Page 32 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
“Don’t drown him in the font,” Joe cut him off. “Seems sacrilegious.”
“The fuck do I care for your sacrilege?” said Percy, dropping a gasping Marcus to the floor, but only because the other guy was up again. Percy reached across behind the altar and grasped a golden thurible, swinging its long gold chain until it collided with the man’s face, regretting only that it was not burning incense at the time and the effect wasn’t remotely as dramatic as it could have been. He threw the thurible down regretfully.
Joe eased himself onto a pew and put his feet up on the one in front. “What’s the plan now?”
“Kill them all the hard way and don’t die, I suppose,” said Percy, smashing a bible down on the other guy’s head from his full height.
“Percy…”
Percy placed his shoe firmly on Marcus’s back to prevent him from moving. “What is it, Joe?” he yelled irritably.
“Are any of them dead?”
“I haven’t checked.”
“Could we maybe not kill them?”
Percy’s stupidly handsome face dropped to the side in incredulous scorn. “No, we can’t not kill them. What do you think this is? Sunday service?”
“I just?—”
“They’re Nazis, Joe. They’re stupid fucking Nazis.”
“This one’s Catholic.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. Who ever heard of an evil Catholic?” At that moment the door burst open and two more neo-Nazis came in, having, Percy supposed, heard Marcus’s shot. Promptly, Percy leaned down, twisted Marcus’s head to the right and snapped his neck.
Joe gesticulated wildly into the air. “Did you just kill him?”
Percy stepped into the aisle and straightened his suit. “What are you even doing in my office, Joe?”
“It’s my office, last I checked,” said Joe, sticking a leg out into the aisle, and tripping up one of the new assailants.
“Thanks, handsome.” Percy winked before punching the next one in the face.
“You’re welcome,” Joe called over the pained moan, “but don’t kill him.”
Percy shook his aching hand out. “All right, let’s get a few things straight. That is, or was, a beautiful painting by arguably the greatest artist the world has ever seen.”
Joe burst out laughing. “I should have known.”
Percy twisted a man’s hand backwards and broke his wrist. After the loud scream, he asked disgustedly, “Should have known what?”
“That you would love Caravaggio this much. He was insane. And a killer.”
“That doesn’t make him a bad person,” said Percy, laying his hands on a heavy golden candlestick which he first applied to the head of the man nursing his broken wrist, then smashedacross the face of the other attacker, showering his suit in blood and spit. “Ugh.”
Joe watched Percy step over the twitching body and walk to the holy-water font, surprised and surprisingly turned on by the way he winced as he dipped his bleeding knuckles into the water, scooping up a handful to cleanse his suit of the latest assault.
Percy refreshed his face, cast his wet hair to the side, stood tall, and walked back to the centre of the church to lean against the altar. He lit a fresh cigarette and drew deep as he assessed his day’s work. The ugliest one, likely dead. Marcus, dead by snapped neck. Jorge bled out some time ago. The fourth assailant, very likely dead by bible, but unconscious either way. The fifth, a Catholic, and now the sixth and seventh lay on the floor at his feet. One was conscious, moaning but doing little else, probably not for long, and the other would likely soon die by candlestick.
Percy walked to Jorge and kicked his body over. He withdrew his beautiful antique dagger from his chest and said, “The thing is, some things are worth dying for, which, being Catholic, you should agree with. By that logic, some things are worth killing for. Would you like a cigarette?”
“I would,” Joe said. “But won’t the smoke damage your painting even more?”
Percy couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his cut lip. He only held his golden cigarette case open for Joe, lit his cigarette, and ignored the comment.
“Would you like one?” Joe asked the Catholic neo-Nazi.
