its roots in the 4th century AD to eliminate a certain clan which could challenge the Catholic Church of the authenticity of the man they created from several pagan gods and a formula too powerful that it the missing variable to predict storms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Laurenciano
• Release date: Apr 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463506561

Book preview

Prologue

Murder in Vegas

It was a gruesome murder right out the pages of horror novels.

Nobody knew the man, not even the Filipinos in the neighborhood.

His passport said he was from Manila, and his name was Juan Ceventi, 47. They said he arrived here eight months ago and frequented bookie joints – betting for odds no one would ever conceive of. Those who heard him had thought he was an fugitive from a Ha!Ha! House. He could not speak straight English, only enough to be understood, which was merely a ploy. Juan Ceventi could speak 17 languages, including Dutch and Swahili.

Anyone can bet on anything in Vegas.

The bets Juan Ceventi put money on were to specifically foretell hurricanes and tornadoes within the neighboring States weeks or months before they occur. The bookie wouldn’t want to deal with the wacko. However, those who were around goaded the joint operator to take the bet and they gave the man a 70 to 1 odds after checking out from the weather bureau if they had detected a weather disturbance around the date specified, and as low as 250 to 1 approaching the date of reckoning as the words got around.

Ceventi had a wad of green bucks; it would be unwise not to have most, if not all of them. Somebody had heard that he was turned down by two other joints. The third joint took the bet – a hurricane will hit Vegas in two months time, while there was still no disturbance detected within the atmospheric agency’s radar.

It may not be moral, but it was legal.

But three weeks to the date of reckoning, the odds favoring Ceventi would increase; a disturbance would be detected, however the exact day it would be in the area of responsibility of the state could not be exactly determined yet.

That was when the betting closes.

The hurricane struck – on the day predicted by the man and his haul was $120,000.00! And it was just the first! He kept on winning after five more hurricanes and typhoons!

Ceventi was dead.

His corpse was prune-dry; every drop of blood was sucked out of his arteries.

A duffle bag of defunct presidents was found in his closet – untouched, still has the band of the bank they were withdrawn from. Senior Police Inspector Yed Bergen, Sr. ruled out robbery as a motive right away. Fine watches and jewelries were still in their boxes, untouched. There were several bottles of Dom Perignon, all good-year vintage that cost a couple of grand each that had been uncorked, and all sorts of goodies from guitar to silver spoons. Nobody heard any struggle and there was no sign of violence in the room.

Juan Ceventi can’t merely dry up.

Yed Bergen, Sr. would be retiring in three weeks. He knew that he needed more than that to solve this crime.

Book 1

The Crawling

Age of Darkness

Chapter 1

The society of essence:

Ekthor, the Goth

398 AD

The march was more mortal than the expected clash.

Ekthor could not fathom his order. Being a Visigoth commander, he had to obey. It was the biggest army he had to lead; most of the soldiers were barely in their mid-puberty, unpolished and raw, but all were hungry to prove their worth to the Fatherland.

It could be war.

That means, spoils – in terms of material wealth, slaves or concubines. Enough for everyone to be excited about!

Enough to motivate first timers to taste how it was to be like real men.

It could be plain looting, rape and slaughter. That would be better.

The objective was a small church in the East. The Far East, the land of the brave Türüks.

Ekthor had heard of that church. It was unlike the churches dedicated to the Roman or Greek gods or goddesses. There was nothing to loot there.

Perhaps they could rape the women and just satisfy their bloodlust.

It was only the tip of the iceberg, the clan leader had stated. If Ekthor was successful, they would raid and ransack a more prosperous temple dedicated to Bakkus. There’ll be plenty of gold there, riches and virgins raised for the annual sacrifices.

It was mid winter. The church was a week’s march away and the actual slaughter and pillage would be just in a few hours – or less.

"Take everything and divide them amongst you. But be sure to raze down the church and burn their scrolls and documents," was how he understood the decree.

The way he saw how it should be done was to kill everyone – men, women and children. He had also learned beforehand that there were travelers known as ‘Brethrens’ who frequently sojourn with the fellows in that church to bring news from the other congregations, sometimes pieces of silver to help the needy members.

