From: noahidebooksforever@gmail.com   
      
   Hank Jones - Monster     
      
   ‘Tell me,’ began Sebastian Ford.  ‘Living in this cell.  Does it feel   
   like home?’   
      
   ‘Your curious wit,’ began Hank Jones, ‘Is beneath you, Sebastian.    
   Still, the intellectual capacities ingrained into you by the dimwits above you   
   shouldn’t really surprise me.  You’re a cop, after all.  Aren’t you   
   Sebastian?’   
      
   ‘A servant,’ commented Sebastian Ford, from the other side of the glass,   
   glaring at Hank.  It was not a glare of respect.  It could never be that.   
      
   ‘One questions just who you serve.’   
      
   ‘The people,’ responded Sebastian Ford, the bible held steadily in his   
   right hand on his lap, staring down this devil.   
      
   ‘The people,’ mocked Hank, smiling dementedly.  ‘All for the love of the   
   people.  $450 a week, after taxes, a modest home, forgive me.  Unit.  A wife   
   who won’t give you head like she used to.  A cocaine addicted son, and a   
   prostitute for a    
   daughter who tells you to go fuck yourself and your damned Christian church.    
   I mean, you have found faith?  Haven’t you, Sebastian?’   
      
   ‘I’m not married,’ commented Sebastian Ford.   
      
   ‘No.  I didn’t think so,’ said Hank, staring at him from his dark   
   solitude.  Staring at his adversary.   
      
   Sebastian held the remote control upwards, and pointed it at the box in the   
   cell.  The volume came up a little.  Benny Hinn, today.   
      
   ‘Pentecostalism,’ commented Hank cynically.  ‘The heart of your   
   evangelical world.’   
      
   ‘Jesus forgives,’ said Sebastian Ford, born again member of the   
   Pentecostal Church of the Living God.   
      
   ‘Jesus,’ said Hank.  ‘When I was a lad, I came to terms with him.  I   
   liked him,’ he said, with the slightest tone of crudity on the word liked.   
      
   ‘Jesus loves you,’ said Sebastian.   
      
   ‘I never met him,’ said Hank coldly.   
      
   ‘Jesus knows everyone,’ said Sebastian Ford.   
      
   ‘The power of the divine.  If it really exists,’ the same crudity on the   
   word really.   
      
   ‘You welcome hell?’ queried Sebastian.   
      
   Hank stared at him.  He was a psychologist.  Cold, hard, clinical.    
   Atheistic.  Hell, now.  That was a fantasy for grown ups, wasn’t it.   
      
   ‘Tell me, Sebastian.  In all your Christian virtue, do you still get a hard   
   on?’   
      
   Sebastian remained silent, not commenting.   
      
   ‘Does Miss Atkinson come to you?  In your dreams, Sebastian?  Does she touch   
   you, there?  Were you want her too?  Does she, Sebastian?’   
      
   ‘I don’t see a need to talk about Christine.’   
      
   ‘Christine, is it, Sebastian.  Now why doesn’t that surprise me.’   
      
   Silence came over the cell.  There seemed, at that point, an emptiness in the   
   conversation, which seemed wanting to cascade into a fierce heated debate on   
   the person of Christine Atkinson.  A person held very, very , dear.  To not   
   just one of those    
   present.   
      
       
      
   ‘Christine is a fine agent.  The FBI are proud of her.’   
      
   ‘Proud enough to touch her, Sebastian.  To touch her, there.  Against   
   protocol.  Against policy.  Or does your ‘Jesus’ virtue deny your dick,   
   Sebastian?  Does it?’   
      
   Sebastian said nothing, clutching at the King James Bible.   
      
   ‘Christine is a good woman,’ said Sebastian.   
      
   ‘With a vagina,’ responded Hank instantly.   
      
   Hank looked at his opponent.  ‘Do you dream about that?  Do you Sebastian?    
   Miss Atkinsons Vagina?’   
      
   ‘I knew you were a serial killer.  I didn’t know you were also a leech.’   
      
   ‘Forgive me, Sebastian,’ said Hank, somewhat apologetically.  ‘But you   
   are only human, aren’t you Sebastian.  Only flesh,’ he paused, looking   
   upwards, before returning a dreadful lustful gaze, saying, ‘and blood.’   
      
   Sebastian Ford stared at the face of evil, pointed the remote, turned the   
   volume up to maximum, and left the cell of Hank Jones, the demented face of   
   evil looking dispassionately at Benny Hinn on his Indian crusade, before   
   looking away.   
      
   *   *   *   *   *   
      
   ‘Maybe he’s right, Sebastian.’   
      
   Sebastian clutched at the bible.  ‘It’s not a crutch.’   
      
   ‘Religion.  It’s hardly our profession.  We’re serious men.  University   
   men.  We know better.’   
      
   ‘The higher power.  It….’ He left off. ‘ It did something in my life.   
   At that altar.’   
      
   ‘Or you wanted it to.  To justify yourself.  To tell yourself, your   
   Sebastian.  You’re the good guy.  Hank is the evil one.  You’re a saint,   
   he’s a sinner.’   
      
   ‘Moral relativity?’ queried Sebastian.   
      
   ‘Scruples are not good for our profession,’ Sebastian, continued his   
   therapist.  ‘A higher power?  I mean, is that really relevant?  For men like   
   us?  Does that matter?  A hole, in your heart.  A yearning, which needs love,   
   affection.  That lies    
   there, and that King James fills it.  But we leave it in the end, Sebastian.    
   We get the hell over it, so to speak.’   
      
   ‘There’s something there,’ murmured Sebastian Ford, clutching even more   
   strongly at the leather bound tome in his hands.’   
      
   The doctor looked at his patient.  This didn’t surprise him.  Nervous   
   breakdowns were common.  He, himself, was deistic ultimately.  A higher power   
   explained his own questions, but it was not the focus.  Morality was inherent   
   in the design.  The way    
   they had come to be.  But obsession over it, in this doctor’s eyes, had   
   ruined more souls than it had ever saved.  Souls who had been upright citizens   
   of their country, lost on obsessions of puritanism, a drug that had infested   
   his nation far too long.   
      
   ‘Get the hell over it, Sebastian.  Life goes on.  Whatever you think you   
   need in that book doesn’t matter that much in the eyes of eternity.’   
      
   ‘Then what does?’   
      
   The psychologist remained silent.  He had answers.  Sebastian needed his own.    
   He offered a thought, though.  ‘Whatever is out there, Ford, in the end,   
   scum like Hank Jones will get what is coming to them, and good guys, like us,   
   well….. Well, if    
   more is to come, then so be it.’   
      
   Sebastian nodded, coldly.  But, yeah.  Whatever it was.  Whatever was at that   
   altar, he would let it be now.  He served a purpose.  He served a point.  If   
   he really needed faith, then…….Well all in God’s good time.   
      
       
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)