Sabretooth: The Hunt – Three Our Fathers

“Come out of the masses. Stand alone like a lion and live your life according to your own light.” ~ Osho

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************
Now
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Father Patrick O’Neal frowned at the noise the parishioner made entering the confessional. Through the partition screen, he could only make out that the person was a large male and with the long hair, possibly one of those awful biker types. Once the man composed himself, it became eerily silent on the other side of the screen.

At a distance, he could hear the others locking the doors. Had they forgotten him? Soon, the cathedral was silent – accept for the abruptly louder deep breaths of the person kneeling to confess.

The voice when it came was low, with an accent that was hard to pin down. It was obvious the man wasn’t one of the unwashed blue-collar Bostonians he now shepherded in this new flock, though he did seem rather creatively uneducated.

“Forgive me Father, fer I’ve sinned; been ‘bout a hundred an’ forty years since my last confession.”

Father O’Neal’s frown deepened. “Either you are confused, my son, or you aren’t taking this seriously. The confessional is not a place for jokes. What is your sin?”

“I killed a priest.”

He was about to chastise the man for making jokes again, prepared to tell him to leave, the church was closed – but something about the low voice made him pause. “Are you telling the truth now? Lies are sins.”

“There’s lotsa sins, Father. I’m tellin’ tha truth.”

A chill ran up his spine, but he felt exhilarated, too. He would get this person to turn himself over to the police; maybe he’d even get his picture in the paper – if the man wasn’t lying. “How did you kill this priest?”

“Chased ‘im through ‘is church after everybody was gone. Was gonna set an ambush in tha confessional, but then I felt … chatty. Seem’s t’ me, a warnin’ shot is more sportin’. Cornered ‘im in a spot where he liked t’ hunt ‘is own prey. Let ‘im beg fer a li’l bit, just t’ give ‘im a scrap o’ hope. Then I got t’ work, before I dug my claws in an’ tore out ‘is guts. Watched ‘im die before I left; I like t’ watch ‘em die.”

It had to be a crazy man telling lies. “Where was this priest, what city?”

“This one, Father – Boston.”

He swallowed. He’d heard nothing of the sort. “What church?”

“This one,” the voice repeated, turning the words into a weird sibilant whisper.

“My son, please stop lying. Nothing like this has happened here. Do you need help? Perhaps a hospital could –”

“Ya didn’t ask me when.”

Stifling a sigh, he asked, “When did this happen?”

“At tha stroke o’ six – t’day.”

“It’s five o’clock, my son. Saturday Mass is over. You are confused. Tell me this – what is the name of the priest you murdered?”

A breath was drawn in, and then came the creepy whisper, “Father Patrick O’Neal…”

He turned his head and stared at the thin screen.

“They say he came from California, moved by tha church t’ avoid trouble out there. Ain’t ya gonna ask me why I did it?” The voice had turned into a rasp of cold menace.

The priest shuddered. “Why did you do this crime?”

“Cuz Father O’Neal liked t’ touch li’l boys.”

As he stared, frozen, at the screen, he twitched when some sort of blade pierced it. The silver point began to cut the screen – a claw, like a beast.

“C’mon, Father – ain’t ya gonna gimme some penance? How ‘bout three ‘Our Fathers’? I promise t’ give ya a head start while I’m recitin’ ‘em…”

Father O’Neal was still for a moment. When he inhaled, he bolted up and crashed through the confessional door. The other booth exploded, its door flying into the aisle as a monster, a demon from Hell, burst out of it and jumped at him. He screamed and ran for his life across the nave.

************
Last Night
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Victor Creed rolled over in bed to lie on his back. He smirked when warm fingers touched him and a hot, wet body climbed up to claim his cock again. Half-asleep, his hands held the hips and directed the pace. For a moment, he couldn’t remember what he was in bed with before he realized it was female – not that it mattered.

One warm hole’s as good as ‘nother…

He waited until he came to open his eyes. She wasn’t young, but that never mattered either; the older ones knew more tricks and tended to be less picky. The smile that slanted at him under the hair dyed dark brunette left him wondering if he’d gotten her profession right. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up with some housewife on a bender instead.

With a grunt, he picked her up off him and laid her back down at his side. “Do I pay ya, or just tell ya I had a good time?”