At his time of the year, brethrens were all gathered in that place to pass off the winter.

They, too, should die.

To let them live would be allowing the news to travel to places where the sojourners feet would touch next.

The wind blew cold. Thanks to evergreens, they cheer even murderers’ heart.

Ekthor hugged the fleece coat more, the warmth he drew from it was not enough. The sun was about to set after a few hours of being up, not adequate to diminish even last night’s chill. He was seeing his breath turning to frost and falling like thawing icicles. The visibility was no more than a few arms spans from him and beyond was shrouded in smoky drape of the wintry weather.

There was a loud cry from a tent. It was suddenly suppressed, but he could still hear escaped plea. Ekthor leaned on a leafless tree, almost languid. He could virtually see it – the scene from inside the tent. He had performed several of those when he was just a lad – about fifteen summers old – a summer older than the boy who had screamed – the boy who had just lost a leg from frostbite and gangrene. He always had his tool for that -- a short, heavy, sharp broadsword. One blow and the amputation were done, quick -- almost painless. But the rotting was not guaranteed. That lad would be send home, so he won’t slow them down.

The lad had to find ways to get to the nearest settlement or die.

Ekthor could not do anything about it. It’s the law of the Goths.

The lad, being his wife’s brother, was not privileged for special treatment like the rest. He’d explain to her when the time comes – weave lies to tell her how brave her brother was.

It was always sad to be the first casualty.

There was a forced stillness; only the low bawl of the wind was there to nag him. Ekthor felt a warm streak of tear rolled down his eye, getting colder as it travelled and froze, joining the frosts that had congregated in the creases of his face and on his facial hairs, the tiny ulcer-like wounds in his chapped lips indistinct anymore, the warmth the solitary tear brought lingered a bit to melt with the icy numbness of his face. Then it joined the other frost on his face .

He liked that lad. He had seen him grow, raised him like his own kid brother.

What he could do to help was to give him a horse to make his chances of getting to a settlement they had passed by two days ago.

Tomorrow when he gave his order to march, he would promote the third man in his army as his second. His second man’s horse was well-fed.

Pagans are a bunch of family-loving lot. They’d do anything and everything for a family member, including the family of the persons that had been attached to them.

Maybe the lad could still make it and Ekthor wouldn’t have to lie to his wife…

The horse… It’s the only chance.

…and the second man always wishes that the man at the front of him dies or gets killed.

The darkness had spread; the camp was still.

Many evil happens in dark --

Ekthor inched his way towards Kumpu’s tent, fighting the howling blasts of icy wind. As he approached he could hear the snore of Kumpu. Good. He’s too tired and spent to know what fate had planned. Destiny is controlled by the man on the top or those who had been aiming to be there.

Better him than me.

His brother-in-law was a bonus.

Loot would be great – after that small congregation -- as the spy had reported. The third man – the man that would replace the second – would be grateful for the promotion. He could expect him to be loyal.

At least for sometime.

Until the ambition of being the leader badgered him.

That would be for awhile…

Under his belt was a Damascus-steel knife, ever bloodied with its dark veins. The next casualty would wet it anew – real blood it would be – not the intricate design tirelessly crafted by the iron smith and the knifemaker.

He swiped the flap of the tent.

A low moon shining from a slit in the tentwall revealedthe second in command in a vulnerable position – neck exposed and inviting. Ekthor unsheathed his knife and put a fist in the mouth of the Kumpu as he saddled him, clipping the victim’s arms with the powerful muscles of his legs.

Kumpu grasped for breath. The knife went up.

And down.

Many times.

Blood was splattering there about for every stab and jerk of the blade. Ekthor felt the warmth the crimson droplets splotched his frosted face, every globule felt, easing the piercing wintriness. It was good. It was hard to stop when a thing like this had begun.

Goths would do anything for their family.

Chapter 2

The catholic church:

Constantine and Athanasius

"It is proper that the Christians and all others should have liberty to follow that mode of religion which to each of them appeared best."

-- Constantine The Great,

313 AD

327 AD

The guard at the door was stymied when he saw the emperor and several soldiers in gleaming brass and hardened leather armor strapped on their muscled masses behind and in front approaching.

