"I'm whole with soul and drunk with funk, blast from the past and rave from the grave! Yo, Burracho, are you ready to go steady, are you cruisin' for a bruisin'?"
The cruiser lurched to a halt outside the gates to the well-stocked graveyard, and the demon activated all the onboard weapons systems.
"Ah don' care if'n it rains or freezes, jus' so long as I gots mah plastic Jesus sittin' on the dashboard of mah carrrrr!”
It had been remodelling the cruiser since it moved in. It extruded its newest appendage through the radiator grille. A three foot steel stake, sharp at the end, threaded through with digital nerves, stuck out like a jousting spear, dripping engine fluid.
"This is your wake-up call, Father Drunk! At the third stroke of the irritating beeper, you will be dead! Dead! DEAD!"
The priest's shack was at the other end of the graveyard. The demon lobbed a phosphorus grenade at it. It exploded with a satisfying blossom of white, and rained burning chunks all over the graveyard. They fell through the air like flaming confetti.
“I always cries at weddings!"
The demon honked its horn in the first seventeen notes of "La Cucuracha," and drove forwards.
The picket fence went down under the front wheels, and the car leaped up, snapping a gravestone in two like an aspirin.
"I'm strong at the finish 'cause I eats me spinach!"
The priest came out and stood on the front steps of the church, in the centre of the doorless arch.
He carried a life-sized wooden cnicifix with a one-armed, legless marble Christ nailed to it.
O'Pray propped himself up on his Redeemer, and hid behind the Son of God.
"Aw 'c'mon, Burracho-baby, hidin' behind a mammy's boy who's been dead two thousand years. I expected more of ya."
The demon played "La Cucuracha" again.
The priest began to pray aloud, in Latin.
"Freakin' A, Father Drunk, freakin' A."
"…in nomine Patris…"
"Cleanse your soul-ah!"
"…Filii…"
"For the Ayatollah…"
"…et Spiritu Sancti…"
"…of Rock and Roll-ah!"
The demon drove.
V
O'Pray heaved Jesus at the windshield of the possessed vehicle as it covered the distance between gate and steps.
The crucifix spun in the air and came down hard on the hood, denting it deep. The reinforced glass exploded as one arm of the cross smashed through. The statue was shaken loose, and dangled by its one whole arm.
The messiah's face looked up to Heaven, wondering why his Father had forsaken him.
The demon beeped "La Cucuracha" again.
O'Pray pulled the safety catch and opened up with the Uzi, spraying the cruiser with ScumStoppers as if spraying a patch of stinging grass with Weed-Death.
The miniature shells exploded, pitting the hood, radiator and roof with measle spots of dented, paint-stripped grey metal.
He concentrated his next burst on the engine. Even with a diabolic presence in charge, it was just an automobile. It could be put out of action.
"Ouch, Father Drunk!" It shouted, exaggerated pain in its mocking computer-generated voice. "That hurts?”
It sounded like the altar's evil twin brother.
The Uzi jammed, and O'Pray struggled with it as the cruiser inched forwards, bumping up over the bottom step.
A round had gone off in the chamber. The gun was ruined, unusable. He unslung it and, in the inevitable futile gesture, hurled it at the cruiser. It bounced uselessly off the roof.
O'Pray retreated into the church.
Perhaps the demon would be unable to trespass on consecrated ground? No, it had got into the graveyard easily enough.
It wasn't the sanctity of the ground under a church that counted, he knew, it was the Faith of the man who stood within its walls.
If this thing were to be warded off, it would not be by some impersonal decree from Rome, it would be by the strength in his own soul, the strength he thought he no longer possessed.
He had stood by and seen injustice wrought in the name of the church. He had seen his woman—his wife, in all but name—die, and abandoned his child. He had bartered away holy water for poor quality whisky.
The demon was right. He was no Warrior of Rome. He was just Father Drunk.
A grenade rolled along the aisle, and exploded with a dull phutt. It was a dud. Or a sneering jest. Lases burned, and smoking beams collapsed.
The car came up the steps and through the doorway, pushing a pillar aside. A chunk of stonemasonry fell, and the entire structure shook.
O'Pray had nothing left to fight with. He stood before his altar, and extended his empty hands.
"Go back, Satan!"
The cruiser squeezed through the rubble, and advanced down the aisle, crushing pews under its ragged wheels.
"Isn't this cosy?" it said, snidely. "What a shame God had to go home, eh? By the way things are really hottin' up in Hell tonight. We got lots of friends of yours checked in for the big welcoming party. Lots of friends you haven't seen in fifteen-twenty years. A couple of the guys took up residence in eternal burning hellfire and freakin' brimstone because of you, you know. Guys you killed in them thar holy wars. Guys who got killed while you were watchin' and singin' hymns like an unmitigated spare testicle."
O'Pray found his Faith inside him. He remembered the first prayer he had ever learned, the prayer his mother had taught him…
"Our Father, who art in Heaven:.."
He remembered her soft, Spanish accent, the occasional Irish turn of pronunciation she had picked up from his father. And he remembered his Vocation. His burning, all-consuming, bred-in-the-bone, right-from-the-first need to be a priest.
"…Hallowed be thy name…"
"The Lord's Prayer, eh? Performed by Paternoster Pete and the Putrid Pointlessnesses! That's an oldie but mouldie, Father Drunk! That's been out of the charts so long it's almost not funny any more!"
O'Pray continued, his voice taking strength.
"Ah, freak you faggot, this is where you step aside and my sharpie spears your altar!"
"…as we forgive those that trespass against us…"
The cruiser revved, its engine turning over with a chainsaw buzz. The point of the hoodspike shuddered, dripping its mechanist saliva.
O'Pray sank to his knees, back braced against the altar.
"By the way, Maria Concepcion told me to say "hi!" What a hot babe, Father Drunk, eh? Who'd a think you had it in you to hook up with such a primo quality, Grade-A, slut-featured, hot-to-trot, itchy-underwear, if-yo-so-large-there-ain't no-charge, roundheels, unholy rollin', freakpig, 99 and 44/100ths per cent ratskag sex machine!"
"…thy will be done…"
He wasn't afraid any more. He hadn't noticed before how like Maria Conception's the face on the St Werburgh's Christ was.
"Coming through!"
"…on earth as…"
The spike shoved O'Pray back, shearing through his black robe, pinning it to his chest.
"…it is in Heaven…"
The cruiser pushed, and the spike went through him, displacing bones and organs, penetrating the altar. There were sparks all around, and the radiator was pressed up close against him, stinking of burning oil.
He spat blood up over the hood.
"…amen!"
VI
Connnnn-TAKKKKT!!!!
The solid spike slipped easily through the dead priest, meeting no resistance, and rammed enthusiastically into the altar.
This was the moment the demon had been summoned for, and it relished its victory.
The spike brushed circuits inside the altar. Sparks flew. Currents crackled. Circuit-breakers blew out. Fuses melted. Microchips took on new configurations.
For a full minute, the systems melded. The steel spike lost its hardness and became malleable, durium turning to mercury. The demon let its consciousness flow out of the cruiser through the bridge of molten metal, into the body of the altar.