The first one born on Earth

During the centuries I spent on earth, I realized one interesting thing. My existence is a truly funny paradox. God created people to be stupid and mortal for only one simple reason. So that a creation created as much like himself as possible, in his image and likeness, would remain safe for him. But even with these catastrophic flaws, it remained so beautiful in his eyes that he could not help but demand from his subordinates the recognition of this perfection. Which infuriated many of the inhabitants of heaven. To worship hairless monkeys, what could be more humiliating for the almost omnipotent Seraphim, entities made of light and fire? In an attempt to show God the imperfection of his beloved creatures, their disobedience and stupidity, Lucifer persuaded two naive fools to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge. He gave them reason and will, albeit quite primitive at that time. He broke down one of the barriers separating people from the very essence of God, which made them not safe and entertaining little animals. Brought them closer to perfection, even though he didn't want to. And after only one thought about the imperfection of the Creator settled in my head, God was so afraid of it that he closed all the roads to Heaven and Hell for me. He did everything to keep me as far away from him as possible, as the most dangerous of people. But make me immortal, he brought my power closer to his with his own hands. He destroyed the second barrier of his own safety. What an irony. In his attempts to avoid his fate, he only brought it closer. A truly funny joke! However, I'm still not destined to reach the Creator. He had confused the paths to himself too much. Closed all roads. However, I wasn't in much of a hurry to find my way to him myself. From the Ground, there was already a great view of the endless showdown between Heaven and Hell. There was no point in getting any closer, they were entertaining me enough as it was. And so it went on for a long time. But even the most colorful show gets boring over time. Especially after thousands of years. However, that wasn't the only thing I enjoyed. I've been watching my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren grow up for centuries. Blasphemers, heretics, and alchemists. I was delighted to see them turn annoying “righteous” sins into art, without which other representatives of humanity stopped even imagining their lives. The descendants of Adam and Abel were distinguished by their meagreness and sluggishness of mind. There was a deep fear of God's wrath in their blood, which they wore like horse blinders. However, they were no less fun. They were angry at how big cities and towns were not pleasing to God, unlike villages, and how spiritless life in them was. But nevertheless, they still tried to get into these towns, for the sake of a simpler and more comfortable life. They were so outraged that medicine was disrupting God's plans by prolonging people's allotted lives. They hated self-propelled carts so much that they replaced horses... But it's not hard to guess who ended up using these mechanisms the most in their lives. Sometimes I wondered if it was so difficult to tempt such idiots to taste the fruit of knowledge. Their moral principles were as solid and permanent as the shape of clouds. “The Cain tribe" was what they called my children when they were particularly annoyed by their activities. Swearing sounded like music to me. It was a recognition of the successes of the bearers of my blood and the sinful images of thought that had black roots in the children's bones. Isn't that the most wonderful compliment? It's just a pity that I can't say that about the descendants of Abel and Adam. At least not about everyone. Yes, there are people among them who are more than worthy: proud, principled, quiet, thoughtful and cold-blooded, so much so that sometimes it seemed to me as if liquid nitrogen was flowing in their veins. Critics and anchors of common sense for my sometimes overly energetic descendants. But I have not seen many such bright stars. For the most part, Abel's tribe was too much like himself: narrow-minded, simple, and always dissatisfied with something, whiners, who also bred like rabbits in more or less acceptable conditions. Sometimes there were so many of them that I had to give free rein to my special kids. To the little gardeners who, with zeal and joy, undertook the thorough weeding of this human garden. It's not for nothing that I've sometimes been called the “Father of All Murderers.” But, I can find more interesting tasks for my gardeners. Surely not forewer the gates of the afterlife remain locked for me with seven locks?