They were gladiators who had earned the trust of Constantine to be able to be around him. They were not Romans, but mostly of Teutonic ancestry – Goths. It was to avoid assassins sent by Maximinus Daia due to the on-going inconsistency with his new found religion with that of Gaius Galerius Valerius Maximianus or Galerius, the successors of Gaius Aurelius Diocletianus Augustus or Diocletian.

The guard was shoved aside by Constantine himself, unable to warn Athanasius, the esteemed guest occupying the most luxurious praetoriumat at the south wing of the palace. The soldier bent low, groveled. He was lucky not to be killed on the spot where he stood when he was too startled to give Constantine the proper courtesy accorded the Emperor. He groveled, murmuring praises, would not even lift his sight for an eye contact. At this point he was already dead; his life held in the hands of the most powerful man in the creation that a wave or the tiniest secret gesture would mean his head rolling away from his body. The guard heard the sound of the sword slightly unsheathed. For that mind-wrenching instant that could be his penultimate, the guard continued his murmuring praises, getting a tone louder at some words to accentuate both the sincerity of his exultation and the pleading for mercy, weeping for dear life.

The silence extended for another couple of seconds of eternity.

The guard squirmed to the foot of the Emperor, kissed it as he poured his tears to wet it. He cried. He peed and he could feel his stomach churning, bitter bile rising up his throat. He did all he could to suppress the heaving, the trembling of his flesh as his stomach reversed. If he puked on the feet of the emperor, his carcass would be minced and fed to vultures. It shook him; he needed some activity for his body to absorb the impetus. He couldn’t propel his arms to hug the legs of Constantine, for he was not worthy to touch his flesh. Instead, he pounded the marble floor with his bare hand, crying, his voice held to a choke so as not to be misunderstood that he was shouting, and partly to restrain the bile surging out. He whispered a plea to Apollo, to whom Emperor Constantine is known to pray to, to intercede, invoking his belonging to the Christian faith that the Emperor had generously poured his support to.

A sound broke his litany, the sound of the sword returning in its scabbard and the contingent marching in. The guard couldn’t stop the outpour of tears; mucus dribbled out of his nose and the peeing had intermittently shoot until his bladder was depleted. Like a floodgate, his puffed up cheeks burst. Yellow acrid fluid freely gushed.

Meto, the guard remained on all fours, unthinking, watching the yellow puddle expand as he heave out all that was in his stomach, spitting some undigested morsel from his last meal, then he collapsed in exhaustion in the fluid his body had secreted, teary eyed, as if every single drop of the juice in his body had been drained. He slowly rolled on his back, staring on the ceiling, blinking his eyes to squeeze away the pooled tears arms too enervated to wipe off.

Remaining in that position for several beats, the guard left his post. At that instance Meto had decided to live a life of a deserter. He survived the Emperor Constantine, but Athanasius would not think twice of not asking for his life because he failed to give the apt caution for the venerated visitor.

Meto staggered on the way out, gaining speed as his body and mind recovered from the certainty of death.

Athanasius was surprised.

His expression was shared by the preadolescents of both sexes that shared his ample bed and his privacy. The 29-year old deacon from Alexandria, enjoying the favors from Constantine for being so eloquent during the Council of Nicea, was startled just as the guard; his naked body petrified to the sudden fear; his lips muted, thick black hair disheveled on his swarthy face, beard dewed with his own drool. The strongest indication of the fear was his shrunken genital.

The girl was unaware of the happening behind her back for the party had entered in near silence, and she was concentrated in giving pleasure to the deacon. She was a thirteen-year old sheep herder from Brescia. The penis of Athanasius in her mouth, she exerted more effort with her tongue to get it back to its stiffness. If he didn’t enjoy anymore her services, she would be returned to Brescia to tend to sheep, or worse, send to the warfronts to give pleasure to sex-starved soldiers.

She kept on sucking and nibbling, panic rising. She wouldn’t dare stop because she hadn’t heard any bid from the deacon and she had yet to accomplish her to the head of the church.

