Saint Brittany the Ruthless
by Larry D. Thacker
Dr. Paul DeJuste (honorary) was the first to get struck down.
He arrived the funeral home with his young arm candy trophy wife, Hanna, who wasn’t so much of a prize any longer some whispered behind their backs, stood in line impatiently, checking his gold watch, playing with his phone, obviously desiring to be anywhere but at this young lady’s funeral, got up to the casket, quickly shook some hands and, while obligatorily standing and commenting on what a fine job the funeral home had done, eventually made the mistake of laying a finger absentmindedly on the deceased’s nearest shoulder.
Have you ever accidently touched the distributer of a car while it’s running? That’s how DeJuste reacted. Like he’d stuck his finger in a socket while standing in a mud puddle. Or maybe as if someone had snuck up and tagged him in the middle of the back with a taser gun. His arm went straight, he let out an awful, vibrating groan, staggered back a few feet and fell into the first pew of grievers.
Ever seen a hand after it’s been rattlesnake bitten, all swollen and disfigured and turning brown and black and green? That’s how his hand and forearm looked by that night.
Ever seen a dying asshole? That was him a week later, laid up, unable to breathe right, or walk, talk, eyes sunk into his head, the life draining out like that shock had pulled some sort of plug from his soul.
He was the first devil Saint Brittany took out.
The second devil she destroyed was taken out with dumb luck.
Ray Ange got away with murder. Fifteen years ago. Killed his wife sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. But he had a good lawyer. The jury wasn’t quite convinced. He had an alibi that lied for him. Everybody knew all this, but you can’t argue with a shitty verdict.
Ray was asked by Brittany’s mother to serve as a pallbearer for her graveside service. Brittany’s mother never believed Ray could do such a thing, so even though he got the stink eye from plenty of people, he didn’t hesitate to help. He wasn’t going to hide in his own town, he’d say.
He knew the family well but wasn’t kin. He’d been sweet on the girl once. The other pallbearers were cousins and an uncle. Right before they closed the casket to roll Brittany out to the hearse, the family took a last moment with the body. The pallbearers were lined up, Ray was last, and they walked by the body, laying a hand on her hands. Her cold little hands were crossed ever so gently over her abdomen. Ray felt obligated to do the same. That was a mistake. He fell to the floor, sick as a poisoned dog, his right hand and arm shaking. An ambulance took him away. He never left the hospital and hardly anyone bothered noticing or caring.
Father Artemis at St. John Catholic (Reformed) was the first to put two and two together and called an emergency meeting of church elders of the Catholic, Episcopal, and Methodist congregations in town. Two mysterious deaths of two infamous characters within a day, seemingly by way of touching the deceased’s corpse? He could smell a miracle from a mile away. He’d managed to get the burial postponed at the last minute. The family balked. The church won, especially after suggesting that, at a minimum, it might suggest some awful disease at hand requiring emergency study.
After a few weeks, much more had happened. A few more men had been struck down. There was something undeniably miraculous at hand.
The reverend sent a letter to the Pope:
Your Holiness,
These may strike you as unorthodox reasons for why we believe Brittany Sanders ought to be considered for beatification and possible canonization, but please hear us out.
First, can we consider this question? Can good happen by way of a seeming evil deed? In other words, can our Lord’s work be found in what, on the surface, may initially be received as a tragedy? How about a necessary evil?
We believe genuinely evil people are being miraculously struck down or maimed by way of a recently deceased young woman of our community. Indeed, we believe miracles are taking place because of her since her mysterious unsolved murder.
We have taken to calling the deceased, Saint Brittany, which we realize is premature, but we hope shows our faith in what is to come.
Allow us to share our experiences:
How, your Holiness, can these events not be miracles if they result in good?
We’ve gone through quite a lot of scientific testing already, though we realize the Vatican and Holy See possess your own procedures and scientific body. Ours was conducted by the local university which has its own reputable Osteopathic School of Medicine.
