THE CHASE

THE CHASE

I'm dreaming that I'm running across the seashore of rocks and shells and sand, chasing the Devil.

I see the tracks of his cloven hooves in the sand and the colors of his robes changing like the chameleon from the white robes of the Church to the black robes of Hell.

Why has God cast me into a perpetual pursuit of the Devil?

My mother enrolled me as an altar boy at Saint Peters when I was eight years old.
She said a Priest would be a good role model, and only goodness could result from it.

It was Sunday, and there he was, Father Milton J. Comstock: raven hair, six feet tall, one hundred and sixty pounds, smooth white skin, and a sweet odor of body lotion, manicured fingernails, the crucifix, and the robes of the Catholic Church.

I saw him in the bright light of God's glory that blinded me from the sight of his cloven hooves.

By the time I was ten years old, Father Comstock had sexually abused me over a year and a half. He made me into a beast that I did not understand or recognize.

Everyday I pleaded with Mother to let me quit the program, because I needed to study. I convinced her that good math grades would provide a college scholarship.

Now I was ashamed and embarrassed by the sexual things Father Comstock did to me and how he made me touch him, when his body lotion turned to the smell of wet fur, and when he bit me on the ankle; I did not understand anything he was doing, or why.

It was a possession, he knew what he was doing was wrong, no matter what he said about "rights of priests," and his claim that I was a "Centurion Candidate" in training to become a "Soldier of God."

Demoralized, was my life, in one word; I became depressed, spending my time researching the Bible to find my authority to slay the Devil.

The answer was found in Jeremiah, 23, 1-4:

1 Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock of my pasture, says the LORD.

2 Therefore, thus says the LORD, the God of Israel, against the shepherds who shepherd my people: You have scattered my sheep and driven them away. You have not cared for them, but I will take care to punish your evil deeds.

3 I myself will gather the remnant of my flock from all the lands to which I have driven them and bring them back to their meadow; there they shall increase and multiply.

4 I will appoint shepherds for them who will shepherd them so that they need no longer fear and tremble; and none shall be missing, says the LORD.


The message was clear. I had to kill Father Comstock. He is the Devil disguised as a Shepherd, preying on the sheep of the Lord.


In the eleventh grade, my growth spurt ended at six feet five inches, and one hundred eighty pounds. Despite my blonde hair, tan skin, and white teeth, I had no girlfriend because I was still ashamed, and I did not know who or what I was.

Although I did not participate in school sports, my friend Jerry got me a tryout for the cross-country team. I knew the course because I often went into the woods by myself and ran for hours without stopping.

The woods were my love; the aromatic sensual pleasure of the Loblolly Pines standing like giant spectators along the course, waving me on and the physical sensation of running on concrete to crushed rock, to grass, up and down hills and through valleys, anticipating it all as I ran.

When I arrived for the tryout, the coach looked at me as if he did not believe I could even run the five-mile course.

The coach was an old, over confident, belly-over-the-belt guy, with a moonscape complexion, and picket-fence teeth in his small but exalted role in "Cross-Country."

He blew the whistle and I ran and never looked back. He sent along another runner to watch me.

When I finished running the coach said I failed to run the full cross-country course. I thanked the coach for the tryout.

Later, the other cross-country runner swore to the coach that I was never out of his sight and that I had completed the full cross-country course.

Several days later the coach approached me at school and apologized to me. He said my time was as good as the best runners in college competition; the look in his eyes: I was a Kentucky Derby winner he could ride to a high level of coaching glory, just by his mere presence with a stopwatch and his impotent whistle

No coaching, no sweat, he was just another exploiter.

My body became rigid and my neck and shoulders tensed, the hair on my neck became wet, my jaw started to expand and my teeth became larger, although not yet noticeable to anyone who may have been watching.

Feelings of rage made me want to bite him and rip out his throat.

I realized that this is the same feeling that I got when I was thinking about the Shepherds of the Devil. Restraining my anger I told the coach that I would check in with him later in the week. No way.

On to college on a mathematics and chemistry scholarship, although not certain which academic path to pursue, Nevertheless, I started a plan to kill Father Comstock.

Every full moon caused noticeable changes in my appearance. The hair on my body became a dark grey, and my teeth became longer. I told no one. It was my secret, my shame.

While studying, I came across an article from the National Center for Disease Control, explaining viruses. It made me wonder: what if a Shepherd of the Devil caught the flu and died from a virus sent by God. There would be no crime, no crime scene, no motive, and no murderer.

Maybe a virus could be used to kill one person or many depending on the skills of the person controlling the virus.Some Priests would have to die, but only those that were corrupted pedophiles.
I expanded my college courses to include Microbiology and Virology.

I'm dreaming again and now I see the Devil in a dark evergreen forest. The spirit of turpentine pine envelopes me as the pine needles of the giant spectators beginning to create a soft light and I begin to run.

My destiny: the perpetual chase. To kill the Devil and his soldiers of the black abyss, a fierce adversary with strong powers who changes from form to form, human to beast.

I have chased the Devil on seashores, through green forests, around tall buildings, and finally into Boston, always wondering about my own existence.

I'm wondering about the abused becoming the abuser. I often think about the old black and white movies that claim that if a bat or a werewolf bit you it transformed you into a vampire or a werewolf.

I have never believed in those horror movie myths. Nevertheless, I wonder if there might be some substance to it the way my body changes during the full moon.
What if it applies to sexual child abuse? Do I become an abuser or kill those that do?