Emperor Constantine saw this as sheer debasement to his presence. He spread his palm toward a soldier. The soldier handed him the imperial dagger. The Emperor clasped it, grabbed the poor girl by the hair, yanked her up and ran the sharp blade across her neck, slitting her throat from ear to ear. The face and chest of Athanasius were splotched with the girl’s blood.

The other playmates crawled away, their sight on the emperor and, similar to the guards, they groveled, too scared to even breathe. There was total quiet. One could hear the gurgling out of the blood from the sliced throat and its redundant dripping on the marble floor. There was an empty thump of meat on the floor when Constantine let go of the dead girl. He walked to Athanasius and wiped his bloodied hands all over him; the deacon’s genital further sunk in the foreskin analogous to a terrified turtle, the face masked with blotch of the rich, glossy life-giving liquid, which Athanasius did not dare dab off.

Constantine gestured them with a wrist fling and they, all Athanasius’s joytoys, scampered out of the room as quiet as mice and as orderly as disciplined priests. One of the soldiers dragged the cadaver out, and another wiped the blood on the floor with Athanasius’s robe he found at the foot of the bed.

Athanasius pulled a curtain off and wrapped his nakedness with it. They walked to a connecting room and settled on divans. A soldier closed the heavy door behind him, leaving the Emperor and the deacon to their privacy.

I had a dream, the Emperor preamble. I’m not speaking metaphorically. It was a dream.

What about it, my Emperor? Athanasius was thankful that Emperor Constantine was not after his death despite the blunder, but he wasn’t sure that he could forgive the guard outside.

That I will conquer the known world.

You already did.

But this is not about me. This is about Apollo. I shall conquer the world for Apollo. For the Sun! For the glory of the life-giving, unconquerable sun! An Empire for the sun I shall establish to last until the end of time!

To last until the end of time? How could that be? The empire is at rift –

This empire is nothing! What shall rise from it will be far stronger, far reaching, far influential, omnipotent! It shall be where the sun is and where the sun is not but shall be! From the farthest island in the east to way beyond the western horizon! It shall be in the mind – in the deepest recesses of the conscience of all people, most especially the weak and the desperate! Omnipresent! Apollo shall reign resembling the sun!

I-I don’t see how I fit in these schemes of things… I am a Christian --

First, order the burning of all the Arian books! It is a hindrance to my plan. Kill if you must, I just don’t want it spreading more than it had. I want it forgotten forever!

There’s not so much to it. Emperor Diocletian had them almost eradicated, and --

Because there is a grain of notion in those books and scrolls that would plant a seed of doubt in my scheme of things, Constantine gnarled.

But there are those who worship the sun in other names…

They shall remain, also the Greeks and the Roman –

How –

"Me, too, shall diminish Apollo. I want it the sun. In all its names. There shall be one name –

And Zeus…?

In my vision, Apollo shall have more power than Zeus. He shall be his son.

The deacon sniggered. It irritated the Monarch. Constantine slapped him. Athanasius was sorry. He hugged the emperor’s legs, slipping to his feet and kissing both of them, beseeching his absolution.

You’re very lucky that there is a miniscule part in my puzzle that you fit in. The emperor kicked the face of the deacon and paces, an orator gathering his thoughts.

Slowly, Athanasius rose, head remained staring down, a humble supplicant. When Constantine was in this mood, no one would dare make eye contact with him. It would be asking to shake hands with Death.

The eradication of the teachings of Arius of Alexandra will unite the Empire, Constantine stated, almost in a whisper, yet with malignant determination. Then, I will create a church… a church that will pay homage to all our gods and goddesses, to all the gods of paganism, from pre-Babylon to the end of time…

Your highness, permit me to express my mind—

Constantine studied Athanasius as if he was an uneducated pubertal that whatever he said would be immaterial, but it is only just to give the child a chance to speak his mind. Granted, he replied.

Christianity is getting much footage nowadays because you have bestowed them everything an assembly could ask for, you had restored their rights, liberties, land, dignity – aren’t your royal highness getting too generous to us that your highness is allowing our growth?

Instead of replying to the deacon, Constantine guffawed. The laughter was almost demented and Athanasius was scared, more than scared than the soldier that guarded his door.