***

Alastor is used to being a hunter. He used to playing with victims, with the police, even with the whole city. It gave him pleasure to hear other people's screams of pain. And the bright splashes of blood sometimes looked like the purest rubies he used to paint real abstract masterpieces on the walls. With special zeal, he savored the latest news about the attack of the “Lumberjack” killer on his cozy radio broadcast. But he was able to provide exclusive news in such a way that even the annoying detective did not ask where he was getting the details from. He considered himself a good and careful hunter. And he knew the marshes near the city like the back of his hand. However, it was on this day that something went wrong. At first, there was a strange man with heavy and penetrating eyes, wearing a cap with a sharp peak, who came out of the woods by the road to meet him, paying too much attention to the canvas bag with the headless body of annoying Mimsy crumpet, who decided for some reason that she could threaten him and go unpunished. Stranger told him to be careful with hunters. Then a crazy deer knocked him down, jumping out of nowhere while he watched a bag of remains and stones sink into the murky waters. And now he was lying on the cold ground near the shore with shotgun bullets in his spine. It turns out that it's not the most pleasant feeling when you stop controlling the lower half of your body. At least because you become forced to crawl like a worm. The strange man in the cap was right. Alastor should have been more careful with hunters today. The guys from among the golden youth went to the forest with weapons just to show off expensive toys in front of their friends, but being idiots they confused him with a deer. The boys immediately struck Alastor as simply incredible amateurs. Not only did they not even bother to finish him off, they also dumped him into the lake without any cargo. Even with his legs gone, he managed to get out of the viscous swamp and somehow return to shore. ―Mediocrity, — the man hissed irritably, falling wearily onto more or less solid ground. The only thing that annoyed him more was how unprofessionally and carelessly he was treated. Even he couldn't come up with a more serious insult, although he despised most of his victims quite sincerely. With another effort, he rolled over onto his back, hissing with a wave of pain. Everything was a little blurry in front of my eyes, but in my new position, even waist-deep in the swamp, it became easier to breathe. Only now did he notice that it was already dark. There was not a single cloud in the sky, just a scattering of bright stars and a huge pale disk of the moon, as if caught in the canopy of trees. Cicadas and crickets screamed incessantly around them, and somewhere in the distance frogs began a night serenade. The weather was just wonderful. The winter chill had already receded, but the sticky summer heat was far away. The most comfortable temperature. — Great evening, come to think of it, — Alastor said to himself, smiling. He's definitely finished, but at least it's not raining outside and the sun is not scorching. It is more pleasant to meet death not in the heat or under a torrential downpour. — Just right for a good jazz and a brandy. ―I thought you were the kind of person who only drinks in good company, kid,― a familiar voice sounded out of sight, but Alastor was frankly too lazy to turn his head. — You were warned to be careful with hunters. ― Please don't make it so vague anymore, — Alastor chuckled, looking straight into the eyes of the man in a peaked cap leaning over him. ― Many people, like me, will misunderstand you. — Wow, you have a handful of lead in your body. Most likely, the spine is in pieces. The idiots tried to drown you. Are you smiling? — The man sat down next to him on a rotten old tree stump overgrown with damp moss, not afraid to spoil his wide canvas trousers. His high rubber boots were still stained with mud and mud. ― Only optimists or complete lunatics usually do that. ― Oh, I can assure you that I'm not an optimist at all, — Alastor tried to wave it off theatrically, but just because of a couple of extra holes in his body, he barely managed to raise his hand. The soaked clothes seemed too heavy for the weakened man, who had already lost too much blood. The stranger took out a small flask of alcohol from the bosom of his worn leather jacket and offered it to Alastor without a word. The man could not refuse such a thing. Besides, it was lucky for him that the unkempt-looking man in the battered old flask turned out to be first-class whiskey. The evening was getting better. The killer knew that sooner or later he would end up either in a noose by a court verdict, or in a fire, which he would one day set at home because of his love of fire. So a quiet evening in the swamp is a perfectly acceptable option. Not so trivial, at least. And the company is interesting, except for the incompetent kids, of course. The man next to him reacted calmly to everything, as if, like himself, he saw deaths more often than ordinary people. He was not rude, hysterical or shouting, preferring instead to maintain an almost small talk. The radio host had no particular illusions about people. None of the adequate representatives of the human race would react so calmly to a wounded man with a bullet in his spine. Unless it was just him, and then on condition that there were no witnesses nearby who could call his behavior too strange. Alcohol caused the blood to lose its density and leave the body faster. — May I ask your name, sir? — Alastor asked, turning his head slightly towards the stranger. ― You can, young man, ― this address seemed slightly funny. The man didn't look much older than himself. — Just call me Cain. No formalities. For a moment, it seemed to Alastor that his mind was already starting broken. Did the stranger introduce himself to him by the name of the only character he found interesting at boring church gatherings as a child? Seriously? Apparently, the lead in his bones and the blood loss made themselves felt faster than he had expected. On his deathbed, the sinner of all sinners decided to visit him... It's a dream come