I have only love, no sexual feelings towards children, yet I feel alienated and confused as to my attraction for women. I am afraid to start a relationship because I have the potential to become a werewolf, and I am afraid of the damage might I do.

Many criminal defendants claim that their physical and sexual abuse of children is not their fault because they themselves were victims of sexual abuse.

Some of these claims have been given some level of support by the testimony of psychiatrists and psychologists, in the sentencing phase of sexual abuse and death penalty cases as mitigating circumstances, to avoid the imposition a life sentence or of the death penalty.

Because Father Comstock has sexually abused me on so many occasions, I often wonder if my own personality has a dark side.

I hate Father Comstock for the suffering and self-doubt he has caused me. Yet, I'm a Soldier of God. The training was negative but successful, because I can now recognize the Devil no matter the disguise. Not only can I see Evil, but I can smell it.

I continue to dream. I'm standing in a Catholic Church in Boston. It is late afternoon the church is empty. I genuflect and enter a pew. I kneel and close my hands in prayer. I can see the Holy Bible on the altar, sweet smelling white flowers on the steps to the altar, and above it the crucifix, and I think about God.

I believe there is only one God with many names: The God of the Old Testament; and the glory of the Torah, Jesus Christ, the New Testament, and the Eucharist. The Koran: Allah is God and Mohammed is his messenger.

The Devil has no part and no place in any of these religions. The religions are allies, yet they fight. Why, God?


I see a man. He is approximately six feet tall, one hundred and sixty pounds, smooth white skin, and a sweet odor of body lotion, manicured fingernails, the crucifix, and the robes of the Catholic Church. He is walking towards the front of the Church.

It is the Devil himself: Father Comstock dressed in a bright green cassock with his gold crucifix around his neck, appearing to prepare to conduct the true mass of the Church.

However, the Devil is only able to conduct theatre, for he has no power of consecration over the Eucharist.

I get up from the pew and walk to Father Comstock.I look in his Devil eyes, and say: "How are you doing with the local 'sheep'? With a 'bah bah' here and a 'bah bah' there, old Father Comstock is the Devil's Shepherd, so beware."

It is obvious that Father Comstock does not recognize me.
"What do you mean by that perverse question, young man?"

"Are you still "sodomizing" the sheep of God's pastures?"

"Young man, I'm going to call the Police, you are a sick individual, and you need to be in an institution."

"I'm really hurt, Father Comstock, to think that you do not recognize a child you sexually molested. Oh yes, Father, the mouth and the anus of the lamb, biting the ankle, all your sexual desires fulfilled in the sanctuary of God. What greater sin can there be?"

I saw Father Comstock's face turn whiter than the flash of a fluorescent light. He looked terrified, and started to leave. I grabbed him by the right wrist and started to squeeze. Father Comstock's eyes began bulging out of his head, as if he had just stepped off the altar with the hangman's noose around his neck. He fell to the floor of the Church.

A woman entered the Church. I told her to call 911, as it appeared that Father Comstock might have fainted or has some other medical problem. When the woman went to make the call, I left the Church.

I did not feel threatened because I knew that Father Comstock would never tell anyone what had happened. I was quite sure that I had broken his wrist.

My dream continued in the hospital emergency room. I stood outside the sheet surrounding Father Comstock, where he could not see me, but I could hear his conversations with the nurses and doctors.

Father Comstock was moaning in pain and said he could not use his right arm and his ankle hurt. Even so, he was vague and evasive in his description as to what had happened. He suggested that he might have fallen trying to avoid a dog, but left himself other avenues of explanation if x-rays suggested any other cause.

The doctor told Father Comstock that they had a mystery on their hands. It was because the wrist had been so severely damaged; the doctor concluded that the damage to the wrist must have been the result of an automobile accident, not a slip and fall as Father Comstock had suggested although there was an obvious bite mark on his ankle as if he had actually been bitten by a dog.

"This is not just a fracture; it is a 'comminuted fracture.' That means to reduce to small, fine particles, to make into powder, to pulverize, triturate."

The doctor went on to explain that a substantial amount of pressure must have been exerted on the wrist by some sort of machine.His eyes opened wide in disbelief when Father Comstock just shrugged and offered no further explanation for his injuries.

At first, he considered calling the Police, but then decided he would not do so since he did not have any medical explanation, and no underlying factual basis to rely on and he did not want to be embarrassed.

Since Father Comstock refused to pursue the matter any further the doctor let it go. However the additional findings that Father Comstock had a bruise on his wrist, in the shape of a cross suggested a very bizarre situation and the refusal to talk about the dog bite on his leg was incomprehensible.

I'm certain that there are other Centurions that are Soldiers in God's army who also pursue the Devil and will help me in my plan to kill Father Comstock; I will find them.

Each day is another step towards winning my "War against the Devil."

I'm dreaming now and I'm in Rome. I see many Priests and Cardinals, but I do not see the Devil. I continue to look at the feet of every passer by; the cloven hoof will be seen by this Soldier of God, the scent of the beast will be detected, no matter the disguise.

There, a man dressed as a Cardinal, the flash of a hoof. My God, is the arrogance of the Devil so pronounced that he will fight on Holy ground?

Then I notice a statue of Mary. I get on my knees to pray.

The smell of roses creates an enveloping bouquet and I hear a voice, "kill the Devil and save mankind."

I awake.