You still don’t see it, do you…?

You have encouraged them – us -- by declaring that your conquest was a blessing from their God – That is something not easy to take back, your royal highness…

Instead of a clear reply, Constantine turned towards the door, trod and knocked, leaving the child to think for himself. The heavy door was pushed open by the soldier standing by outside. Constantine left.

Athanasius watched the Emperor, his shoulder shaking to the rhythm of his laughter. As the shadow of the monarch was swallowed by the gloom in that part of the room when the door had slowly closed, he felt his erection slowly returning. It was not anything carnal. It was for getting his life back.

Chapter 3

The present:

Juan Ceventi

The assassin was warned that the target – Juan Ceventi – was already in Vegas. There was no description of the target except that he boarded a Cathay Pacific for the Sin City.

That was all the assassin needed – the name and the place to start with.

Their kind had been tracking people that had a certain connection with Ceventi since the seventh hour of the civilization — more than 1,500 years ago. One of their more notable kills was the Presbyter Arius of Alexandria. It was a masterful assassination that was never solved.

The assassin picked up a readied bag the moment the assignment arrived. It gave the assassin immense joy to be practicing the craft once more. They live to kill.

The first destination was the target’s homeland. Nothing teaches an assassin about the target than the place the quarry grew up in. The immersion lasted for nearly 2 weeks. It was necessary to know the mind process of the target. When the assassin had gotten in the mind of the prey, the assassin could predict the objective’s next moves. When all there was to know about the target, the assassin proceeded to the kill zone.

All it took to further find Juan Ceventi was a little illegal access on the records of all Cathay Pacific flights from the time of the dispatch, two and a half months ago. Ascertaining the ETA, the assassin – from a bloodline of assassins of yore -- picked up the bag again and left.

*******

It had been like that since the assassin’s 18th birthday when the indoctrination to the fold was formalized in the bowels of the earth – somewhere in Rome, in the most hallowed place of all the holies, after hurdling tests in the training grounds in Palestine, Europe, the Middle East and Asia.

Before that, all the teachings were geared to tracking decoy targets and planning of the kill – that was on the first grade. And it was not easy to get to the first grade. A candidate had to hurdle a lot of tests, each of which was potentially enough to guarantee death if failed.

The assassination lessons were all theoretical during that grade. Scenarios were created to make the kill warn more potential victims—for only they knew that the trackers had not stopped searching them out to the last of their kind, to let them know that nothing had changed and the world is just too small for the both of them.

…A deadly cat-and-mouse game since the foundation of a very old empire.

Somehow the mice rear up its head. Once they did, they had already invited death and death shall salute them gladly.

Ceventi was not a practice job anymore, like many before him. However, they – the targets – had learned to be careful not to expose themselves; only their natural avarice would make their heads show up.

The assassin was tutored by an old uncle, an abbot in a secret monastery in Palestine. Though the clan that employ them had almost eliminated the targeted society during the two Great Wars, there was always that possibility that a few had escaped the fine sieves they had set for them. Ceventi was marked because of his carelessness, or somehow didn’t know the ethics of the society he belonged to. He had unknowingly exposed them in exchange for financial reward and the desire to get away from the place he was born and raised in. He did not only expose himself but also where some members of his society could possibly be hiding.

They would be the assassin’s next job.

First, Juan Ceventi, 47.

Ceventi was withdrawing his winnings when an old homeless bum drew near him. He gave the old, destitute man enough money for a week of descent food. The old man thanked him. A guy in a suit who saw the act of generosity also tried his luck to plead. However, with his wayward English, Ceventi rebuked him in front of the many bettors lining up for a boxing wager. It sent the message that he could not speak straight English, barely enough to be understood, which was a ploy.

Without giving the man a moment to redeem himself by returning the insult, Ceventi threw out a handful of bills, sending the bettors to a scramble. Ceventi walked in to a waiting cab.

The blow-out cooled down the man’s anger and joined the scramble for a bill or two.

A Honda’s muffler burst and followed the taxi in safe distance, going several extra miles on different routes, yet heading to the same destination.

