The Possession

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“The possessed always becomes violent.
We have yet to see a case of non-violent devil possession.”
—Mark (blind plaza kiosko masseur/street philosopher)

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The Master was a light beam that pierced her ovaries
and egg cells, as if cooking them into amino acids and DNA

to later differentiate into muscles, fats and bones in her cervix.
Perhaps it explains the propensity for compassion. Having stayed

too long in the human womb, He incubated into humanity,
even longed for the fear and pain it entailed. But not for me.

He thinks to himself. For him, light becoming flesh is an aberration.
Like right now, he does not own this weight. He does not own

these eyes, only the visions. Who could he be? Even his thoughts
travel slower than before, having to pass through faulty electrical

wirings of nerves, veins, breath, heartbeat, and alphanumerics
of discourse. He struggles to take his first step, speed no longer

melting time into illusion. There is now the physics of wings
and sound. He closes his eyes to feign his being. But alas, forced

death only makes him more alive. After a few seconds, taste starts
to swim like a fish inside his mouth and he himself becomes all skin,

swimming in the sea of touch. I am here. Who could I be, this time?
He asks. For unlike the Master, he is earthen light turned to flesh

in a factory instant, just like that, perhaps even faster than The Fall.
So he starts to walk, and oh, he wears coat and tie, and a robe.

And oh, he carries an attaché case. He enters a room full of people.
“All rise!” He hears. And almost dutifully, everyone rises with the sun.

He looks at the crowd now pulsating with anticipation in this room
bordered with dusty steel cabinets and papers. He opens the attaché case

and sees a document neatly arranged. “Judgment,” it says. A young lady
comes to get it. With this, he lights up, aware at last. He hands over

the document to her, thinking Aha! The flesh trying to be like light:
here there then now—like justice. As the woman starts to read

the document, he opens the attaché case again and finds it empty. So he
materializes two government-issued glock pistols as a matter of course

and then turns to the crowd. “Counsel for the accused, counsel for the defense,
approach the bench.” He orders while loading the guns. Two bespectacled fellows

come to him with reverence and he hands the guns to them. The two lawyers
look at each other in disbelief. He smiles approvingly, handing them more

magazines and bullet boxes. “Fiat lux. Let there be light,” he says. The lawyers,
now naked owners of their weight and eyes, take their cue, pointing the pistols

at their clients. The cops and the sheriff shut the doors, nodding in agreement.
Bababababang! The litigants are dead. Bababababang! The court spectators

scamper for safety but the cops and the sheriff join in the affray. Babababang!
With everyone dead, the lawyers, the cops and the sheriff approach the bench

and find that the judge is now having coffee, enjoying the spectacle.
So they shoot him in the face until the magazines are empty. They hit him

with the butt of their guns. They could hear people rushing outside the door
so they turn to the young lady still holding the judgment she was reading earlier.

Now with a hole between her blank eyes, they kiss the blood off her mouth,
as if a ritual. They undress her, kiss her breasts, kiss her vulva. Then they

take turns entering her. Appeased, they reload smiling at each other and shatter
their own skulls as the SWAT team breaks the door open. The crime operatives

gather guns and bodies and powder the corners for prints then go
to a nearby convenience store for donuts and soda. No light beam

will pierce the dead lady’s ovaries and egg cells, except perhaps
the microscope at the crime laboratory. But a thought wakes up

in her cervix, cooking into amino acids, DNA, muscles, fats and bones:
I am here. And I know who I am, this time. He thinks to himself.

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