PROLOGUE

I

        I JUST REMEMBERED THE first time Joel and I met.
        Here I am, in the little playground, at my neighborhood. I started playing with a cute girl I met. We’re building a sandcastle, and we’re quite enjoying ourselves. Suddenly we reach a dispute—I want to build guarding towers around the castle, but she thinks it will ruin it and wants to make a beautiful princess looking out the window. I say, “Ew, no!” and we start fighting. Then some other girl comes and they both walk away. The girl I’ve been playing with sticks her tongue out at me, so I get annoyed and call her a “lebsian.” She, in return, throws sand at my face. When I finally manage to open my eyes, she’s already busy playing with the other girl and won’t even bother looking at me.
        I look at the two of them play, and suddenly I become really sad. Then I briefly look at the sandcastle, and then kick it angrily. I can’t stand looking at the thing that made us fight in the first place. I’m starting to think that I could make her a statute of the most beautiful princess ever, out of plain sand. I wouldn’t mind it taking weeks, months, years even—as long as she wouldn’t go. I honestly don’t know why. I almost cry. My lower jaw is quivering and I’m burying my face in my hands.
        “Don’t be sad,” someone says. I look up and see a little black wolf. “I’ll play with you. My name is Joel.”
        “I’m Artie,” I say, and we start playing in the sand nearly instantly. Can’t remember what we built. Maybe another sandcastle.

II

         JOEL AND I DON'T ATTEND the same elementary school—he attends the “normal” school at the end of the street, and I attend the Shepardic (that is, “of the Church of the Sheppard,” which is more or less like Catholicism) boy’s school at the other side of town. But I can go see Joel whenever I want. He always waits for me at the gate (we both finish at the same time, but the bus takes a while to get to my street). I drop off at his school, and we go hang out in town.
        This wolf guy’s quite interesting, really. I don’t know why, but he seems really mature. He talks about a lot of things I’ve never heard of from anyone else: he mentions people like Jimmy Hendrix, bands like “Pink Floyd,” films like One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, et cetera. He even told me what “The F Word” that kids in my school get into so much trouble for, even when they only say it accidentally, is.
        However, the most notable thing he told me about was that he’d read The Catcher in the Rye. I gasped when he told me about it. The Catcher in the Rye was a book that got completely banned from my school. Nearly anyone caught reading it was on the verge of being expelled. The principal even came to class especially to tell us how dangerous the book was and how we’ll get to Hell for reading it. And here he is, telling me nonchalantly, “I just finished reading The Catcher in the Rye”!
        “It’s a great book. I recommend.”
        “Oh no, Joel, the principal himself said that’s just what Satan wants—”
        “And you actually believe that?”
        I turn silent. I started thinking about it, and then I recalled how I saw that kid coming out of his office with teary eyes and a quivering chin. When I asked him what’s the matter, he answered, “It’s a secret. Satan’ll eat me if I told you.”
        “Good. I’ll lend you my copy, but don’t tell anyone.”
        Only when I finished reading it, I finally understood the real reason everyone told me to stay away from him. I’ve always seen something special in him that made me stick to him, now I understand he was a “quasi-portal” to a new world, far better than my “Pleasantville”-like society I was accustomed to as a child.
        (I nearly forgot to mention: The Catcher in the Rye was the reason I got into writing. To this very day, I am very grateful to Joel for showing it to me.)