The cab stopped at the retirees and pensioners row. Ceventi gave the cabbie a generous tip that slit his face to a wide smile. The cabbie furthermore offered to help Ceventi with his bag. Ceventi wouldn’t want the cabbie touching his things. He motioned him to go his way. The cabbie walked to his taxi, feet shuffling to the tune of an Otis Redding piece filtering out from one of the pads.

The rider of the Honda, the killer, went in a restaurant, ordered a bowl of salads and a can of Del Monte Pineapple Juice to pass the remainder of the day.

Tonight is the night. He had observed him long enough.

In the olden days, as was told by the Abbot of Death, the assassin has only to walk to Juan and slash him right out, explain nothing, say nothing and answer to no one for they are in the employ of the most powerful entity in the universe, or if the quarry was a high profile person, there were ways to make his death look like heaven’s justice. The empire has the world in its palm and no one would dare question a killer sent by the empire then. The most effectual method to kill a prominent target was to poison him.

The modern era brought a lot a changes, murders became accountability of the performer, the empire would not openly comment, or deny any connection, if ever a connection would go astray to the empire’s doorstep. Even though it is still the most powerful single socio-political organization in the world, it has to stay behind shrouds of holiness to distance itself to the covert works and black operations. It was no longer the time of Inquisition. Perhaps all the groundwork had been laid for a singular purpose too complicated for any mortal man to comprehend for it had taken the empire a couple of thousand years before it had spearheaded the resurgence of new knowledge, religion, philosophy, morals, politics, art and education geared to subjugate the world not with swords and spears, but with a symbol and mumbo-jumbo incantations they call prayers. They had permeated even the conscience. The next millennium was for mopping up the remnants of that society, to which Juan Ceventi belonged to.

The assassin thought that it was not fun mowing down a whole community. All the killers had to do then was slaughter wantonly – Inquisition was such a glorious period in their timeline! Now, they had to track, concoct plans, prepare the escape routes, kill and the clean-up group would do the rest. It was more challenging now, thus more fun.

A knock on the door pulled away Ceventy from a piece of mathematical computation he had been working on a grocery receipt, and tucked it in the hollow of a bamboo stem of a calligraphy brush, sealed it back like it hadn’t been touched before he answered the knock.

He went out his room in a ruffled silk pajama set, hair disheveled like he was laboring the whole day.

The visitor claiming to know his mother, and was a member of the congregation in which his mother belonged to, announcing good tydings and bringing a letter from the Philippines requesting the bearer to watch over her son, Juan, for it was the first time that his boy would be out of the country and would try his luck in a place far away from his home, explained through a gap on the door.

Some locks were unhinged after a brief peek in the peephole; the letter handed as soon as the slit in the door could entertain a hand.

The letter had a postmark from last week’s. The shaky, scrawny fingers of Ceventi carefully opened the flap, slowly picking it loose, almost with reverence. The bearer told Ceventi that he was not easy to find since there was no address mentioned in the letter.

Ceventi read, recognizing the penmanship of his mother – a legible, graceful script, tempered in the writing of records in the congregation of which she served as a secretary; his eyes flashed genuine happiness.

It was just lucky to find him here, where an uncle had directed, the bearer sighed, almost complaining.

Ceventi let the visitor in, who curiously eyed the things lying around the place.

Juan admonished the visitor to sit explaining that he was only being cautious of people he let in. Maybe in about a year he could afford the gated community where affluent Nevadans reside. The visitor sunk in a soft leather sofa, which legs were still in bubble wraps. Ceventi smiled as he disappeared behind a wall divider adorned with Japanese jars and ceramics. Ceventi fixed coffee for two.

There were a couple of watercolor pieces depicting children frolicking by the seashore on a hot summer day somewhere in a tropical country that could be either Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia or the Philippines, which the assassin admired. The visitor stood to read the name of the artist. Toti Cerda, 2007.

