Metal Gods

A Judas Priest-inspired short story

The confessional box is smaller than I remember, or maybe I’m just bigger than the last time I was here. It’s as cold as a deep freeze, and there is carpet on the walls and ceiling; it must be intended to muffle sound so no one standing outside can hear how grievous your sins are. There is a laminated card attached to the kneeler with two small chains; it has instructions for what to do and say for those who have been long absent from the sacrament of reconciliation.

The little door in the wall slides open and I am face-to-face with a priest I vaguely remember from ages ago: I picked the wrong damn side and now don’t even have the comfort of a screen separating me from him. He stares intently at me, and I realize he’s waiting on those famous first words.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say as I make the Sign of the Cross. It’s one of the few things from my Catholic youth I actually remember, mainly because I had to say it so often, running wild as I did back then, even occasionally breaking the law. “It has been around 30 years since my last confession.”

His eyes widen for a brief moment before he recovers his passive expression. He probably runs into this all the time. I glance down at the card and realize I’m supposed to tell him my sins now, so I start with some small run of the mill ones.

“I’ve missed Mass a lot,” I say, “whatever 52 times 30 years is, I guess, and I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain pretty much every day.”

He nods, then puts up a hand to stop me.

“Given the amount of time since your last confession,” he says, “we don’t need to go every single sin you can think of. Let’s just focus on the mortal ones you can recall, understanding that your presence here today is a sign you recognize you are a sinner and want to return to Holy Mother Church. I assume during this time away you have struggled with sex.”

“Struggled?” I repeat. “I mean, I’m no turbo lover, but I do fine with the ladies. Not to brag or anything.”

“I meant that you have likely committed sexual sin,” he says, looking a bit exasperated. “Pre-marital sex, extra-marital sex, pornography, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, sorry. Yes, all of those a bunch of times,” I reply. “Well, except extra-marital. I’m not married. But a few of the women were, so does that count against me or them?”

“Both,” he replies, rubbing his temples. “But right now we’re only concerned with you.”

“Cool.”

“Any other major sins you want to confess, my son? Have you been a member of a secret society like the Masons? Gone to a Protestant service? Not supported the IRA?”

Now I remembered this guy. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, he gave my class at St. Barnabas the Wonder Worker Elementary a lecture about how we needed to give money to the Irish Republican Army so they could drive the godless British out of Ireland. Clearly, he is still one of the Defenders of the Faith.

“No, yes — I dated a Methodist a few times —and yes, I mean no, I have not supported the IRA. I didn’t think they still existed.”

He is clearly displeased with this last answer but moves along anyway.

“Well then,” he says, “if there is nothing more, I will give you your penance.”

“Actually, there is one more thing I should probably mention,” I say.

“What is that?”

“I sort of made a deal with the devil.”

He stares at me like I’m speaking in tongues, which would be another un-Catholic thing to do.

“Excuse me?” he says finally. “You what?”

“I made a deal with the devil. I’m assuming that falls into the mortal sin category, right?”

“Yes, it certainly does,” he says. He seems to be choosing his next words carefully. “What exactly do you mean when you say you made a deal? Did you simply make a rash promise in exchange for something you wanted or was there some sort of ritual involved?”

I wasn’t sure what difference this could possibly make, but he was the expert.

“I’ve been dating this girl who claims to be a witch, though in all honesty I thought she maybe just got the first letter wrong — ”

He glares at me.

“Ah, sorry. Old habits. Anyway, I’m a writer, and I was up for this yearlong fellowship that would have paid my bills while I finish my novel, but there were a lot of other writers vying for the position as well. I told her about it, and she said she could help me.”

“Help you how?” he asks.

“Her exact words were ‘I love you to death, and this thing is worth fighting for.’ She took me down into her basement, which before then I didn’t even know she had, and had me stand in the middle of some star-shaped thing while she chanted nonsense rapid fire. Then she started turning circles and suddenly he appeared.”

“He? You mean the devil?”

“That’s what I assumed at least,” I answer, wishing now that I had paid closer attention in religion class. “Doesn’t it have to be the devil himself for you to make a bargain? I slept through a lot of Masses, but I’m pretty sure you can’t strike a deal with the Angel of Death, one of the Four Horsemen, or some minor demon, right?”

“That would be correct,” the priest says, but he doesn’t sound all that sure to me.

“I was as surprised as anyone that Miranda actually pulled it off; turns out she really was a heavy duty witch.”

“What happened then?” he asks.

“It was pretty straightforward, really. He asked what I wanted and I told him. He said the price was my soul and that if I agreed none of my competition would still be living after midnight that night. I did, we shook on it, and off he popped.”

“You traded your immortal soul for a one-year writing fellowship?” the priest exclaims, surely loud enough for people outside the confessional to hear him.

“Look,” I say, more defensively than I intended. “I’m not getting any younger. This was my one shot at glory and if you think I’d just give it up, you’ve got another thing comin’. I’m not getting left out in the cold over a stupid soul I can get back with one trip here anyway.”

“Get back anyway? What do you mean?”

“I mean get it back. Why do you think I’m here? I confess the sin of giving the Great Deceiver my soul, you absolve me, I say a couple Hail Mary’s and everything’s good.”

He looks at me with an expression that I can only describe as sadness.

“It doesn’t work that way, my son. There is no simple fix for what you’ve done. I’m not sure even an exorcist could save you since you’re not actually possessed.”

“That’s not what you told us in catechism class, Father,” I say. “You said there were no saints in hell, and as long as we confessed our sins we wouldn’t be either. Those were your exact words; I remember.”

“There is still hope, my son,” he says weakly, but I’m no longer listening.

I stand up and leave the confessional without another word. I storm out of the church, screaming for vengeance against the priest and all the lies they had told me as a child. The devil might ultimately eat me alive, but at least he had kept his word.

This story was prompted by a story by Aimée Gramblin and a challenge from Michael Whalen to write a story using as many song titles from one band as possible (I managed 27, including the title). Here is the original prompt:

And here is my earlier Springsteen-inspired attempt: