Salvation Army (a spleen-punk short st.)

Salvation Army
(a spleen-punk short story)

It was a balmy day in late June that I choose to go to the Central Marketplace in the capital to do some shopping for a meal I was planning for my friends. The wind was warm and the Sun shone in just the right way to put a light spring into my walk as I headed down from the recently opened subground pneumo-station. The cloudless sky suddenly cast a shadow on me. I looked up a bit puzzled, but it was only an advert-o-zeppelin displaying some sort of product. Fixed my eyes on the sky, an Orderly Nun passed in front of me, heading in some obscure direction; I nearly bumped into her. Foolish me! Her face was just like the others in her most holy order; eternally fixed on some distant horizon, just like all her kind. She walked off into the ten-o-clock haze of the asphalt, her image bobbed in the warm air, and then disappeared, I think, behind a corner.
I entered the marketplace. It was a spacious building, with high walls and glass windows, a truly elevated place for such mundane things as selling food for the inner-city masses. I cut my way through the busy crowds of merchants and costumers and beggars and shoplifters and pickpockets. But alas! I noticed what I came for. A shop, but a shop different from all others. On it, in rich, overflowing golden-dust jacketed baroque lettering, the name of the shop :
“His Holy Majesty, the Eternal Pope’ Papa Pius Decimus’ Meat Stand”.
Below that, the motto of the business:
“Eat my flesh, drink my blood” - (John 6:53)
A standard Orderly Friar was on duty, just like all other shops all along the Astro-Italo-Hungarian Empire. The meats and canopied, flowing blood were organized as of standard on the display, from left to right; from less holy to most holy. I took an oversight: Jesuses dying of natural causes, Jesuses dying in crusader training, Jesuses dying in actual combat (in one of the Crusades, of course). Finally, the most precious of them all: Jesuses that died on a cross. All of the neatly sealed, frozen packages had little labels attached on them, a code written on it for the shopkeepers and administrators, and the story of how the Jesus on display died, and, of course, all sealed by the Pope’s Seal. The story was repeated on little cards put in front of the display for the buyers to see. There was a long crowd in front of the stand, all awaiting a share of the most blessed meat of them all. I entered the queue. I must admit I was a bit afraid that since I came in such a late hour, I could not get my blood and meat for the party I was organizing. It would have been a real pity; I promised to prepare a most holy meal for them. I admit I have fallen into the sin of boasting, but I think it was really an excusable sin as I got carried away during the days and weeks and months I have been carefully putting away my savings to be able to afford the best kind of Jesus meat I could offer.
Blessed Flemming (rapidly in the ranks of becoming a saint in record time), and his blessed process of growing meat and bodies from cells. I heard, that at the time (for I was not even born then), there were rumors of excommunicating him from the Holy See University, and burning him on the stake for practicing necromancy. Pope Pius chose to withdraw with his inner circle to discuss this matter for nearly two weeks. In the end, the Holy Pope has seen that his ways were blessed from the Almighty, and that it was the sign of Jesus’ second coming. They took some samples from the Shroud of Turin, and after years of trial and error, grew their first Jesus, who today is the personal and most trusted advisor of his holiness. And thus, the Holy See had begun the production of Jesuses. Dozens, hundreds, even thousands of them as they understood the process more. They were all raised in one of the now several “Jesusjugend” camps, where they received their training and education, regarding what role were cast to them: advisor, soldier, martyr. Many died in the boot camps and on the field of battle, and some on the cross (for our sins, naturally). Of course, their meat was collected and chopped and stored in cold warehouses, awaiting processing and distribution. Each gulp, each swallow took you one step closer to salvation.
So Jesus came. Jesus came back for the second time. Dozens of regiments of Jesuses roamed the face of the earth in the name of the Holy State of the Astro-Italo-Hungarian Empire, making it holier and holier each passing day, with each footstep, each drop of blood, each thorn tearing into flesh, each spear trusting between the ribs. Oh, this world was really becoming a second paradise on Earth! I once had the luck as a child to see one of the first regiment of the Holy Warrior crusading Jesuses marching down the avenue on a parade in the city. I don’t remember much of the event itself; my mother told me it was an all-out celebration. I only remember but the March of the Saviors, their immaculate white robes, their flowing hair as it flew in the light breeze, their budding chins with the first sign of a beard growing, their mock briar crowns on their heads bearing their identification number and rank, their fiery glazes. Oh yes, I remember most their eyes as they marched in determination, in perfect order and unison. What a holy sight! Blessed the one who could see it! Blessed the one who could touch them even at once! Bless the Growing Vats of the Vatican! Holy science, holy purpose!
There were rumors of the Holy See allowing some Jesuses to accompany rulers in favor of our holy cause. The Eternal Emperor Franz Joseph ( who was granted immortality, the first and so far only person after the Pope, in the Growing Vats, may his empire last for all eternity!) of course already had a personal Jesus, just like the Eternal Pope himself.
All in all, things were going perfectly well in the most holy order of things.
Suddenly, a newsboy was heard shouting in the distance. I wouldn’t have taken a notice if not for the uproar and voices and murmur spreading in a concentric circle like raindrops in a swimming pool; all toned with various levels horror and disbelief. I decided to check the news for myself. What on Earth could go wrong, when there was all this progress and holy wonder on this world?
I pushed my way through gently most of the crowd of people centering around the loud newspaper-boy, standing on an upside-down turned fruit-box.
“The Arch Prince and his wife murdered on their visit to Serbia by terrorists!” shouted he. The world stopped for a second for me. When I came to my senses, I bought one of the last pieces of the paper he was selling. It looked like a very hastily put-together effort. Walking away from the crowd, I began reading like someone who was obsessed with some unholy spirit.
Photos were enclosed, which somehow made through the strict monitoring of the Central Bureau of Censorship. It was blurry and hard to make out the body of the dead terrorist. They found a piece of paper under his clothing claiming that the Black Hand had found a way to grow their own Jesuses (photos, too, to prove their word), taking a sample from a genuine, Papally approved relic of the foreskin of Jesus they stole from the Holy See years ago, and trained one to assassinate the Prince in cold blood. Their Jesus was not at all like ours; ours resembled the paintings found all over the Christian world, theirs had a dark skin and round face, and was generally more robustly built than ours. It reminded me of an ape. What a brute! What barbarians!
The Arch Prince was dead! Without doubt, finally, irrevocably dead! Killed by a child Jesus led by some Serbian anarchist… some Gavrilo… he was arrested, but their mock-Jesus was beaten to death by the angry crowd after it dropped the murdering gun on the cobbles, his brain was smashed all across the cobblestones, in a pool of his own blood. The distorted face was frozen in some protesting terror by the time the photo was taken.
Terror flooded my brain. It cannot be! Oh, it cannot be! The arch duke and his pregnant wife dead! The Black Hand with their own Jesuses… no no NO!
The war, the holy war was inevitable.
It was a balmy 25th of June in that year, 1914.