Man of the Glock!

“Man of the cloak! Meet the man with Glock! You’re going to pay for what you’ve done. You pig! Filthy Pig!”

The hypocrite was sweating profusely. Maybe I didn’t even have to blow his brains out. He’d probably drown in a pool of his own sweat and fake tears. Maybe also urine? Had he shit his robes? I hope he had. Holy robes defiled! That would be nothing compared to the sins he committed. He defiled the institution of God. The same hands that served the Lord served his rod. He took a dump in God’s holy sanctuary- and I wanted to send him straight to Hell where he belonged.

This is not your ordinary movie. No ‘CIA-tie-you-to-a-chair-in-an-underground-torture-chamber’ type of unrealistic shit. This was in the Priest’s office at Alsike Catholic Church. 8.40 p.m. on a cool breezy Thursday 12^th April 2012. Father Bastille and I were having a closed door meeting. I was asking the questions. He was answering them. Later, I would come to call this reverse confessions.

“Forgive me John for I have sinned. I have never had a good confession. These are my sins…” he should have started, but he didn’t. Instead, I had to point a Glock 19 at his sweaty arrogant face, and for the next twenty six minutes, fight the urge to pull the trigger and give the church office an interior design makeover with splashes of bright red blood and brains.

“John, I know you are angry, but the Bible says not to let our anger cause us to sin and …”

“Shut the hell up you dog!”

“Please, let’s sit down. Put the gun down and tell me what you want. Please. Please John. Nobody deserves to be treated this way.”

“You’re right. This is not the way to treat a molester. Get on top of the table.”

He stared at me, shock clearly written all over his pale face. “Get on top of the damn table!” For a moment I felt a thrill of being in control. I felt the gun gain weight in my left hand. Streams of rage bubbled within my veins. My chest grew larger. I felt an obligation to punish Bastille. He had to pay, even if not for all his victims, for Yvonne. My sweet Yvonne. Her mother would never forgive me. Sharon. I felt obligated to Sharon. She never gave her life for our child, for this animal to steal her innocence in such a manner. In a fit of anger, I swung my right hand across his table, sweeping away his belongings in a second.

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“Daddy I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore,” Yvonne told me amid sobs over the phone.

“Baby, listen to me baby, I’m almost home. Baby I’m coming home, you can tell me everything once I get there. Yvonne baby, listen to me. I love you so much. I’m coming home right now.”

I didn’t hang up. I could hear her sob as I sped through the bypass highway. I had a feeling she wanted to end her life. I could not get home in time and I knew it. I called Faith, she was always there for us. She helped me raise my daughter.

“Faith, please get to Yvonne right now!”

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“You don’t have to do this John. You’re a reasonable man.”

Was that why he did it? Was that the reason why, for three months, he was taking advantage of my twelve year old daughter in an unimaginable manner? Was it why each Friday he would have my daughter strip before him and have his altar boys commit treacherous acts to his satisfaction? Was this the reason he would shameless ask my little angel to kiss his rod until he got off? Because I was reasonable? Because I would understand?

All this made me sick.

“Look! Stop! I’ll get on the table. Please, listen to me. Let me tell you what happened please. Forgive me please.”

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to be continued