III

         FOR QUITE A WHILE JOEL was like a mentor to me. He taught me many new words (most of which could’ve gotten me expelled), watched “forbidden” movies (not necessarily pornography, also artistic and controversial ones), recommended to me great books, and even got me starting to date girls. After a wile I started finding books and films my own. I was now as much of a rebel as he was.
        Then, a few days before I finished elementary, it happens.
        My mother, father, little brother and I are all sitting in the dining room and eating dinner. My brother finishes and goes to sleep, so my mother seizes the opportunity and says, “Artie, your father and I wanted to speak to you.”
        My heart skips a beat, and I ask, “About what?”
        My mother sighs and draws a copy of The Canterbury Tales. Not just any copy—MY copy. “We found this in your room,” she says.
        I always knew this day would come. It scared me, but I was also looking forward to it. Now I must be brave.
        “Yeah, so?”
        She sighs again. “It’s not just that—we also found The Giver, Marx’s writing, Nietzsche, Orwell, even Salinger.”
        I’m scared, but I’m doing my best to keep eating with a poker-face.
        “We’ve read some of your works,” my dad says. I slowly lift my head up in anger. My works are the one thing I allow no one in the world touch. Even Joel only heard some—I wouldn’t let him read them for himself, being too afraid of the idea they’ll be harmed.
        “What—did—you—do?”
        “We nearly got two hemorrhages apiece,” my father continues, ignoring my words. “You use a lot of bad language, you put to words the most deviant feelings, you express dangerous ideas—what’s gotten into ya, Artie?”
        I hold my jaws in rage. “What’s gotten YOU?! My writings are my most treasured, most PERSONAL possession!! How on earth could you have such NERVE?!”
        “You see?” my father continues. “You never dared to speak like that to us before. Something’s wrong, Artie. Very, very wrong.”
        “It’s all because of that Calley kid you’ve been speaking to, I know it!” my mother says.
        “Good Lord!” my father exclaims in shock. “Is that true, Artimus? Have you been in contact with Joel Calley?”
        I look at them both in enormous rage. “Artimus?” my father rushes me, not taking the hint.
        “Take a fucking guess, moron!”
        My parents both gasp in great shock.
        “Artimus Crowley!” my mother says. “Do you realize what kind of sick Devil’s child you’ve been with?!”
        “YOU TWO are the sick devils here!!” I yell at them. All of my previous fear disappeared. “You two Goddam phonies brainwashed me since I was born with all that Shepardic crap, and now, when I finally manage to correct it—and I’m not even making a scene about it—you two dare to CRITICIZE me!! HOW DARE YOU?!”
        Suddenly, my father slaps my face. “That’s it, young man. You are officially through with your dinner. Go brush your teeth and go to bed.”
        I coldly get up, leaving the plate in its place, say coldly, “Thank you for dinner. It was most tasteless,” and reach the stairs, where I see my little brother, on the verge of bursting into tears.
        “What are you doing here, Max?” I ask.
        “I-I woke up to get some orange juice and-and I heard you talking about Canbentury Tails so I started listening in case you’re getting a pet and-and you started yelling and you said the F word and I got scared…”
        Here he starts to cry. I embrace him till he calms down, whispering, “Shhh… It’s OK. Mommy and daddy had a big dispute with me but we’ll take care of it. Everything’ll be just fine.”
        We then go to our respective rooms to sleep. I, however, can’t get sleep for about an hour because of regret. Not about the argument, exposing my brother to it, nor even about lying to him, but because I didn’t expose him to is properly.

IV

        I FINALLY GRADUATED FROM elementary and began attending a “normal” middle school. (I told my parents I won’t go to another Shepardic school, and they didn’t insist. We hardly spoke after “that time.”)
        Luckily, this middle school is the same one Joel attends. It’s quite weird, really, to have so few religion lessons and even learn with girls in the same classroom. But I like it. And the society is incomparably better. Joel introduced me to a few people, most notably Angela “Angie” Jansen and her boyfriend Richard “Rick” Riberio. Both seem somewhat too impulsive (and, I dare say, not exactly as bright as Joel), but they’re nice, interesting people.
        There is one thing, however, that is “the rotten apple in the pile”—a group of no-good jerks from my elementary also attend this school. (The Shepardic middle school here is selective—non-religious rebels and all-F academic failures don’t get in. Guess which one got them rejected.) So, instead of maintaining the status quo of having only their own heads filled with nonsense, they decide to be missioners and fill other heads with nonsense, only more violently.
        So, one day they come to us during recess across the hallway, singing, “Perspise Cristicula, kay dignasio…” so loudly I think my ears bleed.
        “Well, well, well, if it ain’t lil’ ol’ Artie boy!” their leader, an ape named Rocky Faust, says. He used to be in the homeroom class by mine and always hated my guts for getting good grades. Quite often he tripped me or stole a notebook of mine, and I, in return, thanked my teacher very loudly for every A when I knew he could hear.
        “The black sheep o’ da herd!” an ant named Ahab Caleb says. He was a year my senior till 4th grade, then we were at the same class. He didn’t dare to harm me, probably thanks to Joel.
        Everyone in the gang laughs, and Joel, who was drinking from the fountain, says, “I think it’s better than being a dumb sheep, don’t you think?”
        The whole gang gets aggravated, especially Ernest Rome, the real sheep. “Shut up, wolfie,” he says.
        Joel simply snickers and continues, “You know, it looks like your noble Shepard put a blind sheep to lead you. Whenever it trips and stubs its toe, you all follow mindlessly.”
        “Don’t listen to that sick wolf,” the ape says.
        Joel laughs at their faces, and says, “Didn’t expect anything less.”
        Then he loses it. “Aright, wolfie,” the ape says, “let’s settle this like men. Meet us tomorrow at 6 o’clock P.M. at the playground.”
        “It’ll be my pleasure.”
        Once they start walking away, Joel adds, “Oh, by the way, it’s ‘Perspice Christicola, que dignacio, celicus agricola pro uitis vicio. Even an anti-Christ like me knows that.”
        The ape then turns around to hit Joel, but right then the bell rings. He moves his index finger across his Adam’s apple horizontally, so Joel growls and shows his fangs in return. Then the hot-headed herd walks away.
        I’ve been watching the whole thing with my jaw dropped in shock. “You come watch too,” Joel says nonchalantly.
        I don’t even bother shutting my jaw while we head to math class.