The procedures were conducted thusly:
Saint Brittany, whose body is incorruptible to date, was secured in an airtight glass coffin in a room just out of the county courtroom. The accused were made aware of this fact. They were also informed that when making their plea of guilty or not guilty, they would then be required to touch Saint Brittany’s hand by way of a vinyl glove which extends into the airtight space holding the body.
For example, three youths were arrested, accused of homicide. All three plead not guilty, though given the circumstances, their attorneys advised against it. The ringleader, a young man, dropped dead during the test. So did his girlfriend, his accomplice. The third, another girl, survived. She claimed only to have witnessed the crime and taken no part in it.
A certain man was accused of embezzling a great amount of money from a local technology company. He plead not guilty, refused to touch the holy corpse, but was made to do so, causing his left arm to turn black within the weekend and his tongue to fall out dead. He remains incarcerated on his seven-year sentence, though is very much invalid.
While local authorities consider Saint Brittany’s death a cold case, there is hope, due to such great attention, that those guilty of taking her from us will be brought to swift justice.
Saint Brittany’s work continues weekly here in our community. We pray for your consideration and hope for a positive outcome, your Holiness.
Most Sincerely in Agape,
Rev. Artemis J. Ramsey, II, Ph.D. +
Another death brought about by our beloved Saint Brittany, is almost too embarrassing to speak about. It wouldn’t have happened, of course, if the coroner’s office had better vetted their county interns. The county coroner, Don Wester, had his suspicions, and there were rumors about the young man, Jared White, having taken liberties with cadavers in the past, but nothing had come of it. Yet. He’d dropped out of the local med school, it was rumored, not long after failing gross anatomy courses.
He fell ill after assisting with the girl’s second autopsy. He should have never been left alone with the deceased, yet from his evil was birthed our present blessing. Mr. White was a married man, a father of two, a boy and girl, twins. He left them behind. He fell ill the night he took his evil liberties, his maleness turning gangrenous in less than 24-hours. He passed in a terribly painful manner.
Father Artemis informed us, after writing the Pope—that’s THE POPE—that there would be no beatification, let alone a snowball’s chance in you-know-where for our Saint Brittany to be heralded an official Saint by way of canonization by the church. The Pope would hear nothing of it. He’d send no scientific envoys. What’s happening here should not, would not, could not, be associated with the Holy Church, in his preeminent opinion.
Well, that’s too bad now, isn’t it?
Now, we don’t want some political feud with the Vatican. We just want to be left alone. To do as we see fit with our patron saint of justice, Saint Brittany. The way we see it, if the miracles weren’t supposed to happen, they never would have started, and they sure wouldn’t continue as they are now. She hasn’t let up.
She’s housed permanently in an alcove chapel we built onto the Catholic church with funds raised from visiting pilgrims. We finally elected us a county judge willing to hold court at the church. Everything’s working out just great, I’d say. Judge Williams has no qualms with quoting Saint Brittany’s latest statistics to people right before they plead.
The latest cumulative numbers are impressive to say the least:
7 murderers,
76 liars,
48 thieves,
57 adulterers.
But what of the politicians, you ask?
Yes, the politicians are on Saint Brittany’s radar as well. Rather than waiting on them being caught for a multitude of transgressions, and given that we know they’re guilty of something, we are preempting the worry of social embarrassment and are rounding them up for a general visit with the saint. This, of course, accomplishes two things: instantly punishing what we didn’t know about in the first place and warning off those who would be tempted in the future.
We were disappointed at first when the church rejected our little miraculous corner of the world. I’ve got a feeling, though, given how things are going, they may be the ones calling on us soon.
We can only pray, can’t we?
He arrived the funeral home with his young arm candy trophy wife, Hanna, who wasn’t so much of a prize any longer some whispered behind their backs, stood in line impatiently, checking his gold watch, playing with his phone, obviously desiring to be anywhere but at this young lady’s funeral, got up to the casket, quickly shook some hands and, while obligatorily standing and commenting on what a fine job the funeral home had done, eventually made the mistake of laying a finger absentmindedly on the deceased’s nearest shoulder.
