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Worshipped
By
Pill
The crowd grew larger by the minute, with police and ambulance workers arriving in numbers. The media surrounded the base of the building, harassing anyone it could with questions that didn’t need to be asked. A young man watched all this from across the street, behind a barricade. He felt nothing as the corpses were emptied from the building. No sympathy for those who had lost fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. He didn’t feel the grief of a father, who sobbed uncontrollably in the middle of the street after seeing his daughter’s body. Taking all this in, he walked away, not noticed by anyone in the crowd.
- - -
Three days later, with a city still in shock, the young man finds himself in a dark room. He does not bother to turn the light on; he only stands there, without moving. “Don’t worry, my children,” he says to the darkness, “nobody will find us.” A slight whimper is heard, which only angers him. “I TOLD ALL OF YOU NOT TO MAKE A FUCKING SOUND,” he yells. “HOW DARE YOU DISOBEY ME?”
“Sir,” a voice calls out, “may I ask you a question?” The young man begrudgingly gives the teenager permission to speak. “Why are we here?” she asks. “Why have you tied us up and left us in the dark? You said you would lead us to salvation.”
He ponders her question for a moment, and responds with a bullet. After firing the shot, he turns the light on and sees the girl lying in a pool of blood. He sees the horror on the faces of the other fifteen girls, all of whom are stripped naked and bound by duct tape - all sobbing hysterically. He walks out of the room, taking comfort in the fact that it killed her instantly, and wonders why he hadn’t taped their mouths shut.
- - -
“Authorities continue their search for Brandon Urich, the suspected leader of the Circa Trigon cult,” the television blares the next day. “Yesterday, members of the cult were found dead in their headquarters on Market Street. John Grissom, a spokesman for city police, said that authorities suspect it was a mass suicide, masterminded by Urich. There are no leads as to his whereabouts, or the whereabouts of sixteen teenage members of the cult, whose bodies were not found. The missing members are all teenage girls, Grissom said. Now, Doug will give us an update on the weather. Doug?”
His life hadn’t always been this complicated. Urich knew from a young age that he was destined for great things. When he turned fifteen, he left home for the bright lights of Los Angeles and quickly gathered his followers, promising them salvation and glory. Four years later, he had amassed 248 people, all of whom were convinced that he was their savior. He filled their heads with stories of a God named Colax, who would take the members on a spaceship to the galaxy of Voniwpop, where they would be rewarded with eternal happiness. The fact that people believed what he told them made him believe in himself, and soon he was convinced he was the true Savior.
The troubles began when he convinced his followers to lead a raid on the nearby IRS office. Urich had wanted his religion, now called Circa Colaxism, to gain tax-exempt status, since he felt this would only truly certify his delusions. However, the IRS denied the request, and tipped the FBI off about the “church.” Urich was stunned; he hadn’t spent his 23 years on this planet to be denied anything. Over the course of a few months, he had gathered enough ammunition to take on a small army and had formed a plan. Somehow the FBI had received word of the plan and quickly stopped it before it happened. Fifty-eight of his followers were arrested and put in jail, abandoned by the man they worshipped. He knew that time was running short, so he gathered the remaining 190 members and moved his base to San Francisco.
Things only got worse for the young man. Many members of his cult were teenage girls, who he found to be easy targets for manipulation. He bought them presents with the money his worshippers gave to him, told them that he loved them and that it was their duty to carry his children. If their parents were in the cult with them, they would do nothing to stop this; instead, they would encourage the girls to give themselves to him. When the day would come, the members would gather in a circle, with Urich and the “chosen” girl in the center. By the end, the girl would be crying, filled with shame and regret, along with Urich’s seed. Over the next two years, he fathered twelve children to eight different girls, all of whom were younger than sixteen. Their births were natural, since he believed drugs would cause the babies’ brains to ooze out of their ears. He wasn’t the best father; if one of the babies would cry, he would yell at the mother, ordering her to “shut that fucking kid up, before I kill it.” This lack of parental patience only served to push much of his herd away.
Two years later, the membership had dwindled down to only 50 members. Many of the members had abandoned him by escaping in the middle of the night. Four of his children had left with their mothers, but he did not care that much anymore. Only eighteen teenage girls were left, and this infuriated Urich, who demanded that his flock “get on the pot and shit out some new recruits. I want girls, who are virgins. If they are tainted, and you bring them to me, I’ll fucking kill them and you.” By then, legend of the cult had spread throughout San Francisco and parents would warn their girls about the “crazy man who will rape you if you get near him.” He soon realized that his time as a God was about to end, and that he would go out with a bang.
As the Fluytro, the Circa Colax version of a mass, started the followers noticed that Urich was different. He did not have the charisma that he used to, the charisma that led them to believe he was the Chosen One.