V

        I’M FEELING QUITE WEIRD, hiding between the branches of the big willow tree at the playground. Oh, here comes Joel! How typical of him, walking with a straight back, hands on his back. Like a real Victorian nobleman.
        “We said 6:00, not 6:10!” the sheep says, and I try not to sigh too loud.
        “Dreadful sorry,” Joel replies. “Shall we commence?”
        “Yeah, let’s!” the ape says and snaps his fingers. Oh shit.
        “Just a second,” Joel says. “You said we’ll settle this like men, right?”
        They all look at him, baffled.
        “Do men simply go and blindly beat up whoever protests against them, or do they show they’re brave enough to use words and prove their point logically?”
        He’s well-aware of his logical failures, but also of the fact that they won’t attempt to find them. And so, Rocky the ape begins:
        “Look ‘round. Ya really think all this coulda been made without anyone responsible?”
        Joel takes a few seconds, and the whole gang starts to smell their victory, but then Joel asks, “Have you ever looked at an advanced math book? And I mean high-school and university level.”
        They stopped smiling, perhaps they understood Joel had simply toyed with them by stalling his answer (not a likely scenario; they probably just figured it won’t be such an easy victory).
        “I have,” the ant says.
        “Then you must have seen how complex and sophisticated it gets, right? And God was not involved in the making. Think about it—even had there been nothing in existence, 2+2 would still be 4, even had it not applied to anything.”
        The gang starts to get pissed, and Joel continues:
        “From here we can also get to my next point, and that would be the fact no life-forms were found on any planet besides Earth in the Solar System so far. You see, even if a die has 5,000 sides, 4,999 white and one red, if you throw it 5,000 times, the red side would most likely show up once. Same with the planets—life-forms developed on only one planet out of many. This is what would normally happen without intervention.”
        Having nothing to say, they clench their fists tightly, Oh, boy. Joel’s going to die.
        “Regardless, if you really are doing what your hypothetic ‘God’ wants, why did he let Hister wipe out so many of you 50 years ago? Isn’t he supposed to be ‘compassionate,’ ‘loving,’ ‘merciful’ and all that crap?”
        They seem angrier and even shattered, till one of them, a baboon says, “It was a punishment for pædophilia!”
        “That’s nonsense. If ‘God’ wanted to end pædophilia, he would’ve done it far more efficiently. Do you think it makes any sense to kill millions of people, many of which Shepardic priests, as a hint to stop pædophilia? Is ‘God’ some kind of a fucking idiot?”
        “Don’t talk like that about God!” a peacock says.
        “Yes, every time someone curses ‘God’ one fairy dies. Maybe next time, it’ll be you.”
        Now they’re seconds from exploding, but Joel continues:
        “Now for my final touch-up: tell me, how is it that people wrote about meeting Jesus and seeing his miracles, and their words are regarded as true, historic writings that even get declared as holy, even though almost all researchers say that they were written about 80 years after Jesus died?”
        There is a very dramatic silence, and Joel says, “Quod erat demonstrandum: the Shepardic doctrine cannot be correct. Unless you have some other argument?”
        That’s the last straw. They could no longer tolerate Joel’s smug pose, his rebellious attitude, his atheism, but most of all—his cold-hard logic. They all dash forward in rage, and the ape says, ‘God damn you, go to Hell, stupid anti-Christ!!”
        Then, when they’re about a yard and a half away, Joel reveals the true reason for his posture: he quickly draws a large metal staff, like those you see street-gangsters carrying in the movies, from the back of the inside of his shirt, and hits the one mostly to his right so hard he knocks down all the others. Then he starts kicking and hitting them with the staff with all his strength, singing, “Perspice Christicola, que dignacio! Celicus agricola pro uitis vicio! Filio, non parcens exposuit mortis exicio! Qui captiuos semiuiuos a supplicio! Vite donat et secum coronat in celi SOLIO!!”
        They try to attack back, but most futilely. Then they try to escape, and Joel eventually lets some crawl/limp away in shame, but not the ape, a snake and a rat, whom he beats unconscious, saying, “Where’s your ‘Lord Almighty’ now?”
        Once they’re unconscious and I double-check to see no-one’s around, I come off the tree and get to Joel.
        “Whoa… Joel, what the fuck—”
        “Hey, why can theists do it and atheists can’t?”
        “But… They are—”
        “Unconscious. They’re not dead. I think. Regardless, it was self-defense. And no-one’s gonna know—I’m going to throw this away right now.”
        Joel goes to throw the staff to the nearby large garbage can. Stunned, all I can say is, “Whoa, Jesus…”
        We both turn silent for a moment, then Joel starts to laugh, and I join, embarrassed.
        So began the decline of Joel Calley.
        The ape did, indeed, die. The snake lost his sight and left school the rat became a cripple and stayed. The sheep became a Satanist and began idolizing Joel; the and left for a convent; and the baboon converted to Islam, became a drug dealer, dropped out of school, joined a street gang, and eventually died of overdose (or was it a street-fight?) after only two months. The others (don’t remember their number, names, or species) got broken limbs and ribs, and once they’d healed, they never returned to the Shepardic Church. They became normal bullies, but they still shivered in fear whenever they saw Joel. As he predicted, none dared to complain.

Proceed to Chapters VI-X