“Eight ouwwahs, $800 – but if you doan have it, it’s okay…”

Victor snorted, rolled to his side and groped for his jeans on the floor. “Ain’t gotta offer freebies cuz yer afraid I’d hurt ya fer insistin’ on gettin’ paid.”

“No suh, yoah a man got plenny a chahm.”

“Yeah, that’s me – Prince Charmin’. T’ be honest, I almost ‘preciate tha chance t’ catch a nap more. Ain’t had any real sleep in … geez, maybe a fuckin’ week. Ya didn’t jack with me while I was out, or bail, an’ wakin’ up with hot snatch on my dick – that’s always a treat. So yer gettin’ a tip fer that, since ya couldn’t go out huntin’ again with me in yer way.”

“Yoah too kind.”

“Oughta be a merit badge fer folks brave ‘nuff t’ lemme eat ‘em out, too.” One finger finally hooked on denim. The wallet on its chain had fallen out of the pocket.

She stretched beside him and shuddered with leftover lust. He abruptly remembered how surprised she’d been that he wanted to pleasure her – and how shocked she was that he had. Most of the night was fuzzy and he didn’t bother to recall more, but they were lying on enough dried cum to convince him that she’d had a few rides while he slept – serious balls of solid rock, all things considered.

Rolling over to lean on him, she kissed his back. Her small hand fished for his dick again and found it hardening already. “Oh my Gawd, this thing,” she muttered, the admiration in her tone making him growl with pleasure.

“I gotta make tracks, darlin’, but let’s call it an even grand, cuz yer ‘bout t’ blow me again, ain’t ya? One fer tha road…”

He opened the folded leather wallet and peeled ten of the hundreds off the rest. He flopped to his back, holding the folded bills between two fingers with the tips of claws peeking out. She took the money and stuffed it under her pillow before reaching for his dick with both hands.

“What’s yer name, doll?”

“Molly May.”

“Yer real name…”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Cecilia Stewart.”

“Make it memorable, Cecilia, an’ I might look ya up next time I’m in town.” Victor grinned as she took his cock into her hot mouth, made half of it disappear and never choked once. “Good girl,” he told her as he began to purr.

~ ~ ~

Walking through a small park an hour before sunrise, Victor hummed a jaunty tune. Breaking into an off-key baritone, he sang, “Makin’ love in tha afternoon with Cecelia, up in my bedroom… I got up t’ wash my face, when I come back t’ bed, someone’s taken my place… Celia, yer breakin’ my heart…”

The creak of rusted chains ahead sounded and then stopped. He veered out of curiosity and went through a belt of trees to find a metal swing set with a small boy frozen in fear on one of the swings. Other bits of old playground equipment surrounded him. The ground was worn to dirt, but a few feet beyond, a tangle of overgrown grass, weeds, and wildflowers improved the smells of the large city.

“Hiya, kid,” he said. On impulse, he pulled his long black coat out of the way and sat on the end of a slide close by. He displayed his hands, metal claws peeking out, on his worn jeans. “Bit early fer ya t’ be out here, ain’t it?”

“Ah you a monstah?”

Victor smirked. “Matter o’ fact, I am. Ain’t on tha clock, though, so yer safe.”

The boy looked away to stare at his shoes. “No suh.”

Out of habit, Victor caught his scent and then frowned, a growl rising from his chest. The claws slid out, long and wicked, as he flexed his fingers. “Who did it, kid? Tell me who hurt ya an’ where they are, an’ it won’t never happen again.”

The small, thin face looked up at him and there was no fear there anymore for the hulking beast beside him. “Not allowed.” He glanced up once over Victor’s head and then back down to his shoes.

Victor turned his head and looked up. Over the next clump of trees and shorter buildings, he could see the dark copper spire of a Catholic cathedral not far off. “Priest, huh? Are ya safe at home, usually? Got anybody that loves ya?”

The boy’s fear spiked at the mention of a priest. “Mum does, but she doan know. Yoah not allowed in church.”

“I can go anywhere I want.” Victor pointed to the spire. “That one? Who is it?”

“Doan know. Nevah seen him befoah.”

“New guy – typical.” Victor rose and held out a hand, the claws retracting. “C’mon, ya shouldn’t be out here.”

“Ah you going to eat me?”

