THE SEX REBEL OF JESUSLAND, chapter 104

104. ADAM’S INITIATION AS A BLESSED.

The ceremony was shorter than Adam had thought it would be, but it had a painful after-effect. At times he wanted to curse Ezra for having put him up for membership of the Blesseds, what with the medieval rituals he underwent. Fire. Lashings. And he had to learn the book of Job by heart and recite it out loud, like he was some student qualifying for an exam.

It was to remind him that materialism was a sin. Rich Job descended to dire poverty and ashes. Blesseds were usually rich, so they needed the reminder, but he did not. He was also called upon to do fifty pushups, as though he were auditioning for a ball team or the army.

He had to undress and was given a rough robe to wear. His skin became raw from scuffing by the hair-shirt material.

He was surrounded by men in black robes and black leather masks. The Spanish Inquisition. Sadists. After he recited the Book of Job, and did his fifty push-ups, he was given a bottle of Scotch.

“Drink.”

“From the bottle?”

“Drink.”

He took a sip.

“The whole bottle.”

“What?”

“Drink the whole bottle. No more than five gulps.”

He finished the bottle in four gulps. He tried for three.

The Scotch exploded in his stomach like a volcano imploding inwards. He wanted to sit down. One man took his arm and led him into the darkness. The men lit torches. They came to a slab of stone. An altar. Pieces of wood and chains and manacles.

“Lie down.”

He lay down on the cold stone, but his body was hot so he didn’t feel it. His head swam. A hand drew his cloak over his head. Hands manacled his arms and legs to the altar. A swish, and then a blow struck him across the back. He looked to his side and saw one of the men wield a cat o’ nine tails. The smell of his own blood. The bite of the thongs struck his skin. A pain sharp and immediate pain. But quickly dulled because of the alcohol cruising through his body and keeping him warm and numb.

Next a rough substance was sprinkled over his back, and then hands rubbed it in. He smelled salt. They were rubbing salt in his wounds. The slosh of water in a bucket. They threw the water over him. He lay in a swelter of pain, but it felt warm and comforting.

They undid the manacles and helped him to his feet. Further into the dark, until he came to a mirror. Suddenly he was in more pain, because he saw his body covered in blood.

They poured gasoline over his head. The flick of a match. They set fire to his hair, then doused it. His eyebrows were singed. What next? A crown of thorns? They handed him a silver platter. On it lay a cockroach. Pinned and wriggling. One of the men gestured to his mouth: eat it. Wasn’t this rather sophomoric? He put the bug in his mouth and bit. It spattered inside. Crunchy. A silly thing to do. If he weren’t drunk, he’d never have done it.

“Swallow the evil.”

Then he heard music. It had the echo of a cathedral about it. He felt the heat before he saw the coals. Ten feet across. He ran as fast as he could. He didn’t feel anything. Too drunk.

He wondered why pain, horror and disgust had to be part of the experience. Would he be asked to strangle a cat? Or screw a pig? He wouldn’t put it past these Inquisitors. They led him back to the altar and this time they put him on his back. A man swabbed his private parts. He smelled ether.

They manacled his feet and hands again. What now? Another beating?

The man, who he hoped was a doctor, had a scalpel in one hand. With his other hand he lifted Adam’s penis. Then he brought the scalpel down. Adam winced, wondering for a moment if he was about to suffer the fate of Pat Robertson’s missing penis. The manacles held him firm. Suddenly his mind was surprisingly clear. He did not feel drunk anymore. Men leaned on his thighs. He felt the scalpel slice into the tip of his penis.