Have you ever accidently touched the distributer of a car while it’s running? That’s how DeJuste reacted. Like he’d stuck his finger in a socket while standing in a mud puddle. Or maybe as if someone had snuck up and tagged him in the middle of the back with a taser gun. His arm went straight, he let out an awful, vibrating groan, staggered back a few feet and fell into the first pew of grievers.
Ever seen a hand after it’s been rattlesnake bitten, all swollen and disfigured and turning brown and black and green? That’s how his hand and forearm looked by that night.
Ever seen a dying asshole? That was him a week later, laid up, unable to breathe right, or walk, talk, eyes sunk into his head, the life draining out like that shock had pulled some sort of plug from his soul.
He was the first devil Saint Brittany took out.
The second devil she destroyed was taken out with dumb luck.
Ray Ange got away with murder. Fifteen years ago. Killed his wife sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. But he had a good lawyer. The jury wasn’t quite convinced. He had an alibi that lied for him. Everybody knew all this, but you can’t argue with a shitty verdict.
Ray was asked by Brittany’s mother to serve as a pallbearer for her graveside service. Brittany’s mother never believed Ray could do such a thing, so even though he got the stink eye from plenty of people, he didn’t hesitate to help. He wasn’t going to hide in his own town, he’d say.
He knew the family well but wasn’t kin. He’d been sweet on the girl once. The other pallbearers were cousins and an uncle. Right before they closed the casket to roll Brittany out to the hearse, the family took a last moment with the body. The pallbearers were lined up, Ray was last, and they walked by the body, laying a hand on her hands. Her cold little hands were crossed ever so gently over her abdomen. Ray felt obligated to do the same. That was a mistake. He fell to the floor, sick as a poisoned dog, his right hand and arm shaking. An ambulance took him away. He never left the hospital and hardly anyone bothered noticing or caring.
Father Artemis at St. John Catholic (Reformed) was the first to put two and two together and called an emergency meeting of church elders of the Catholic, Episcopal, and Methodist congregations in town. Two mysterious deaths of two infamous characters within a day, seemingly by way of touching the deceased’s corpse? He could smell a miracle from a mile away. He’d managed to get the burial postponed at the last minute. The family balked. The church won, especially after suggesting that, at a minimum, it might suggest some awful disease at hand requiring emergency study.
After a few weeks, much more had happened. A few more men had been struck down. There was something undeniably miraculous at hand.
The reverend sent a letter to the Pope:
Your Holiness,
These may strike you as unorthodox reasons for why we believe Brittany Sanders ought to be considered for beatification and possible canonization, but please hear us out.
First, can we consider this question? Can good happen by way of a seeming evil deed? In other words, can our Lord’s work be found in what, on the surface, may initially be received as a tragedy? How about a necessary evil?
We believe genuinely evil people are being miraculously struck down or maimed by way of a recently deceased young woman of our community. Indeed, we believe miracles are taking place because of her since her mysterious unsolved murder.
We have taken to calling the deceased, Saint Brittany, which we realize is premature, but we hope shows our faith in what is to come.
Allow us to share our experiences:
- Anyone having committed the sin of murder, and who is caused to touch Saint Brittany’s body, are immediately stricken with a paralysis of the hand and arm by which they used to touch the corpse, that limb turning dead and darkening within a day, and they are dead within a week, usually agonizingly.
- Anyone committing the sin of bearing false witness against their neighbor and is made to touch the body is stricken mute as their tongue swells, turns black, and falls away within a week.
- Anyone having a sexual affair outside of marriage and is caused to touch their privates to the deceased, experiences the same deadening and loss within a week.
How, your Holiness, can these events not be miracles if they result in good?
We’ve gone through quite a lot of scientific testing already, though we realize the Vatican and Holy See possess your own procedures and scientific body. Ours was conducted by the local university which has its own reputable Osteopathic School of Medicine.
