Hate Crimes Division~ dystopia

                 Originally everyone was a Hater, to some degree. Society had been loosely structured around the archaic rules of the Nazarèt; that Pitiful Prophet, Who, along with His ragamuffin crew, had tried to turn the world upside down.

                 Then came Bastion, the Magnificent Pride of all Creation, and her boss.
                 She joined the entire universe in devotion to Bastion’s supremacy, and his infinite tolerance.
                 Bastion accepted everyone except Haters.
                 Bastion’s great tolerance could not possibly tolerate the Haters’ intolerance.
                Anyone viewing Bastion’s image experienced liquid peace, and an erotic magnetism toward the asexual being. Bastion glistened like tourmaline, sporting stiletto heels which magnified his Herculean legs. As an act of worship, men and women gratified themselves, using Bastion’s image for inspiration, repeating his name as often as possible. Bastion loved the sound of his name, which eased the painful memory of people hallelujah-ing the Nazarèt long ago.

                Bastion had actually been a major player in the overthrow of that emaciated seer.

                Bastion was sent to enlighten society with his gospel of peace, and predictably, the Haters, with their dogged insistence on ultimate truth, only proved to the world that Bastion’s way was the right way, the broad path that invited all reasonable souls to share the love.

                Regrettably, even during Bastion’s zenith, Nazarèt’s spirit-driven words spread like viruses, and ignorant souls regularly found His words and ate them.
                Once swallowed, the infected fools developed a smell which made them easy to detect. Nothing could mask the odor of death attached to the Haters, and it was her job to sniff them out and chop them off, at the neck.

John 16:2 The time is coming when anyone who kills you will think they are offering a service to God.

                
               She initiated her career as one of the best agents, but in the past few years, her sniffer had begun to play tricks on her.
                  Two years ago, she found a nest of Haters in the eastern sector, and an eight year old boy was amongst them. He smelled strongly of death, and as she cuffed him, he turned to assist her, saying, “I know how hard this is for you.”
                  She clubbed him, and the blood from his scalp reeked of demise.

 “Don’t speak to me, you little Hater,” she hissed. “I love my job, ‘cause I get to eliminate stinking carcasses like yours.”

 The child looked at her. “I know you hate me, but I feel kinda sorry for you. Can you smell my prayers?”

                  Suddenly, an aroma of cut grass and leather wafted from the gash on the boy’s head.His amber eyes penetrated some breakable thing in her soul.

“I find myself loving you,” the child said in genuine bewilderment.

“Shut it, vermin. I can’t wait to see your stinkin’ head roll,” she snarled.

“I’m glad you’ll be there” the child said sweetly, smelling of rainfall and vanilla.

                 She didn’t attend the boy’s execution. His sincere amazement at his unrequited love for her left her unsteady, and she lost her craving to see his head separated from his body.

                 Since that day, her sniffer had been off.

                 She’d track down a nest of Haters, following their yellow stench into basements and attics. And then, she’d catch that blast of fragrance emanating from the cretins while she bludgeoned and tazed them, like vapors of incense saturating the atmosphere.

                  In dreams, their apprehensive eyes implored her, even as the vermin shed tears for themselves and for her. In her nightmares, they possessed a dignity she couldn’t comprehend.  Even in her agitated slumber, she’d smell lilacs and cut wood emanating from those souls sitting beneath some sort of altar.

                 When her arrest numbers drastically dropped, her superiors suggested she resign.

                 Now, jobless, and soon to be homeless, she roams her former beat, hoping to uncover a nest of Haters and recuperate her job. She can no longer detect that smell like buzzard vomit, defiling Bastion’s utopia, but occasionally, she’ll catch an invasive fragrance of life, an unfettered aroma that hides in attics and cellars.

                 She stays far away from that perfume, that unnerving anointing which seems to follow the Haters like a shroud. 

                And so, she wanders the streets, dangling desperately in that place between lost and found.

 2 Corinthians 2: 15 We are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. 16 To the perishing we are an aroma of death; to those being saved, we are the perfume of life.