Thursday, April 12, 2012


This is my Friday Fiction for the Vamplit Blog this week. I hope you enjoy it.

                                                    Night Of The Templar

     All is calm outside the Basilica, priests moving in their usual, seemingly, holy ways. Yes, a facade. A mere front to present to the pilgrims still here and to those just arrived: the supposed religious and pure of spirit.

     Easter was a mere five days in the past; recent history, the trappings of the Holy Day still evident everywhere. Today, Friday the Thirteenth, 2012 is his day.

     He laughs, sitting on a bench, wearing his kilt, his Tam sitting jauntily atop his head. This is the year, the day, the hour, for what must be done: a cleansing is in order. Justice must be administered.

     So many years ago they came, capturing and torturing so many. Friday the thirteenth, October, in the year 1307. That bastard King Philip IV and his stooge, Pope Clement, sent the forces of evil to destroy the Knights Templar. They were quite effective, or so they thought. Some of the knights escaped; some were actually assimilated into other religious groups.  

     Not so with Claude. He escaped all right, but not like the others. His soul was torn from the betrayal of his Church, his Pope, and even his God for allowing such injustice. The Dark side called to him, and he listened.

     More than that, he made a deal.

     Eternal life is his now. He is immortal. All these years of watching and waiting have lead to this moment. The body politics raging between God and the Dark Angel mean nothing to him. He has a job to do tonight, and that job happens to happily co-exist with his own dreams and wishes. Sweet, sweet revenge.

     Those with the red vestments and skull-caps arrive, almost appearing to be effeminate the way they walk, prancing about in their finery like fucking, jaunty peacocks.

     "Look at me! Look at me! I'm a Cardinal; I'm special, very special; come up and beg to kiss my ring."

     Claude, for the last 705 years known as Rob, Rob McNelson, snickers under his breath, finding it difficult to contain his disgust for these buffoons. Fingering the sword hidden beneath his kilt, he wishes he could part these pompous bastards from their fingers now. But the time is not right yet. Soon . . .soon it will happen.

     Rob has fathered many children over the years; wed many wives. but alas, unlike him, the mantle of immortality could not be passed to them. Even his most famous and stalwart progeny, Lord Admiral Nelson, had to pass on to the next world. This is one part of who he is that wreaks havoc with his mind, but it is as it must be.

     The night is warm and the pigeons look for relief from the heat, flying around, attracted to the fountains below, but sensing that the man in the kilt, appearing to be so innocent before the pilgrims and tourists alike is not a man to be trifled with. They give him a wide berth and fly away.

     "Ah, that the fools before me had the smarts of these birds," Rob thinks.

     He stands, all six feet five inches of him, towering over most of the people in the square. With a mighty roar, he reaches beneath his kilt and removes a tremendous, double-edged sword, ready to do his bidding. The lights from the Basilica play off the specially tempered steel and he walks towards the entrance of the Papal residence. 

     The Swiss guards in their comical, striped uniforms are no match for him, and he enters the building easily. What moments before were self-assured, adoration seeking Cardinals scurry to hide or retreat from this wild-eyed Scottish madman. Rob is too quick and thorough for them, and they fall before him, blood flowing like rivers from their bodies, held back in places by dams, created as blockages occur once the red liquid reaches disemboweled bodies. Heads merrily bob around amidst the gore and finality of the righteous atonement for his comrades so many years before.    

     Up the stairs he goes, knowing the alarm has been sounded, that this German pretender to the Holy See will be secured within his room and kept away from the slaughter taking place around him.

     "Heh, heh," Rob thinks. "For the moment, he is safe. I wish to remove the smaller fish from the net of capture. Oh, there are far more than five fishes to be captured here."

     From room to room, down every hallway, he goes, knowing where all the pompous vermin are hiding. Yes, they can't escape him: an immortal with powers of sensitivity reaching far beyond any that mere mortals possess.

     "Call to your God now!" he shouts. "But don't expect an answer. Just as I am doing my master's work, I am doing His as well. He knows you for what you are. My avenging sword will clean this wicked house of the iniquity residing within."

     Visions of rape and incest reach the eyes of Rob, and even though his loyalty runs to Satan, he knows the scum he is destroying is worthy of what is being dealt to them. Those who have not participated have surely looked the other way and hidden the guilt of the transgressors. In some instances, they have condoned it.

      No more.

     Blood . . .blood is everywhere, and scattered moans of pain come from all around: a special treat for the worst of the evil. Yes, they must suffer longer before their last breaths are taken and they meet their new landlord, one who will eagerly show them more pain and angst, far beyond what Rob is dishing out to them now.

     Once the red of the shed blood equals that of the red-clothed pretenders to the faith, Rob has only to go to the residence of the one at the top of the ladder. The bottom feeders are all gone.

     His eminence The Pope is not difficult to find: the security is exemplary, and they are prepared for him. But, they do not expect someone like Rob. They think a mere human is wreaking havoc within the area of the Holy See.

     "Holy See, my ass!" Rob thinks. "This place is as holy as a sewer in Edinburgh. My mission is just. Both sides will be happy when I have finished here."

     The Pope stands before him, surveying the carnage that is everywhere within his sight. Terror is in his eyes, and he fears the worst.

     "Why! Why!" he shouts. "Why have you done this?"

     Rob laughs. "Oh, as if you don't know, my evil antagonist. You and all your predecessors have never cared about what God wanted; what was right, or what was wrong. You only cared about power and  yourselves, trying to enslave the masses, making them feel they had to be subserviant to your every distorted whim and desire. You are all that is left of this debacle of failed faith. and your time is limited."

     Rob raises his sword towards the heavens above, and not feeling any resistance, as he knew he wouldn't, he swings it with the authority of his strength and cleanly decapitates the last vestige of what was once the Catholic Church.

     "Good bye, Pope," he says. "May you rot in Hell."

     Rob strides from the building, so many years of grief and a need for revenge finally fulfilled. Yes, there will be more battles to be waged. there are many more vestiges of so-called faith remaining to be uprooted and dealt with, but after all, he has time on his side. He will be around for as long as it takes.

     Friday the thirteenth, once a scourge for him and his friends, is now a very bad day for his enemies.

     For some, this is now a good day . . .

Blaze McRob


  1. Wow! What a neat spin. I've always been fascinated with the Knights Templar. Good to see they got their revenge!

  2. Bad Blaze! I wrote this story on Easter. Thank you, T.K. Blaze is spinning around as usual.