Revelator: The Hell of Heaven

By William Control

Here at the dusty finish line I stand, barely breathing and out of options. Possessed with rage and a violent streak so bloody that I disregard the imminent danger and go straight for the heart of those that took everything. An actor with a cold grin and a loaded gun, a new set of rules and the willingness to let go, ready to jump head first into the Ocean Misery, into the flames of my oblivion. Lucifer is there waiting. Let's see if he remembers my name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387189151

Book preview

Revelator: The Hell of Heaven

Revelator: The Hell of Heaven

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Second Edition

Literature, not scripture, sustains the mind and – since there is no other metaphor – also the soul.

-Christopher Hitchens

To Phineas

You are the best adventure I’ve ever embarked upon. Don’t ever lose your splendid curiosity, keep your wit sharp and take care of your mother when I am gone. I love you forever.

Prologue

All of us possess a little darkness, a shadowy reflection of negligence and failure marred by the hue of deep sadness and left in the shape of a sharpened knife. I would rather pretend that this grim confidence inside me doesn’t exist at all, but the reality is… I am just a liar and an actor with a cold heart and a loaded gun. This lack of illumination resides in every conscious and living human creature on this planet, whether we choose to deny its existence or not. I cannot turn back the sullied hands of time in order to eliminate the disastrous events of my past. Nor should I. My failures define me. They created me. They will be the End of me. The inability to give up control is the fabric of my catastrophe and I crave it entirely without any shame at all. Among the rusty nails and screwdrivers in the heavy toolbox I carry over my shoulder is a useful talent I picked up along the way: the ability to shut myself off from the sunlight, the agony, the common morality in this world, and forge ahead through the pain, the sorrow and the regret in order to reach my definitive destination. Do you think I am mad? I suppose that depends on how I go about defining the word in these dangerous and modern times. You answer yes? Well, you’re probably right. Here I humbly pen my experiences regarding true love, life, death, resurrection, insanity, drug abuse, sex, violence, vengeance, more violence, still more revenge and yes, more sex. Can verse or fable, song or dance, make the hardened and most callous of us jump from the diving board of sanity off the ship of Lady Disappointment and into the enormity of the Ocean Misery? Maybe I’ve come to find out. Maybe I’ve written this just for you. Conceived in the damaged neurons firing within my skull down to the nerve endings of my hardened prick and shot out against a white digital canvas here in the twenty first century. Strands of my silky DNA exposing a silhouette of the monster you might become yourself if you don’t tread lightly, breathe slowly and always remember that the choices you make are yours and yours alone, despite who shows up in the mirror after nine days with no sleep, plenty of pure Bolivian cocaine and the willingness to comprehend the truth.

What say you in the cruel light of my disillusionments? Am I a monster or a fool in love? Am I practitioner or a patron in the art of destruction? Would you have committed the same atrocities if you were faced with these sinister choices? Or would you have slunk back into the hole from which you crawled never to be spoken of again?  Was I wrong when I smashed that son of bitch in the face, sending his crooked teeth down his throat? Did I fail when my Continental was demolished into a smoldering pile of burning metal and terror? Could I have changed the aftermath and simply crawled back into the flames and ended up in the fires of Hell alongside my beloved Vivienne? I suppose I could have told Lucifer to take his Revelator bullshit and stuff it right up his burning asshole. But I, just like every single one of you, am fucking weak. I suffer pride and vanity, weaknesses of the flesh, the thrill of victory and not giving up despite my inept understanding of the world around me. I only wanted love, I wanted passion and I wanted it to last forever. Like a charming film written for an optimistic teenaged heart. But I wasn’t made for the popularity contest in this life. I wanted true love and to have that true and unfettered love returned ten fold. What more can a man desire in this world but the devotion of a good woman who is put in his path to protect and serve him? Money? Power? It’s fucking meaningless without love, without devotion, without honor. Oh my friends, this journey is far from over. This darkened corridor I’m stumbling down is wrought with danger, plastered with desire. The smell of sex and death up ahead draws me closer with a handsome melody, a sweaty cunt and the promise of closure. Curiosity will unquestionably be my undoing. Wouldn’t you agree? Could you beat a man to death with a metal rod meant for keeping someone’s legs spread apart while you fuck them? Could you laugh and sing while doing it? Could you walk through fire and pain and spit in the face of St. Peter and Lucifer, then live to tell everyone about it? Could you die a thousand times and still wake up angry and shaking from the endless bitterness suffocating your broken heart? Perhaps you could do just that, if you had the right amount of supplies to violate the Uniformed Controlled Substance Act.

I am not finished with you, dear reader. Nor am I finished wishing for a nuclear explosion to engulf the gates of Heaven and the depths of Hell. I am most certainly not finished with those who are responsible for the death of my beloved Vivienne and the resurrection of my everlasting hate. Every story must come to an end. Nothing in this life lasts forever if the right pressure is applied. So let us indulge in every delicious second of this existence while the breath in our lungs still permits us.

One.

I have been here before. The dust and grime and greasy pessimism of my former glory paint murals of fantastic demons dancing on the roof of a stone mausoleum. I’m gruesomely standing on the sidelines of a consciousness I cannot escape from, still waiting for a lucid reality to return and rear its nasty face. I realize that I’ve experienced this reality more than once. I’ve seen it, lived it, loved it, discarded it and then pined over it. Sanity, oh my sweet, sweet sanity, please come back. I beg of you. My loneliness screams without you. Failure, self-degradation and immolation are flying overhead like an ugly pack of loud, flapping crows, surrounded by the flames of a certain Hell we are all headed towards. I am mad with desire to undo the past, though I am truly at ease with some of the choices I have made. Sullen and saddened doesn’t cover the scope of my misery and yet I still feel the courage to carry on. The vigor of strangulation will help me endure and god dammit if I am not fueled by the hatred I feel for everything around me. Perhaps I feel too much. Too much hurt, too much regret, too much agony and sorrow. There’s too much of this crummy atmosphere, all of the time. The optimist within me doesn’t