There were also indications that the large L-shaped pad was undergoing improvements. The place emitted glue and turpentine, the wallpaper were not professionally laid. Several more rolls were propped about up against a wall amongst cans of paint, brushes and power tools some still in their boxes. Plenty more boxes and shopping bags lying around. The assassin concluded that Ceventi was afraid of people finding out his instant wealth, which was very natural, thus he wouldn’t hire professional services. There was also a humongous TV, an elaborate audio system to simulate cinema experience, also some portions were still in bubble wraps. Two guitars, one electric and another of hollow shell, leaned on amplifier not far to an electric keyboard. There were also a couple of remote-control cars and a drone camera – also in their packaging.

The target is catching up with his childhood dreams.

When Juan Ceventi got back, he had a tray, newly bought, silver with ornate trim and brightly polished bronze handles that glitter like gold. The brew smelled of the finest Java; also a bottle of honey, which was still factory-sealed, and pieces of freshly baked cookies, like Ceventi had been expecting a visitor. He was learning to bake as he had been dreaming of, he confessed. Two silver tea spoons rested in the tray, these, too, looking like very expensive and could not be purchased from malls or way-side cutlery depots, but from jewelry boutiques or high-end antique shops. Ceventi also had changed his sleeping attire to sports tee and new corduroy slacks, appropriate for receiving visitors.

The assassin had spotted the target in several instances before this night, once when he had just won his second bet, following the first, which sent the alarm. The target wasn’t very much in the fashion. For several surveillances, the target was in his old, brown corduroy pants, faded and threadbare at some places, and a varsity jacket of UNLV, probably from a thrift store or courtesy of the Salvation Army. He was also wearing a rusted steel-rimmed glasses then, old design that had seen several resurgences as the famous wearer to which the circular lenses was attributed to, who oftentimes issues recycled materials and gets another confirmation of immortality even when more than thirty-five years dead previously. The assassin had formulated the idea that the quarry preferred being comfortable in old clothes than getting new ones. His hair was graying then; the pug nose over thick Malay lips bore the devastating effects of adolescent acne -- very different from his spotless countenance of today; the sad story written by juvenile pimples totally expunged. A clear face had the confidence for that radiant smile. Money even changed the skin of the possessor.

Ceventi, then, was in Chuck Taylor -- the rubber toe caps, yellowed, and stray yarn loose from the edges piping trim -- when the second winnings was hauled in. Maybe a lot of money had convinced him to adapt to the times or to shed off that shabbiness he had grown up in.

The expensive sports t-shirt still looked like a cheap curtain that hanged on his 5’7" slender frame, face cleanly shaven, gaunt cheeks that moved when he ground his teeth seemed a pair of un-skinned robot jaws that were powered by a perpetual energy source of small wattage, and the uncombed hair was in place and black. So black and shiny in fact that it was almost blue. The darting dark brown, small mole eyes now shielded with gold-rimmed signature glasses remained darting around with suspicion, and the feet were inside soft Italian leather slippers.

Ceventi smiled again seeing the visitor admiring the artworks, the smile one bestows to a family friend who he could talk to and stroll with. His teeth all even and white, from yellowed stained set he had before; the assassin had somehow gained the thrust of the target. Ceventi had bragged of owning a Ruger pistol for protection.

The assassin returned the smile, un-slung a bag, reached for the coffee and sat back in the sofa, but gave an empty expression upon the mention of the gun as if the target had suddenly spoken Greek. Ceventi sniggered, showed off the pistol. The assassin reacted unfavorably and Juan Ceventi quickly replaced the gun back in its hard-plastic, foam-lined safety box.

You won’t be able to use it, the assassin mused.

After nearly an hour, the visitor walked out of the door, rambled to the next block where a motorbike was parked. The motorbike was the small, old 125 cc Honda. About eight or so years of abuse was all over it, and somehow there were signs that remedies were applied to the havoc of time. New decals were over the old, rusted nicks and scrapes were painted over, the leatherette seat was patched nicely with the same color but of different material. It looked like the kind of bike that was bought second hand and given another chance to roam the streets without getting hauled in by a passing garbage truck while it is parked. However, those were not for any cosmetic purposes, more to hide traceability. The license plate was also altered – from out-of-state, bought from a Latino street gang.

