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Church mulls over the legalism of Israel
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The Auto 9.
Cary Church is voguish as he lounges cross-legged in the figure four style upon a lavender armchair. He is depressed, for life's load bears heavily upon his shoulders. Devastated gray eyes strain tiredly at some faded mental vision of himself that keeps him going.
Meant for the destruction of Satan's citadels, an Auto 9 machine pistol lies in his right hand. The tailor-made gray flannel suit and white shirt he wears are merchandise he was laden with by the woman of his dreams, taken from her store of abundance.
The left hand habitually holds a glass of gin. Depleted to its last drops, this goblet is a doppelganger for a cup of the devil's unwarranted wrath which he drained to the dregs. Now he finds himself in a state of alcoholic and soulish "drunkenness".
"My companion Israel stopped listening to reason a long time ago. Too long he's stopped using his faculties, purposefully so, making a point of not turning and being healed from his lawwwss. I think I've dissociated...hardened myself really to this whole unsavory business." He murmurs to no one in particular.
"How long?" Cary then pointedly asks the Lord Zhǔréngōng.
Crimson light from a horde of candles pervades the motel room until it bleeds into the night outside. This is a luminous parable for the many wounds he imagines hemorrhaging inside him.
Israel's rejection has wounded Church.
A rapture occurred and he believes all is lost, with the healing clouds withholding their rain so to speak. Nevertheless his Lord answers:
"It's already done. I never left you nor will I ever forsake you Cary. Nations journey towards Israel's light and kings to his radiance. I got you both through this pain."
Darkness grips a Jerusalem infused with the hypnotic sounds of high drama. In this day and age the once postmodern capital of Israel is now an eerie facsimile of Goff's Generic City.
Benjamin Israel sits motionlessly for a long time, his hands clenched on the steering wheel of the customized 1949 Buick he finds himself in this stormy night. In the backseat is the unseen light of the world, Jesus.
He relaxes his troubled grip and exhales. Finally letting go of the wheel altogether. Holding onto it gives the same decaying comfort as the throes of a life ruined by liquor.
What would his companion in the back, a man he's traveled with constantly, have him do before he intervenes in this plight?
He swore oaths to Israel pledging his guidance, healing and in due course a revelation of glory.
Israel, whose heart is rent, feels as though those words were uttered eons ago. However, he can still sense compassion coming from the God man.
Thunder rolls. Out of the blue Jerusalem transforms into a rectangular mural submersed in navy blue luminescence. It's every feature highlighted in this fresco as if by a gifted yet demented artist's brushstrokes; strokes that are raindrops, lightnings flashing from an unwelcoming sky.
This superhuman artist's display drowns in tonight's deluge; its water rises to Israel's neck. In his limited field of view the Israelite begins to feel trapped.
Laser-like rows of ivory light then overlay the image, breaking the spell.
With a shudder he recovers, muttering curses at the unseen foes behind the illusion.
Glancing at his wristwatch, the apostate is convinced Church won't arrive in time. He decides to do this by himself.
"I should've just agreed with his endless sermonizing." he muses bitterly.
"This car, goodness the car." the Israelite sighs, attempting to hold back waves of emotion.
This car's saga is indistinguishable from that of the Law. It has truly served its purpose and is antiquated. He never could master driving it anyway.
"Somehow the Buick carried me all those horrid years."
A draught whistles against its damp windshield and the Lord whispers: "I am with you."
Gritting his teeth he takes hold of a Tommy gun lying on the passenger seat. Against better wishes, he often lets it do the talking.
Lethargic thoughts move about his head, remembering the tribulation Jewish peoples have endured in this "dark" age. He decides on one thing: This car he's been driving in all these years will not do.
"There's freedom out there, somewhere in that mess. I'll place myself in the arms of the Almighty's Son. Cary, God bless." he confesses this aloud, submitting to the covenant he always rejected.
"You shall not abandon me to Sheol."
Following a lingering gaze toward the vehicle's rear, the front door is opened gracefully. He steps outside, habitually pulling a faded beige trench coat tighter round himself to lessen the chill.
A radiance that is alive with revelation has immersed the drenched backstreet. It bathes everything in turquoise fluorescence.
The words "Mosaic Law" are symbolically imprinted on the Buick's number plate. This fluorescence envelops the blue-gray automobile, revelatorily affirming the fact only one person ever managed to drive it properly (Matthew 5:17).
The storm is abating. All around, their voices emerge out of the yet steady drizzle. Akin to the whispers of devils they taunt him, barely discernible from the rainfall. The Enemy's henchmen, sentinels assigned to scrutinize and subdue his spirit all these years. The accursed beings are in gun sight.
They posture arrogantly in soaked black trench coats and Homburg hats, enjoying this rain of theirs whose function is illusion and the clouding of one's mind. Their faces bear hideous grimaces matching vitriol coming from their mouths.
God fortifies him, thus its bearable.
To Israel's amazement, his hands clutch the sacred weapon he's heard so much about.
"The Sword of Dios, this is the armament that tore down Satan's strongholds."
The legalism he took pride in suddenly appears so futile in comparison to this newfound favor.
Unbeknownst to him his venerated ally halts a few steps behind, watching the spectacle. Jesus is the light-source flooding this whole locality. Staggeringly fair in delft blue overcoat, clean-cut with textured crop hair, he is untouched by the water dripping from his son's beard, which is as white as lamb's wool.
In a resonant voice the foreboding Monarch says to Israel: "It wasn't through the law, but by grace that you were saved because of your faith in me. These weapons they formed could not overcome you son, this fight was won a long time ago. Your victory is manifest."
Courage stirs in the creases of Benjamin's once handsome face. Then the IDF General's glowing blade flares in an emission of blue fire; the beings before him fade away then as if they were never there.
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