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and the videos would easily pick that up. What the public would see were celibate servants of God slavering for sex. Priests enthusiastically copulating with street prostitutes? Nuns moaning in orgasmic bliss, begging for more, during a twenty-man gangbang? This was just what Farringworth needed for his plan, and it was exactly what he was getting thanks to the Metopronil.
    Oh, the wonder of pharmaceutical science…
    John watched, fascinated, as the nun grinned lasciviously through what must be incalculable pain.
    Her eyes were glazed in lust as the freak’s turgid flesh split her wide and punched up into her bowels, bruising internal organs. John could see the remnants of her reason shutting down, a lust-crazed insanity replacing it. All will was lost in this nun now. Her faith too was lost, abandoned. A rosary still hung down between her tightly wrapped breasts swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the monster’s pelvic thrusts.
    Her name was Mother Angelina and she was very nearly a living saint. Her humanitarian efforts with AIDS and Ebola victims in Southern Africa were known all over the globe. She’d negotiated peace talks with terrorists and even traded herself for the release of hostages. Just last week she’d addressed the United Nations to plead for an end to the war in the Middle East. And now this sainted woman, revered all over the globe, was taking inch after inch of gnarled cock flesh between her flabby ass cheeks and loving every minute of it.
    Cameras in each corner of the ceiling were recording her every moan and shriek. John smiled and winked at his beautiful monster who was obviously having the time of his life. From deep beneath his Cro-Magnon brow Billy winked back. John hoped that his cameras would record the exact moment when Mother Angelina’s mind flew asunder. He wanted it all—every second—for the feed they piped anonymously onto the internet. Later, Michaels would shoot her full of heroin and dump her off on a street corner in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district with the transvestites and prostitutes or in the middle of Time’s Square or even on The Las Vegas Strip. He had the resources to put her anywhere in the world. In a donkey show in Tijuana, in Hong Kong in one of the Filipino brothels in Lan Kwai Fong. He could dress her in a French maid’s outfit and drop her in Bangkok, in Pat Pong where Thai girls shot ping-pong balls out of their vaginas with overdeveloped kegel muscles. No matter where she ended up, her days as an inspiration to millions were over. When this tape hit the streets it would shake the faith of half the world. Then God would have to come to him. He would have to reveal himself in all his flawed and imperfect glory and John would capture him like a firefly in a jar. Then he’d have all the power he needed to make the angels love him.
    Farringworth’s last glimpse of the scene was this: Mother changing positions, her tits hanging. She was fellating Billy’s waste-smeared cock with gusto, leaving brown marks around her mouth like a sloppy child eating a chocolate ice-cream cone.
    The billionaire eased the door quietly shut and relocked it. He then continued next door to the suite where his beautiful angels lived.
    The angles were John Farringworth’s first acquisitions. They were twins, lithe and elegant giants nearly seven feet tall, albinos, hermaphrodites, gaunt as scarecrows. Niveous elongated forms so achromatic they were nearly transparent. Ethereal wraiths wrapped in paper-thin white skin that appeared to be little more than a sheer blanket draped over their wiry muscles. Their eyes were as cold and bloodless as their flesh, utterly devoid of pigmentation save for the pinhole-sized pupils. Long spidery fingers ending in nails, so overgrown that they curled under at the ends and spiraled, dominated their hands. They refused to let them be clipped. Their hair was likewise overgrown. Spilling in long luxurious locks down their backs to the tops of their