The moon as the lone witness, saw the rider went straight to the seaside, thoroughly wiped the bike of any prints, set it afire – the chassis and engine markings pre-erased -- and dumped it into the sea. The battery, carburetor and detachable engine parts with serial numbers were also unfastened, to be chucked elsewhere.

Chapter 4

The society of essence:

Slaughter

Ekthor stayed all night in Kumpu’s tent, occasionally going outside, to the pergola, the designated mess hall area, dropping something in the vat of meat marinade in saline solution. He would jumble the pot with those of horses’ meat – horses that were too tired to go on and those that died in the freezing winter -- with those of parts of Kumpu’s. The salt from the sea water had tenderized the tough meat – one wouldn’t notice that there were chunks too tender to be of a horse’s. Ekthor had peeled away Kumpu tattooed appendages and torso. One wouldn’t notice that some chunks were skinned.

They needed all the sustenance they could get. Horses were too valuable to butcher at this time of the year, unless they died or too sick to carry on. In war, horses were oftentimes more valuable than men.

Their supplies were to last only to the first destination – projected exactly to the hour of the assault. To date, they were two days behind schedule; supply had been overly stretched. There were two horses that expired, still won’t fill the almost six hundred starving juveniles.

The people financing this campaign were too frugal, and Ekthor had mused the reason earlier that the men behind this wouldn’t want to spend more than the initial expenses because the raiders would have too much of a reward every each foray. They would all be rich beyond their expectation if they remained alive in the duration of the campaign – or if they opted to retire. Each one of the young combatants had been promised to have adequate possessions for their old age that they could have the vineyard as far as the horizon if ever they decided for that, aside for as many concubines they fancied.

Valid enough.

Long before the sun had a glimpse, there was not a trace of Kumpu left. The soil had been overturned to cover the blood that Ekthor had spilled when he drank directly from the open wounds of Kumpu.

The hot fluid of life was warm in the mouth down into his stomach. He could feel it in his lungs, invigorating, had the right sweetness, saltiness and viscosity. The warmth spread in his body better than the strongest wine he had tasted, almost offsetting the bitter embrace of the cruel winter. Ekthor had a favorite human part – the heart. He ate Kumpu’s heart raw, wrestling with the suppleness of the organ. It tasted almost sweet; the juice exploding in his mouth in every bite. The stained clothes were burned to keep the night fire going so the horse in his tent would be comfortable. He also let his horse to drink some blood from his helmet. The steed suddenly was restless, hind legs kicking. The horse had a long way to go.

Returning to his wife’s brother’s tent, he carried the lad to Kumpu’s tent and mount him on the horse. Without any spoken word, he sent the horse on the way back to their home, seeking the blessing of the guth he usually prayed to.

Ekthor returned to his tent after the last pound had been mixed in the vat and the horse had disappeared in the curtain of mists. He bundled up and slept soundlessly like a man with the purest of conscience. A couple of hours from now, the camp would be lining up the mess area for some grub.

Kumpu would not be missed.

The smear of red tinge of dawn failed to add cheer to the metal gray winter sky; the wind was colder and still howling -- a dying whimper of a sick hyena. Activity outside was starting; aroma of boiled carcasses spreading, inviting the most vicious animals to converge into the mess area. It was surprising that the warriors had the discipline to line up and wait for their turn with their eating kits to be slopped with their share without clawing at each other. Some graces of culture had so far tamed them to that extent, nevertheless it was not voluntary. Strict imposition of camp laws and a common objective to slay and plunder together were to be credited for that, or a shortage of anything would have triggered their murderous hearts to riots

The march was slow at first. Some members were checking for the condition of their weapons as they advanced, some were still having their breakfast from receptacles of metal or leather or from their helmets. The carts of supplies kept its stride with the throng, the earthen vessels wobbly for lack of filling. Ekthor let the pace as it was, picked up speed on the tenth hour; the emerging sun’s rays on his brow, yet the chill of the winter was as cold as their souls.

A mountain and a hill separated them from the objective. The next stop would be the valley of the congregation. On high noon, they had reached the top of the mountain where they could observe the activity from below; the hill was an ally, concealing them. He bid his followers to be as invisible as possible, minimizing movements that would mark them against the