Free Thomas M. Disch by The Priest

tears. “He was fourteen.”
    “Yeah, fourteen when he committed suicide, but thirteen when you got your first blow job from him. Right, Father?”
    “I stand corrected.”
    “You sure as hell do, Father. Correction’s going to be your middle name.
    Now, let me ask you this: Have you been reading the literature?”
    “Not thoroughly.”
    “You’ve been too busy? You’ve had a fair while now, Father. And you keep saying, ‘Yes, I’m going to read it.’ Then the next time I call, you still haven’t got to it. It’s very important for you to become acquainted with the literature, Father.”
    “I confess I have difficulties.”
    “That’s an understatement, Father. But I guess you meant a different kind of difficulty. Like, you got a problem accepting some of the ideas, is that it?”
    “That would sum it up pretty well.”
    “But you believe in all that Catholic bullshit, right? The Virgin Birth.
     
    Jesus coming back to life. Noah’s ark. All kinds of miracles. The devil.
    You’ll buy all that, but you can’t believe in UFOs? You think we’re all there is in the whole universe?”
    “Not necessarily. But I have to say that much of what I’ve read in Mr.
    Boscage’s book strikes me as… invention.”
    “Science fiction is what a lot of his enemies call it.”
    “That is what he was known for initially, I gather.”
    “That’s because at first he didn’t realize where his ideas were coming from. He explains that in chapter one of the Prolegomenon . Have you read that far?”
    “Yes.”
    “So, how much have you read?”
    “Up to the point where he learns he was a Roman centurion in an earlier existence.”
    “And there is proof of that, Father. There is a tape that you can listen to. There is a session where Boscage was regressed back to his identity as Gaius Lucius, and he talked in Latin, very clearly, for about ten minutes.
    And what do you think he’s talking about? The Lupinids. So how do you explain that away? Boscage never studied Latin. He didn’t go to fucking high school.”
    Father Bryce could think of no reply. Boscage’s book, A Prolegomenon to Receptivist Science , was a virtual anthology of New Age absurdities and an obvious hoax by a rather unsophisticateçl hoaxer. To argue against it was as hopeless a task as bailing water out of a ruptured boat.
    The problem was that he was a passenger in that boat and the boat was in deep water. Clay was a true-believing Receptivist, and he was determined that Father Bryce was to join him in his folly. If only his blackmailer had been motivated by simple greed, or even malice.
    “So, I asked you a question, Father, and I’m waiting for an answer.”
    He sighed. “There is no explanation that I can think of.”
    “Hey, now we’re making some progress. You keep reading the book. And think about it. ‘Cause it is relevant to what is going on with you. These things don’t happen by chance. Your little hustler didn’t kill himself because you were abusing him sexually, Father. Somehow the Lupinids are involved in this. I don’t know how but somehow.”
    Father Bryce said nothing.
    Clay seemed satisfied. “I gotta go now, Father. I expect you got things to do, too. But I’ll be checking in same time next week to hear how the tattoo is progressing. Give my regards to old Wolf.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    The line went dead.
    Father Bryce realized that there were tears in his eyes—and, at the same time, such rage in his heart that if Clay had been here in this room with him he would have bludgeoned him to death with the telephone receiver. He would have done it joyfully.
    But Clay was not here, and Father Bryce had no idea where to begin to look for him. Murder was not a possibility open to him. And he hadn’t the strength for suicide.
    He was trapped. There was nothing he could do, if he wished Clay not to send the incriminating videotape to the police and the media, except to submit to his demands, however lunatic, however