true in the last moments of his life. — Don't you believe me? — Cain chuckled, leaning closer to his face. So close that Alastor was finally able to see something that couldn't be seen at first glance at this man, but could be felt. His gaze was hard and penetrating. That's how you feel on your skin. The pattern in the form of the word “Killer” printed in gold letters on the brown iris of the eye is an indelible mark. The word became legible and glowed slightly in the semi-darkness with a warm yellow light, like the pupil of a cat. ― It can't be, ― head began to spin. Alastor would have needed to sit up if he wasn't already lying on the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut and wearily ran cold fingers over his face, trying to bring himself to his senses. — Oh it can, son, — the man addressed him frivolously and very familiarly. How adults usually address children. ― Perhaps you imagined your death in some other way, but personally it was crucial for me to get to you before this bony bored, Deadh. Fortunately, we are on good terms with him and he did a small favor for an old friend. The drops of cold water that fell from his fingertips were clearly felt on skin. What he was feeling was definitely real. His parents were church-going people and often liked to scare him with a fiery hyena when he behaved inappropriately. But he imagined death in a different way. Thought that at some point he would stop realizing what was happening and fell out of reality. He will cease to exist and turn off like a toy whose factory has run out, and worms or stray animals will begin to devour his mortal body. Death seemed to him something much more prosaic and devoid of romance. — You know, I've been following your entertainment since nineteen eighteen, — the man confessed frankly. ― You picked up an axe for the first time when you were still a young guy. How old were you then? Twenty, if I remember correctly? You kept the whole of New Orleans at bay. Was playing with the police. Forced almost the whole city to play jazz for several nights in a row, officially declaring that on these dates you would kill anyone who would not listen to this music. ― The man who introduced himself as Cain called everything surprisingly accurately. The year of the first murder, which was covered by the press. And weapons. — You managed to make sure that all your victims or their relatives who remained alive did not remember your face, even though they saw it. Even I'm interested in that. You created imitators and fans. The only thing I don't understand is why jazz? — Why not,― Alastor replied hoarsely. ― It's great music. To this, Cain said nothing. Just chuckled slightly, either agreeing with his statement or mocking his simplicity. However, it didn't seem to matter at all. The fact that the Father of all the Killers himself called his work interesting caused him much more emotions. None of the people would approve of his sadistic tendencies. No one has understood his art and his goals. They'll never understand. He knew that perfectly well, because he wasn't crazy, no matter what the newspapers wrote. Alastor knew for sure what was acceptable to ordinary people and what was not. He was able to portray normality and be liked by the public. He knew how not to arouse suspicion, but this life seemed to be something akin to torture. It was as if he was forced to walk forever in incredibly tight shoes, like a Chinese girl with broken feet. A piece of the puzzle that managed to match the shape of the society's puzzle, but was so incredibly different in color that one could only wonder why no one noticed it. But now, lying on the damp ground and slowly bleeding out in the company of the one who called himself Cain, that vile feeling receded. It was the first time in his life that Alastor had met someone he could really talk to, and he didn't care if it was a near-death hallucination or not. He was as free as ever. It was as if he had gained wings. ― Tell me, do you realize that you're dying right now? Cain asked him. ― Do you understand where you will go after death? ― More than ever, ― Alastor replied without hesitation. ― If Hell exists, then it is more than suitable for me. Only the company of demons is good for a demon, and I've had enough of hypocritical saints here. ― Would you like to have a slight advantage over the creatures inhabiting the under world? — Cain's voice became more insinuating. ― Would you like to have a trump card in your hands that would help you have fun in Hell as well as here? Maybe even more. Alastor wanted to. Of course he would, if possible. — But in exchange for the power, I will ask for one favor, — Cain took out from his bosom a small canvas bag with strange embroidery and something rustling inside. ― These are the seeds of the Roots. I want you to go to Hell and do everything you can to grow them in all the corners you can reach. The better you can take care of them, the more you fertilize them with the blood and flesh of sinners, the more they will grow. And the greater your advantage in strength will be over the hellish creatures. However, if you let them wither... You know what would happened. There will be no deal, no more power. Alastor looked at the simple canvas bag covered with embroidered symbols so similar to Vevey, almost with childish delight. What was offered to him was... a fairy tale. By turning Hell itself into Heaven for him personally and his endless craving for blood art. But what's the catch? ― What is your advantage? — Sinner asked, looking from the bag of seeds to Cain. ― I personally have no way to Heaven or Hell. But no one said that I couldn't ask what was going on there and get in without permission. And for this, we need reliable eyes and ears, which are at the Roots. But I need a good gardener to plant the seeds. Motivated, — Cain smiled and the golden word ”Killer" on the irises of his eyes lit up brighter. — You'll have the power and I'll have a legal way to get in world of dead. We'll seal the deal with brand, but don't worry, it won't spoil your face, it'll just decorate it with a big smile (?). Well, do we have a deal? ― Deal,― Alastor replied, feeling the seal of Cain pull at the corners of his mouth.