“Nope, gonna take ya home.” The boy stood up from the swing and put his tiny hand in Victor’s huge paw. “Let’s go.”

He turned in the direction of the boy’s multi-layered scent track and led him, but after the child winced the first few feet, he picked him up and carried him on one arm. He passed out on the way, but it was easy to follow the brief worn trail to the small house he’d slipped out of hours earlier.

Victor set the boy down in a chair on the porch and knelt on one knee in front of him as he woke. Wide brown eyes stared at him as small fingers lifted to touch one of his lower fangs.

“Gonna ring tha bell an’ yer ma can come get ya, but I want ya t’ promise me yer gonna tell ‘er yer secret. Promise, an’ I’ll go get ‘im.”

The boy nodded. “Will you promise to eat him?”

“I promise,” Victor said, and showed him a toothy grin. Glancing over at a plastic car toy with the name scrawled on it in a child’s writing, he added, “Ya don’t gotta be afraid no more, David.”

“You know my name?”

“Yup. Tha monster in yer closet is a buddy o’ mine. Don’t worry – he ain’t a mean one, he likes ya.” Victor winked at the hesitant smile that won him.

He rose, rang the doorbell, and disappeared. Leaning against the side of the house, he took a deep breath when the door opened, catching the scent of both the mother and her wounded son – and isolating the stench of the creature that had hurt him.

Noting the number on the house, Victor slipped away into what was left of the night and headed for the church in the distance. Breaking into it and getting into the church records would be simple – waiting patiently for the right moment would be hard.

************
Now
************

Father Patrick O’Neal was surprisingly spry for a human scarecrow over sixty. Victor’s roar echoed under the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral as he launched himself through the door of the confessional booth. It burst off its hinges and went flying, crashing into a pew. Bounding on all-fours, he got close enough to swipe claws and rend the man’s robes before letting him dodge across the nave.

The priest found the only door that wasn’t locked, the one that lead deeper into the building past the classrooms and offices. Somewhere in that warren was a door to the courtyard, but he wouldn’t be able to scale the fence; the gates were locked, as was the school building behind the church.

Victor paused to give him a head start, with or without penance prayers to keep him occupied. The sun was slanting through the many stained-glass windows. They may as well have been modern art, for all the attention he paid to their symbolism, but the sunlight coming through their colors was worth admiring at least.

In the distance, through the door, he could still hear his prey moving. It excited him, making it harder to wait. When the sounds stopped, he stalked to the door. It was dark in there, for the prey. His eyes could see just fine. Letting out a low growl, he stepped through and began to hunt.

He passed by the room the prey had gone to ground in to hide, just to get the bastard’s blood pumping. A smile tugged at his lips as he turned back and heard the tiny sound of a released breath, with a tinge of mint on it.

“Olly, olly, oxen free,” he intoned as he filled the doorway of a small classroom. “C’mon out, Father. I can smell ya, can smell yer victim on ya, too.”

He deliberately moved wide of the mark to flush the prey. In the instant that the man jumped up to run for the door, Victor grabbed his leg, his claws slicing through pants, skin, and muscle. The scream was delicious, but the survival urge in the prey was even better as he lurched up to limp into the hall.

Victor moved slowly, even leaning on the wall until the man hit the door to the courtyard. It nearly bounced him backward.

“I stole tha key fer that, Father. It’s on tha carpet by yer hurt leg.”

He saw it, struggled to get it. By the time the metal scraped inside the keyhole, Victor lunged down on him, slashing his claws across the man’s back as the door popped open inward. The knob put a hole in the wall under his falling weight. Landing on hands and knees, the priest crawled forward. The smell of blood made Victor’s fingers and jaw ache.

“Who are you? What are you?”

“Right now, just fer ya, I’m David’s pet monster.”

The man looked back at him. “You’re not a demon, you’re just a mutie…”

“A kiddy-diddler sicko an’ a mutant hater, huh? Gotta admit though, saw it on yer face – demon was yer first guess. I ‘spose I’m flattered.”

Getting back to serious crawling, the priest set his eyes on the distant fence.

“Help! Help me, please!”