Fifteen minutes into it, he stopped, and ordered the death of his children.
He gave the girls arsenic and told them to shove it down the throats of their children, the children he had created. One of the girls refused, which angered him. “All right, you don’t want to obey me,” he told her, “then I’ll do it, you ungrateful little cunt.”
This angered the girl’s father, who red-faced demanded that Urich apologized to his daughter.
“I’m sorry,” Urich said to the girl, before putting a bullet into her head.
The father was stunned, and was quickly shot in the head also. The baby soon followed in a similar fate. “Anymore refusals?” he asked his members.
Another girl stood up, refusing, and called him a “fucking fraud.” A moment later, she was dead, as was her child. After watching this, the rest of the girls complied, killing the six remaining children. He handed out poison to the rest of the cult, except the girls, who he ordered into a small room.
Five minutes later, Brandon Urich only had sixteen members left.
He ordered the girls into a small van and bound them with duct tape. The van was left at the docks while he watched the police and ambulance workers empty the building of 34 corpses. He stood there for only mere moments, went back to the van, and drove up north to Dayton, Oregon, where he was born and raised. A day later, they arrived at the house he grew up in, which was left abandoned for reasons he never knew. He huddled the girls inside, ordered them to strip off all of their clothes, and reapplied the duct tape around their wrists and then raped them while the others watched. This would go on for two days straight, leaving many girls with bruises and cuts. After he finished with all the girls, he locked them in a dark room with no food or water, ordering them not to make a sound, or they would be killed. After he had killed the girl who dared to ask her question, the others knew not to take this warning lightly.
With only fifteen girls remaining, he exited the house, walked to the storage shed, and got out a can of gasoline. He poured it around and inside the house, especially near the room where the girls were kept. He lit a match and threw it on the ground. Urich turned around and got out of the house, which was now ablaze. He felt no compassion as he heard the girls who loved him, begging for their lives. He just stared as the roof caved in and the sounds were stopped.
Brandon Urich got in his car and took off, leaving sixteen more bodies in his wake.
________________________________________________________________
He was standing in line at McDonald’s, waiting for his coffee.
“Hey Cy,” a man says to the one formerly known as Brandon Urich. “Going to work?”
Cy looked up to see his friend George, a man who has worked with him for fifteen-years at the fisheries. “Yeah, going to drink this coffee and read my paper first.” He received his coffee, sat down at his favorite booth, and left the restaurant after he finished.
Near his van, the van that had once carried sixteen young women to the house they would die in, stood a young man he had seen inside the restaurant. As soon as their eyes connected, the young man walked over to Urich. “Can I help you?” Urich asked.
“Are you Brandon Urich?”
“No,” Urich muttered.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“No, you stupid fuck. Now get the hell out of my way.”
The young man pulled out a gun and held it to Urich’s forehead. “Don’t fuck with me, asshole. Are you Brandon Urich?”
Seeing the gun in the young man’s hand, sweat raced down his brow. Due to fear, Urich finally gave in. He almost choked on the words as they left his mouth. “I was. My name is now Cy Danehope.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No. Who are you and why are you holding a fucking gun to my head?”
“I’m your son, you stupid fuck.”
Urich didn’t know whether or not to believe the man, but he decided to go along with the suspected ruse, hoping to get out of this with his life.
The young man, his son, cocked the hammer back with his thumb, screaming now: “My name is Ryan, since I know you don’t have a fucking clue what my name is. You never cared about that shit. Do you remember my mother?”
By this time, the police had arrived and quickly surrounded Ryan and Urich. A bullhorn carried an authorative "lay down your weapon" order, which was ignored by Ryan. He repeated his question, only louder. "Do you remember my mother??!!"
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”
Tears gathered in Ryan’s eyes. “She killed herself when I was five. It was the only way she could get rid of the demons that haunted her; the demons that you created.”
Urich stood stunned, but still unable to grasp the full scope of damage he had caused. He muttered a half-hearted apology to Ryan, which only fueled the boy’s anger.
“Burn in hell, you piece of shit.” With the hammer cocked, Ryan’s index finger pulled the trigger back. The last sound Brandon Urich heard was the gun going off in his face. The last sensation he felt was the bullet racing through his skull, exiting out the back of his head. His last thought was, strangely enough, of regret - something he had never felt before.
- - -
In the aftermath, at the trial, Ryan recounted to the jurors the stories he had heard from his mother and grandparents and was ultimately found not guilty, by reason of temporary insanity. With Ryan being the only known descendant, police gave the cremated ashes of Urich to him. His mother's memory could finally rest in peace. His father could burn in hell. It was time to move on. Ryan did not bother to scatter the ashes... he left the urn in a dumpster behind the nearby Arby’s, and took a brief walk over to the bus stop - whistling happily.
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