FICTION SERIES
Under the Sea
Excerpts from Gehenna
My parents named me Sebastian, after the lobster in The Little Mermaid.
I don’t know if it's crazier being named like that or having the only parents on the block still together? 54 years Ma and Pops been at this.
Nobody really calls me Sebastian though. After a couple Alabama Slammers, my Auntie Caulder does. But after she gets tore back, she be trying to fuck me too.
Most cats call me Sea Bass. I like that best. Reminds me of Sebastian Janikowski*.
(*played for the Raiders. I mean Oakland Raiders. Man once kicked 57 yards for an overtime win. Man got invited to the Pro Bowl; came home rocking All Pro awards)
A few people call me Baz. That’s okay I guess. I’ll answer that. Shit I’ll answer most anything if you say it respectfully.
Father Acme calls me all sorts of shit. It's just like that. Today when he opened the door, he called me “Spaniard”.
I sat in the big chair, glancing around its feet. Sometimes there's plastic underneath that seat. Just empty soda cans this morning. Mind you, I’ve never worried about it personally, but I'ma peek anyhow.
A man never truly knows. Your friend yesterday might find cause overnight. I'm only being cautious. There is such a thing as healthy paranoia. Anyways.
For me, it’s always personal and business. Love to catch up with the homey; also, there’s money to be had. Me and this cat have been through some shit together.
We started calling him “Father” because he became a Catholic while doing a set. While there’s no shame in that, some of us actually had to attend Catholic school and shit. Anyways.
We blew clouds, discussing how to achieve a state of grace. Sanctification by God. Saving Grace. It means your soul isn't carrying any unforgiven mortal sins.
“But that’s just *dogma,” Father Acme said.
(*”a principle or set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true”--Oxford Languages)
“I want to become a Saint,” I said with a mouthful of laughter.
No one in Gehenna will ever become a Saint. Cold fact, Jack. No one out here is a servant of God. None of these motherfuckers could prove a life of heroic virtue. Pause for laughter! Who among us has performed 2 or 3 verified miracles? Nobody over here is gonna be canonized!
We both cracked up. Good, deep belly laughs. Rocking in your seat kinda giggles.
To be canonized a Bishop must open an official Cause for Beatification and Canonization. That’s just filling out paperwork, but there’s still a bunch more steps.
“Muttley no!” Father Acme shouted at the dog. She's a chocolate lab and Irish Spring or some shit. I don't know. She shits a lot but has these dope emerald eyes.
He sternly said, “That’s not yours!”
Muttley sat nearby, her face stuffed with garbage. Plastic wrapping spilled from her jaw. “Rrrrruuuuurrr!” she growled.
“Fucking Wookiee,” laughed Father Acme.
Being canonized still isn’t gonna happen, Blood. If one of these sheisty, grimy, dirty, motherfuckers out here made it that far? Hah hah hah, the Pope still has to approve two separate verified miracles.
Sainthood is impossible. That shit could take a decade. Better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven.
Jesus loves me, this I know. He will make us fishers of men. His vessels. Disciples. Bitches. This little light of mine? It doesn’t motherfucking shine.
“What’s on your mind, Spaniard?” Father Acme asked.
I laid out a few plots. We commiserate between clouds. Showed the man some pictures. Agreed on some things; put pins inside others. We traded propers when I stood up.
I stepped out into someone’s bad day. Making sure to pull closed Father Acme’s door, I strolled to the corner.
Strobing, frantic sex lights splashed red and blue all over West 13th. A trio of sheriffs in their SUV charged through the perimeter, accelerating out of sight. Neighbors began piling up on their stoops. Kids were already talking shit from the middle of the street.
Drones swept overhead, just out of reach. I'm like King Kong on the Empire State Building with that shit. I swatted at them with my Raiders ball cap. I beat my chest with my fists.
Fuck the police. Now and forever. Demilitarize the police.
A short burst of rapid squawks announced the arrival of SWAT. Second-string Varsity athletes. They slithered silently around flashing, parked emergency vehicles in a mammoth black machine. Small lights blinked red and white on its doors.
From a police P.A., a stern female voice commanded:
“Person occupying 108, this is the Gehenna Police Department! Drop anything in your hands! Come out with your hands above your head!”
I shuffled past several more police cruisers. I cut through a group of mustaches and windbreakers. Leading with my shoulder, I said low: “Excuse me.”
Floodlights from a parked ambulance cut on, startling me. Giggling girls in hoodies huddled around a blunt. Looky-Lous muttered about what they thought was going on, hands jammed tight in pockets. Sirens whooped from an idling police truck; it sped north hard.
The loudspeaker lady said: “Este es el departmento de policia de Gehenna! Sal con las manos en alto! Hacer esto ahora!”
I turned around and stopped. I sparked a fatty, thick moke trailing from my mouth.
Police start giving instructions in Spanish, it's already too late. They do it for the crowds. Fluff for auditors. Civilian review boards. Community standards.
SWAT members crept forward from their positions. One of them squatted, balancing a sniper rifle on his knee.
Cops in the audience started a war cry. It dissolved into laughter and cheering.
You hear that shit in old movies. That WAH WAH WAH bullshit. Marginalizing through Hollywood stereotypes.
Concussion grenades exploded, shaking the building. Flash grenades burst, all sparks and smoke. Glass shattered. Another boom, followed by yelling.
I turned around and continued shuffling up the block.
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