The Mass

A monstrosity birthed of transgressions.

Dominic Slavyanko earned the nickname “Lucky” after he murdered his thirteenth victim. His associates didn’t call it murder. It was business. And business had to be done. The next day a mass of bulbous tissue appeared on his ribcage, hidden under the solid rock masquerading as a bicep on his mesomorph frame. Perfect lats were contrasted by the ugly growth and Dominic sneered in disgust. Several scars from bullet and stab wounds were trophies proclaiming victory. This was a wound of another nature, unexpected and ungovernable.

The tissue was colored red and purple and felt tender to the touch — a possible side effect of the drugs he ingested to help manage otherwise uncontrollable urges. The peaks and valleys of the mass reminded Dominic of his victims, their faces contorted in agony. One splotch, an ink work of bruised skin, illustrated a face begging for mercy and an opportunity to say one last goodbye to loved ones. Dominic knew it was an excuse for delaying the inevitable in hopes of a reprieve.

“You should go see a doctor,” Dominic’s girlfriend said.

“I’ll have Vincent take a look,” Dominic said.

“No, a real doctor. Not your fixer,” she said.

“A man that can remove a hollow point and set a broken bone is the only doctor I need,” Dominic said.

Vincent worked out of a dilapidated strip mall in a vacant medical office with dingy subway tiled walls and peeling wallpaper. He operated on a cold steel table adorned with leather restraints, regardless of the patient’s willful participation or their connection to the business. Dominic sat freely on that same steel with his shirt off and arm up as Vincent — a callous med school dropout — poked around the growing mass.

“It’s not the drugs. You should see a real doctor,” Vincent said.

“You sound like my girlfriend,” Dominic said.

“You want me to remove it?” Vincent asked.

“Have at it,” Dominic said.

Vincent had at it. He swabbed the area with alcohol wipes, gave Dominic a local anesthetic, then performed amateur surgery with the precision of a board certified professional, artfully sliding the scalpel across the infected area. After an hour and several staples, the wound was patched.

“Don’t get it wet. I’ll give you antiseptic for daily cleaning. Come back in a few weeks and I’ll remove the staples,” Vincent said. Dominic left behind a thick brown envelope stuffed with cash. But he couldn’t wait two weeks.

No more than a night would pass before he decided it was time to see a real doctor. The pain became excruciating, and the bulbous tissue reappeared and spread across his abdomen and then up toward his neck, a trail of overlapping lumps that marked his body. He cursed the condition, which left him weakened and in an unfamiliar state of contemplation regarding his vocation. The mass pulsed and several boils developed into open sores, causing names and misdeeds long forgotten to subjugate Dominic’s every thought.

When Dominic described the condition over the phone to a doctor’s receptionist, she implored him to head to the emergency room... possibly a flesh-eating bacterium... had he been out of the country recently? He didn’t have time to answer. His boss Alexei called.

“Another job,” Alexei said.

“I got this thing. A health issue. I need to take care of it first,” Dominic said.

“You saying ‘no’?” Alexei asked.

“I’ll do it. Just not tonight,” Dominic said.

“It’s tonight, or not at all. Maybe you’re not so lucky,” Alexei said.

“Send me the details,” Dominic said.

When Dominic received the assignment, he stared in disbelief. A priest. While not religious, or even prone to spirituality, the idea of killing a clergyman would bring unnecessary attention to the business. In response, a shock of physical torment ran up his chest and around his spine, crawling up his neck to his hairline. He reached back and felt the mass throbbing, or so the tips of his nerve endings led him to believe.

The priest kept a private vigil in a rectory adjacent to the church. Late into the night, he prayed while prostrate in a den adorned with candles and the image of Christ in glory. Dominic slipped through the back door as words of supplication left the lips of the priest, filling the space with the humility of a man basking in the resplendence of the God he serves. The heat of the mass emanating beneath Dominic’s dark clothes grew unbearable as he pulled out a revolver and took aim.

“I know why you suffer,” the priest said, catching Dominic by surprise.

“I’ll take care of this after I take care of you,” Dominic said.

“I’m not afraid to die, not for bringing the truth from darkness into the light,” the priest said.

“You don’t know what you witnessed, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll never testify,” Dominic said. He groaned in pain as another mass immediately formed on his hand, bubbling up and then enveloping the gun, making it difficult for him to remain in control. Flickers of past guilt and shame, the abuse of generations from father to son, strangled his mind and flowed outward as rage toward strangers.

“Your time for confession and healing is now,” the priest said, turning to meet Dominic’s stare. The twinkle of candlelight revealed a monstrosity birthed of transgressions, grossly distorting a once healthy man and turning him into a mess of rotting flesh and decay. Dominic fired the gun, unsuccessful in his attempt, the flash and sound muted by the biological sediment plugging the muzzle.

“I confess... it is too late for me. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Dominic said. He limped from the room, dragging a swollen leg and foot behind, his shirt tight and tearing around the collar as he failed to fight off the malady pushing him to insanity, threatening to consume his whole being. Vincent stepped out from under the cover of darkness, disgusted by Dominic’s progression, only certain it was him by the small section of familiar eyes and nose still showing.

“Alexei was right. You couldn’t finish the job. Now I’ll have twice the payday,” Vincent said. He raised his gun and shot several times, impossible to miss the lumbering host. The bullets put Dominic down, his breath slowing and then stopping as the tissue on his body moved in waves, communicating an intelligence aware of impending death. Vincent entered the rectory and finished the job Dominic could not, but upon exiting the only remaining sign of Dominic’s body was the indentation in the grass and a slurry of purplish-yellow substance.

Vincent bent down and touched it with his finger, and in that instant a glimpse of the priest and a twinge of guilt swept through his conscience then disappeared. His cell phone rang.

“Is it done?” Alexei asked.

“It’s done,” Vincent said.

“Good. Meet me at the warehouse. I want to shake the hand of the man who is taking Lucky’s place,” Alexei said.

The call disconnected. A burning sensation trickled through Vincent’s arm, and he scratched a small growth forming on the back of his hand. The mass looked familiar. No matter. He had business that had to be done.