The procedures were conducted thusly:
Saint Brittany, whose body is incorruptible to date, was secured in an airtight glass coffin in a room just out of the county courtroom. The accused were made aware of this fact. They were also informed that when making their plea of guilty or not guilty, they would then be required to touch Saint Brittany’s hand by way of a vinyl glove which extends into the airtight space holding the body.
For example, three youths were arrested, accused of homicide. All three plead not guilty, though given the circumstances, their attorneys advised against it. The ringleader, a young man, dropped dead during the test. So did his girlfriend, his accomplice. The third, another girl, survived. She claimed only to have witnessed the crime and taken no part in it.
A certain man was accused of embezzling a great amount of money from a local technology company. He plead not guilty, refused to touch the holy corpse, but was made to do so, causing his left arm to turn black within the weekend and his tongue to fall out dead. He remains incarcerated on his seven-year sentence, though is very much invalid.
While local authorities consider Saint Brittany’s death a cold case, there is hope, due to such great attention, that those guilty of taking her from us will be brought to swift justice.
Saint Brittany’s work continues weekly here in our community. We pray for your consideration and hope for a positive outcome, your Holiness.
Most Sincerely in Agape,
Rev. Artemis J. Ramsey, II, Ph.D. +
Another death brought about by our beloved Saint Brittany, is almost too embarrassing to speak about. It wouldn’t have happened, of course, if the coroner’s office had better vetted their county interns. The county coroner, Don Wester, had his suspicions, and there were rumors about the young man, Jared White, having taken liberties with cadavers in the past, but nothing had come of it. Yet. He’d dropped out of the local med school, it was rumored, not long after failing gross anatomy courses.
He fell ill after assisting with the girl’s second autopsy. He should have never been left alone with the deceased, yet from his evil was birthed our present blessing. Mr. White was a married man, a father of two, a boy and girl, twins. He left them behind. He fell ill the night he took his evil liberties, his maleness turning gangrenous in less than 24-hours. He passed in a terribly painful manner.
Father Artemis informed us, after writing the Pope—that’s THE POPE—that there would be no beatification, let alone a snowball’s chance in you-know-where for our Saint Brittany to be heralded an official Saint by way of canonization by the church. The Pope would hear nothing of it. He’d send no scientific envoys. What’s happening here should not, would not, could not, be associated with the Holy Church, in his preeminent opinion.
Well, that’s too bad now, isn’t it?
Now, we don’t want some political feud with the Vatican. We just want to be left alone. To do as we see fit with our patron saint of justice, Saint Brittany. The way we see it, if the miracles weren’t supposed to happen, they never would have started, and they sure wouldn’t continue as they are now. She hasn’t let up.
She’s housed permanently in an alcove chapel we built onto the Catholic church with funds raised from visiting pilgrims. We finally elected us a county judge willing to hold court at the church. Everything’s working out just great, I’d say. Judge Williams has no qualms with quoting Saint Brittany’s latest statistics to people right before they plead.
The latest cumulative numbers are impressive to say the least:
7 murderers,
76 liars,
48 thieves,
57 adulterers.
But what of the politicians, you ask?
Yes, the politicians are on Saint Brittany’s radar as well. Rather than waiting on them being caught for a multitude of transgressions, and given that we know they’re guilty of something, we are preempting the worry of social embarrassment and are rounding them up for a general visit with the saint. This, of course, accomplishes two things: instantly punishing what we didn’t know about in the first place and warning off those who would be tempted in the future.
We were disappointed at first when the church rejected our little miraculous corner of the world. I’ve got a feeling, though, given how things are going, they may be the ones calling on us soon.
We can only pray, can’t we?
Larry D. Thacker’s poetry and fiction can be found in over 200 publications. His books include four full poetry collections, two chapbooks, as well as the folk history, Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia. His two collections of short fiction include Working it Off in Labor County and Labor Days, Labor Nights, as well as a co-authored short story collection, Everyday, Monsters. His MFA in poetry and fiction is from West Virginia Wesleyan College. Visit his website at: www.larrydthacker.com.