“This is South Boston, ya know, an’ tha sun’s startin’ t’ go down. Tell ya what, let’s play a game.” He strode up before the man could crawl out of the shadow of the brick building and kicked him in the ribs to flip him to his back. “Here’s tha rules: I’ll let ya get outside tha fence, but ya gotta give up anythin’ that touched that boy, first. Whattaya say?”

The man held up a shaking hand to ward him off. With one swipe, Victor’s claws sheared away the fingers. Kneeling down over the man’s hips, he speared the other wrist with a claw and carved each of those fingers off – one by one.

“It’s a pity t’ shut ya up, but – rules are rules…”

His grin was fierce as he poised one long thumb claw over the man’s face. When he screamed again, it stabbed down and pierced the tongue. Another claw severed the wet thing and he held it up on the end of his thumb.

“I made David a promise, Father.” Smiling down at the horrified stare, he sucked the moist meat into his mouth and swallowed it. “Eh, tha oysters in this town are better. Sorry, but those gotta go, too.”

He dragged two claws across the face, around the mouth, cutting the lips away. Swallowing them, he cocked his head and watched the prey a moment. Smirking, Victor went to his knees, straddling over the creature’s thighs.

“Now, lessee, what else? Oh, well, there’s always that.”

Garbled moans and weakening struggles didn’t give much sport as the maimed hands lifted, the arms shaking.

Victor retracted his claws and opened the belt and pants slow, letting anticipation gather and coil inside them both. Fishing out the works, he fisted a hand around the base of all of it and squeezed the delicate connecting tissues.

“Ya like this bein’ messed with, I heard – or scented, t’ be fair. Guess’n I shouldn’t lie t’ a priest – haven’t lied yet, though, huh? It’s ‘bout t’ be six, after all. Bein’ at tha mercy o’ somebody bigger an’ stronger ain’t no picnic, is it? Oops, well, that’s gotta be rhetorical, I ‘spose. Though technically, it is a picnic – fer me. Now this next bit’ll kill ya, but I want ya t’ know – when they find what’s left, gonna be lotsa ya missin’. I got me an appetite worked up after a night full o’ fornicatin’ an’ I gotta promise t’ keep.”

The eyes were turning glassy with shock, the fingerless hands flopping on the chest. Victor leaned in and grinned.

“When ya ring tha doorbell o’ Hell, give Ol’ Scratch my regards, Father.”

Moving back, he lowered his head and dropped his jaw. Setting the fangs, he released the limp genitals and let them fall against his tongue as he moved his hand. Looking up, he was pleased to see the prey staring at him in terror. With a snap, his lower jaw met the upper fangs and sliced through the meat.

Victor let the body convulse as he sat back on his knees, settling his weight on his haunches. Straightening his torso, he threw his head back and opened his throat. Sharp carnassial teeth sheered some of the meat as he opened and closed his jaw; the rest was worked down his throat like a snake eating a rat. The backs of his hands rested on his thighs as the claws slowly curled out.

After one last swallow, he growled and looked down at the warm and still prey. His stomach rumbled, the scents of blood and releasing bowels making his jaw drop again. Saliva dripping from his fangs, his claws cut open the rest of the clothes down the middle, leaving only the white collar intact.

He was quick and efficient, taking the best and richest organs on his claws to be sheared up behind the fangs and swallowed. He ate until he was sated, watching the light die around him.

For a moment, he considered stuffing the corpse in the confessional or dumping it in front of the altar, but these ideas were rejected quickly.

They’d call tha cops an’ it’d get hushed up fast. Need t’ get creative – an’ public.

He got up and walked around the corner of the building to stare at the black iron fence and its spiked points, a grin slowly stretching over his bloody lips.

Perfect.

Before he left the spitted and hanging shell of the corpse, he straightened its white collar. Chuckling, he popped a claw and wrote on the less messy side of the chest and ribs. As he scratched out the message, he spoke it aloud.

“Pedo O’Neal gotta one-way ride. Yer move, Pope JP2.”

For a signature, he drew a smiley face. Waiting until the smile dripped just so, he smirked and walked off down the street, fastening his coat over his bloody clothes.

Going into the first diner he came to, he ordered a slice of pie and coffee. He sat in a booth in the back of the place and got comfortable. When the waitress brought his order, he smiled at her.

“Are ya Catholic?”

“No.”

“Gotta camera phone? Wanna be on tha news?”

