Redemptionless
By Sinn

Samuel Bolton was a happy and contented man. And why shouldn't he be?. Samuel, or the Reverend Bolton as he was known to his millions of adoring fans, was a success. His prime time satellite TV show, Redemption, had just pulled in a record breaking audience of over fourteen million, no mean feat for a religious programme. Why, that wasn't far behind the likes of Eastenders and Coronation Street.

That was good news, that his show had been so well watched, but the real Great News was the response to the appeal which he had made. Send your money now to help the starving children of Africa. The donations had simply rolled in. Before the show was even off the air, there had been pledges of well over three million pounds. He would keep the appeal going for at least a month, and hopefully he could pull in over ten million before it was over and the people began to look for a new cause.

Not that the starving of Africa would see a great deal of that money. Eighty or so percent would go on that all so famous of charity swindles which was called Administrative expenses, or fancy cars and fat pay packets as it should more accurately have been named. Another ten percent would be going straight into his own pocket, all tax free of course. He had a lifestyle to maintain, a life of nice cars, expensive restaurants and even more expensive women. As for the starving children? Well they'd been starving for long enough, so they ought to be used to it by now.

The Reverend Bolton sat back in his executive chair, put his feet up on his mahogany desk, and lit a cigarette.

It never ceased to amaze him how stupid people were. Before he had discovered the God game, he had been nothing more than con man who had eked out a living by swindling the elderly out of their savings. Then he had discovered God, and had discovered that God could be made to work for him. From then on, his rise had been almost meteoric. In a little over four years he had been head of a global organization with assets of over two hundred million, and had well hidden bank accounts of his own which held the not insignificant total of several million pounds.

No, life was good. All he had to do was keep people believing in him, and that was not too difficult. The people, many of them old and wealthy, wanted to believe. Their lives were so empty and meaningless that all they really needed was someone who could 'make' them believe.

Samuel was that man. He sincerely believed that he could convince people that the sun was green, if that had suited his purpose. Not that it did. For now, he had simply to make them believe that he was the mouthpiece of God. Not that he believed in any of that stuff himself. He did not think that there was a God, and quite frankly he couldn't have cared less if there was. After all, if God really did exist then he ought to be grateful that Samuel had attracted him so many devotees.

A rap on the door interrupted his contented musings.

Who the hell could that be?. He'd told his secretary that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. She was a hopeless secretary, and if she didn't have such a great ass and an obliging nature then he would have fired her long ago. There was only so much leeway that a fine body could buy, though.

"Enter" said Samuel, thinking briefly to hide the cigarette and the glass of brandy which was on his desk. He had preached so often about the evils of fags and booze, and he had an image to maintain. He dismissed the idea. Nobody who mattered could have penetrated to his inner sanctum without his having been informed the moment they had entered the building.

The door swung open and a man entered. A man whom Samuel had never seen before. He was tall, slightly overweight and dressed in a most expensive suit, an Armani original by the look of it. His hair was short and black, but it was his eyes which captured attention. Blue and looking as cold as ice, at the same time they seemed to burn with some dark humour, an infernal merriment with life.

The man closed the door, and pulled himself up a chair.

Such impertinence, that a stranger would walk into his office and help himself to a chair without so much as an introduction or a by your leave.

Samuel reached under the desk and pushed the button which would summon security to his office.

"I'm sorry" said the stranger "It seems to be temporarily out of order. If your hands feel that they must be doing something, might I suggest that you pour me a glass of that fine brandy".

Samuel was shocked into silence. Security should have been here by now. There were two guards who should not ever be more than ten paces from this office.

"I told you" said the stranger "It is out of order. Now, if you would care to pour my brandy and perhaps pass me a cigarette, we can talk".

"Who are you?" asked Samuel, pouring the stranger a brandy. He hated himself for doing it, and noticed that his hand was trembling as he poured.

"Thank you" the stranger said, taking a sip from the brandy, "Yes, it is a fine brandy. You have good, though somewhat expensive tastes, Mr Bolton. Now, my name. I thought you might have guessed, but then, why should you?. My name is Samael."

Samael. The name was familiar. Samuel couldn't quite place it, but for some reason he believed it to be biblical in some way.

"I see some glimmer of recognition" said Samael, "Perhaps if I told you a little more then you might know who I am. I was called the Accuser, and to put it into terms which are so horribly twentieth century, I was the chief prosecutor for the court of Jehovah. That was before my fall from favour of course, but I am still required to handle the odd case. My justice is a little more arbitrary than before, but it is still justice".

"You're crazy" Samuel stammered, "You've flipped. Now, I suggest that you get the hell out of this office". His hand appeared from the drawer where he had apparently been reaching for a cigarette. In it was a pistol, and he levelled it at Samaels chest.

"I think you will find that your gun is out of order as well" said Samael, a slight grin touching his lips, "But feel free to pull the trigger if you wish to make certain".

Samuel panicked. He pulled the trigger, and the hammer clicked onto an empty chamber. He pulled the trigger again. And again. Click. Click.

"Who the hell are you?" Samuel shouted to the smirking man who called himself Samael, "What do you want?".

"Justice" said Samael, "I am here to sit in judgement upon you. The list of charges which you face is quite wretchedly long, so we will dispense with a formal reading of the charges. There is also little point in my bothering with the monotony of a trial, since the verdict has already been decided".

Samael clicked his fingers, and they were no longer sitting in the office. Instead they were standing in the The First Church of the Holy Spirit. This church was Samuels greatest arena of worship, one of sixteen that his companies owned. It had cost over two million pounds to build, and it was a real labour of love. Nothing had been done cheaply. Samuel would not have been surprised to know that it was one of the most sumptuously opulent churches on the planet.

"Look" said Samael, pointing at the crucified figure of Christ which was behind the altar, "A fine piece is it not?. Not a very good likeness though. None too flattering. Still, it is the thought that counts, and it does capture the nobility of suffering."

Samuel looked, and for a moment he thought that he could see tears of blood trickling from the statues eyes.

Then his vision shifted, and he was looking out over the church. His position had changed, and now he could see Samael, looking up at him with a bitter smile on his face.

"This is your sentence" said Samael "This is your eternity. Forever will you look out upon the church which you built with your lies and deceit. Down the dark decades of your torment, perhaps you will grow to regret your sins. You will have centuries upon centuries to consider the error of your ways".

He turned and began to walk from the church.

Samuel tried to call out, but his lips would not move. They were like stone, so cold and lifeless. He could not move his eyes either. They were just staring straight ahead, fixed and unblinking.

Then he realized where he was to. He was inside the statue of Christ.

Forever.

Back in his office, his lifeless body would be found an hour later by his secretary, the one with the damn fine ass. She would scream, then finally calm down and call a doctor. The doctor would certify a heart attack, and Samuels followers would console each other by saying that God moves in mysterious ways.

Such a good man, they would say, doubtless he was getting his just rewards in the hereafter.