***

― “The great Alastor, as the last altruist, almost died for his friends,” — the Radio demon parodied the vile voice of the TV presenter, whose name he never bothered to remember. The girl irritated him with a completely melodious smoky voice, which sometimes made him want to either cut off his own ears or sew her mouth shut once and for all. ― What an abomination. After the last extermenation, the only reason for his big smile was the seal of the contract. He was furious after what happened. Not only had he had to put a lot of effort into the last seven years of constant extermenation to keep the roots intact, which these winged misunderstandings sometimes cut along with small demons, but also during the last skirmish, the First Man destroyed his microphone. — Sorry to disappoint, but that's not how it's going to end for me, ― Alastor irritably scratched with his claws what was left of the remote control of the radio tower. Eyes were everywhere now. Most of the Roots successfully survived the last attack of paradise. They began to grow even better, properly fertilized with the golden blood of the exorcists, which was sucked like sponges, licking off the surface of the black earth. He should have been happy, but without a microphone, the connection to the Roots was incredibly weak. Plants have come to love being talked to. While the shoots were small and did not get eyes, Alastor conducted broadcasts for them for the most part, while he was gaining strength, and after that it just became a habit for both him and them. It was from the rare red hard leaves of the Roots that the filter of his main tool was made. And it was one of the eyes of the shoots that decorated it. “Alastor,” — he had last heard this voice many years ago, but until now he would not have confused it with anything. The soft timbre sounded from a dark corner of the radio room with the largest cluster of eye shoots. — Master? ― the presenter did not immediately realize that his voice was trembling too much with excitement. — Is that really you? I thought you couldn't go to Hell yet. “Couldn't while the Roots were weak,” — replied the shadows of the shoots, moving like a tangle of sleepy snakes. — “You did a great job. Handled your part of the deal just fine.” Alastor's heart was pounding in his chest. In his life, both earthly and afterlife, the demon received a sufficient amount of attention and praise from the ladies who were fascinated by his broadcasts. On the part of men, he preferred to feel either hatred or fear. And ideally both. But Cain was the exception. His praise evoked much more complex and deep feelings in the Radio Demon. The kind he'd only ever heard of. “So this is what a parent's praise looks like,” — Alastor barely had time to think before he heard the rustle of black roots at the radio tower's control panel. The sprouts made their way across the ruined surface of the table, brushing glass fragments and crumbs of red paint that had peeled off the steel window frames after the shock wave onto the floor. The roots entwined around the microphone stand, reconnecting the destroyed instrument. Making it stronger and more powerful. “I am saddened by the sight of a child left without a favorite toy,” — Cain's voice, sounding slightly muffled, as if through a column of water, seemed surprisingly affectionate. — "But be careful from now on. Next time, I won't help fix it.” Alastor touched his work tool with trepidation. Taking off his glove, he carefully ran his fingers over the new durable, but still elegant stand, enjoying the texture of the ebony and feeling the power that flows in the very heart of the shoots. The power they gained by drinking the golden blood of the inhabitants of Paradise. The demon picked up the microphone and the shoots of the rack moved under his fingers like venomous snakes, changing under the grip of the owner, who was getting used to it new weight. ― Thank you, Master,― Alastor said softly before starting the broadcast. He was eager to test the new tool. And he already knew who was a laboratory rat. A nasty TV presenter who took too many liberties with his persona. She was too frivolous in the news. Like someone who believed in himself too much.