angryjew

A fictional tale (of course). All characters here are fictional. Any resemblance to any living persons is purely coincidental… heh…

The show was planned for Friday night in Jerusalem. Specifically. That was when the targeted audience had off from school or work the next day. And for three atheist black metal bands steeped in demonic lore, there was the additional delight of breaking the Jewish Sabbath in the city where a remnant of G-d’s presence still dwells, from where the forces of light and holiness spread out into the world.

According to ticket sales, they expected to have a decent showing. But little did the bands know about the whole other crowd they’d be drawing.

Jerusalem may have had a significant secular population, but the ultra-Orthodox Jews, or haredim, were the majority of residents (besides the Arabs) in this small piece of hotly-contested real estate. And they were so desperately sick of the constant desecration of the Torah, G-d’s word, on His terrain.

Loathing consumed quite a few of them as they contemplated those who so glibly soiled their city with irreverence and disregard. Tonight, the delicate balance would be shattered, and the godless ones would know just to whom Jerusalem belonged.

The three bands pulled up to the venue opposite a shopping center that was already deserted in honor of the impending Sabbath. For some strange, mystical reason, they arrived concurrently.

One man from each band debarked from each vehicle and walked towards the door.

The bloated, bald-shaven drummer of Tzoya Rotachas tried the handle, but to his consternation, the door was locked.

“Pizdets,” quoth he, as his overgrown belly quivered in agitation and sweat glistened from his dome of chrome.

“We’re late,” muttered the heavyset, acne-spotted, babyfaced and sparsely Brillo-chinned one called Nazi, who had taken on the nickname of one of his favorite vocalists. He was the guitarist of the band Excision. “Why isn’t the door open?”

The lanky vocalist of Supermodel, whose dull, sometimes crossing eyes belied a curious mix of arrogance and stupidity, remained with his usual expression of “Duh” plastered on his vacuous mug.

The three turned around towards the cars when suddenly, a mob of haredi men, maybe forty strong, topped by black hats and yarmulkes, surrounded them. Baseball bats, box cutters and one particularly large and frightening individual grinning and grasping some rough, fibrous rope struck blatant fear in the hearts of the three, hearts usually empty of anything except arrogance.

Their mouths gaped and closed like pathetic beached goldfish as they watched the cars of their purported friends speed away while being pelted with rocks by their attackers.

The black-frocked mob circled closer and closer around the three until they were huddled shoulder-to-shoulder.

“You should have been more careful of whom you called friends,” smirked a barrel-chested man sporting sideburns and a Borsalino. “Look at your music buddies, how they left you here to suffer and die alone.”

The stench of human excrement filled the air as the tall, skinny one lost control of his bowels.

“Aw, poor baby,” cackled the insane-looking one with the rope. He and two other men quickly bound the hands of their prisoners.

“Let him sit in the smell of his own stink,” growled a particularly ferocious looking Hasid from under his black, bushy beard that reached to mid-chest. “The coward deserves no better.”

A short, burly man grabbed the bald one and two others assisted to quell the latter’s attempts to escape. “Let’s hear what the Seer has to say about him.”

The throngs of black parted to allow a small, frail old man in a white kittel to limp through on his ornate cane. As he neared, it was evident that his eyes were almost completely milky white, though they gleamed with strength, purpose and wisdom.

Hurling epithets in Russian, the drummer was deposited none-too-gently at the feet of the Seer. The Seer, without using his hands, drew the drummer up to eye level. His piercing gaze blasted frigid light that seared through the drummer’s skull and caused him to drop to his knees on the ground and clutch his head, screaming a high-pitched wail of agony.

“Do you know what pain is?” hissed the Seer.

To the shock of the other two, the drummer answered in monotone, as if he was hypnotized, “Pain is knowing what I was meant to be and who I have instead become.”

The Seer nodded. “You pine for fame and glory as you desecrate the name of G-d, who you mock and despise. But you despise yourself. You numb yourself through alcohol, but still, you know the truth.”

“I know nothing,” shouted the drummer, and then howled in agony as the light returned, surrounding his body, drenching him in the freezing liquid nitrogen hell of lost faith.

“Let him go!” yelled the one called Nazi, struggling against the scratchy fiber that cut into his wrists. That earned him a sharp kick in the back from one of his tormentors.

“Dare you make demands of the Seer?” he thundered in rage, kicking Nazi again, who grunted like a wounded dog, and then all was silent as everyone stared at the drummer.

The light that first burned through the drummer’s soul was now entwining around his legs, freezing him to the spot, pulsing with cold enmity like a living snake of ice. He stared in shock at his lower body, and then passed out, held from falling by his supernatural prison.

Nazi began to struggle again as the charedim hauled his panicking carcass up from the ground and dragged him to the feet of the Seer, who was still turned to the drummer, perfecting the last touches of his phantasmagorical work.

“Don’t! No! Don’t!” Nazi sobbed. “My father is a rabbi. Think of how he would feel to know what is happening to me!”

The Seer whipped his ancient frame around to snarl at Nazi, “We should have pity on him while you do not? You who breaks his heart by your every action and your denial and apathy of everything he stands for? How can we hurt him any more than you already have?”

The acne on Nazi’s face became a lot redder in comparison as his skin paled nearly marble white in fear.

“My students,” proclaimed the Seer, raising his wrinkled hands to the sky, “I will not waste my powers on this repulsive one, who is worse than his friends for he knows what he has thrown away. It is said in the Haggadah what one must do to a wicked son.”

The charedim snickered as the ones holding Nazi began dragging him to the side of the road, to the curb. Nazi again struggled with all his might but it was to no avail. They pushed him onto the ground and forced his mouth open, making his top teeth bite the curb. Then, a small, wiry hasid walked calmly up and kicked him square in the back of the skull.

The crunch of broken teeth and vision of blood and teeth spewing across the sidewalk sent paroxysms of fear into the last of the unfortunate rock-star wanna-be’s , fear which exponentially intensified as they hauled Nazi back up and slapped him hard in his screaming, swollen face, his mouth toothless and gaping. As the infernal light wrapped its way around Nazi’s legs and trapped him in its cryogenic bonds, the Seer then turned to the Supermodel vocalist and his wizened face contorted in disgust…. (to be continued - check it HERE )

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