She stared as he told her what he had seen, and he smirked when she ran for her purse and hurried out of the diner, ignoring the shouts of her boss.

Pulling some cash from his wallet, Victor left the bills on the table. He ate his pie in three bites, downed the coffee, and slipped out the back.

He had to fly out to Washington D.C., but on impulse, he stayed in Boston another night. Cecelia didn’t mind the extra cash and company. In the morning, he stole her neighbor’s copy of the Boston Herald and read it on his plane. His pilot told him the story was huge largely because the bloody message was taken as a threat to the Pope.

“If’n ya wanna make a big splash, toss in a big name,” Victor replied.

“That’s the truth.” The pilot chuckled.

The reporter who nabbed the story seemed far more interested in the smiley face signature and the fact that the severed fingers had been tucked inside the priest’s body cavity where the missing organs had been. They’d been left to look like they formed letters, but a coroner had jostled the body and moved them.

“Hey, Zane – did ya read this?”

“Sure did – you spell anything?”

“Go, Red Sox!” Victor chuckled. “Or I tried t’ – ran outta fingers.” Victor glanced at the little black and white photo of the reporter under the grisly color shot of the eviscerated body on the fence. “Boston Herald’s gotta looker on staff these days. Nice.”

“D.C., Boss?”

“Yup.”

“At this hour and with good weather, we’ll land before breakfast.”

“Don’t matter none – had a big dinner … aged hypocrite, long pig tartare. Mostly lookin’ forward t’ a shower an’ a soak.”

Victor stretched out and folded the newspaper, tossing it into the seat across from his. Pulling his phone from the inner breast pocket of his coat, he sent a text to his banker with young David’s address and a note about finding out the financial situation of the mother. Sickos like his prey often sought out families in dire straits and wormed their way in with offers of help. Hitting send, he tucked the phone away.

Closing his eyes, Victor tried to nap his way to Capitol Hill. The scent of the prey’s blood on him helped soothe him into sleep.

FINI.

(Sabretooth will return in the last half of Redemption.)

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Author’s Note: This will be a part of the series I’m building of separate Sabretooth fics. This story is set up with every part or sequel showcasing Victor on a particular hunt. New installments will be added as the muse strikes. These installments will be happening in between some of my other stories. This tale is wedged inside the last half of Redemption, as one of the trips he’s on to work jobs while hoping Tabitha will contact him.

My stories reference a lot of comics canon issues and events, and I may not always cite them in the notes. I assume the avid readers will recognize those parts, and others may not be concerned with it. Most of the “history” Victor refers to is canon, or my best guess after researching canon information. Any reader as obsessed with Victor as I am is welcome to let me know if they notice any glaring mistakes. Some continuity is ignored for the sake of the story, though. This tale sports my first attempt at writing a Boston accent; if I got any of it wrong, and you are from Boston, please let me know what I can fix.

The song Cecilia that Victor sings is by Simon and Garfunkel. The phrase “olly olly oxen free” is probably ancient, most commonly known as a call made in a variety of children’s games like Hide and Seek, to indicate to players that the game is over and they can come out without losing the game. In this story, Victor says it as a bit of sarcastic psychological warfare.

For my soapbox, yes I know there are good Catholic priests. There are also many pedophile priests. This story happens to involve one of the latter. Victor writes his message to Pope John Paul II, current pope of this timeline spot. There are suspicions though, that JP2 and his successor may have been involved in moving pedo priests around to avoid scandals. Victor is a thorough fellow – the message may be buried, but if it did actually reach the Pope, it is a warning to stop protecting pedo priests.

In the canon Sabretooth limited series, Mary Shelley Overdrive (Nov. 2002), a character named Bonnie Hale seduced Victor and ended up working her way into his obsessions. Mary Shelley Overdrive is my favorite Sabey story and it influences my Sabey tales quite a bit, here and there. I highly recommend it as an excellent read. Also, my Sabey tales are often chock-full of spoilers about that story, so fair warning, if you haven’t read it yet. Please do comment/review if you like the story, feedback makes an author’s day. Thanks for reading! – AnonGrimm (@MET_Fic)

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Sabretooth Mini-series – The Hunt (Info)

Sabretooth Series – Equilibrium: of Cruelty and Pain (Info)

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