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Luca Pastor

We are a parable, telling tale of inescapable fate.

0 · 963 views · located in Tijuana, California

a character in “Left Hand of God”, as played by Wiley


L U C A x P A S T O R
N Oxx O N E xxS E I Z E Sxx P O W E R xxW I T H xxT H E xx
I N T E N T I O N xxT Oxx R E L I N Q U I S H xxI T.

ɴᴀᴍᴇ: Luca Pastor

ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ: The Original Spaniard Pastor Bloodline Est. 1889, Mojave

ʀᴇʟᴇᴠᴀɴᴛ ᴋɪɴ: Nico Pastor, Age 20

ᴩᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ: Heir Apparent

ʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ: March 21st, 1991 - - Aries

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴇxᴄᴇʀᴩᴛ: John 3:19 & Proverbs 4:16

✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ:

I am there when they leave, grasping at the long straw, fist full of a future. Even with belief long gone, there is a detestable flinch caused by the fear of retribution. God, may thee strike me down. For I am setting in motion the downfall of a monument. In your name, there will be crime. Sins of flesh, and greed. There will be power, and it will fall into my palms. And they will come here, like lambs to the slaughter in droves of the hungry, damned, and restless.

Luca Pastor, heir to a throne long since inhabited by the righteous. His Parents, for the lives that they lead could not have predicted the danger that would befall them at the hands of their eldest. Born on gods words, inhabited by just the opposite. Rightly so, lost in the depths of power. As they leave, the chance is presented. A prayer from the less faithful answered in a shimmering instant. A chance, to take that throne, for as long as it may be available.

Greed, a deeply invasive addiction resurfacing in the form of plans long in the works. In their stead he takes their flock, malformes and disintigrates. Until at long last, he has built the red light empire he so deserves. The intermingling of darkness to light. The whores, and the church. His whores, and his church. A goddamned gift like no other.

Let them see him now.

let them, s e e, him now.

So begins...

Luca Pastor's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Friday Knapp Character Portrait: Nico Pastor Character Portrait: Jack Soto Character Portrait: Luca Pastor Character Portrait: Hackett Deimos Character Portrait: Damon Soto
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Image Guess she’s never really been one for church unless you count the little things; God showing up in the friend who calls to check in when motel lights paint you like stained glass and tawny knuckles burn white at the edges. Communion looking like long distance calls. It’s not that long ago when she sat perched on the curb like an alley cat catching whatever stray light she could from cars passing by, phone pressed to her ear, wondering why fragmented prayers make it to her and never God. Just leak out of the receiver and leave her in a pool of neon. She’s starting to think the flood’ll find her anywhere, wet footprints her insignia.

I wanna do better is something Isa doesn’t have the words to articulate, settles for fishing psalms out of the back of some stranger’s throat, crumbling walls a quiet bystander when the same story gets rewritten in hopes that one’ll stick. But she’s learned seeing the world in darkened colors isn’t without it’s lighter moments. In the morning she’ll wake up on another side of town, light a cigarette like that’s just what you do and listen hard for the sound of the ocean receding as far away as possible. Maybe off to better places, distant shores. The Santa Monica coastline’s nice this time of year, so she hears. That’s all it’s been as of yet; hearsay. A random note in her phone among other places she’ll land in eventually, once she’s got a leg to stand on. Once she’s got a little something going that’s just for her.

A parent’s sins cling like curses, a constant orchestra just for the dysfunctional, somethin only God himself could lift if he was in the business of unburdening wayward souls. It’s a relationship. That’s what her grandma preached. You gotta meet him halfway, have to reciprocate, accept his love and his grace. Isa’s got an idea or two; namely slitting her brother's throat and offering up his transgressions to the dirt. Her sacrifice for a God that’s gotta be shown some measure of deference. The first fruits. It’s not a joke -- she loves her brother every other day. But someone’s got to laugh and Isa’s not shy about it, use to tracing soft fingers along the aging wood of church pews and wondering if this vessel of a body would still float come monsoon season, come high tide. Grandma always said she was stubborn for the sake of being so. Would chalk her current lifestyle up to it if she was alive to witness the sacrilege.

Maybe there’s a version of the universe where we don’t settle for matted hair against headboards and bus tickets, for chapped hands in mountainside towns that echo as much as her wallet. She’s just not sure where it is and the search is exhausting. Makes mistaking enmity for piety behind black rimmed eyes that much easier. (Though, calling it a mistake at this point is lending her far too much grace.)

The desert stretches out for miles just to come to a head at the dip of her collar bones, dry air snagging her skin with an eagerness only met by a certain boy in Phoenix, by an elder’s endless attempts at outreach. She’s part of the EMC crowd -- easter, mother’s day, christmas -- and even when shit got strained, she could at least say she made to God’s house on those days. Had vague ideas of the passover. This is something different and if she’d had a calendar out it’s safe to say she might’ve avoided the whole thing had He granted her the wisdom. But she’s been rocking steady on E. Soles rubbed raw tryna put one foot in front of the other. Passing up a free bed while she’s passing through would be dumb, and Isa hadn’t made it this far denying a hand out sans strings. From a good God fearing girl no less.

It’s more infectious than she imagined, more enticing than a wayward soul would like to give it credit for. In all honesty, it may be the establishment’s lack of pristine sanctimony that catches her eye. From the blonde headed apollo with a pocket knife for a smile hovering over the sun starved flock to the leather clad preacher, there’s an undercurrent that lends to something a little dishonest in its gait. Or maybe they’re speaking more truth than most are willing to slip past closed lips and hands clasped in prayer. The thought lives just behind her eyelids and nags at her brain, maybe that’s why she doesn’t dip after the first day of the festival. Doesn’t peel away from the mosaic of faces around her all hovering around their lord and savior’s eternal flame.

A free cot feels more comfortable by the day, tame’s the voice in her mind that’s been tried and tested by habit, says it’s been nice but there’s more to see elsewhere. And there is. The festival only builds as the days go by and Isa stays as tucked away as a heathen could. Watches various workers flit to and fro all in the service of their Lord, a good deed gone unreciprocated to the naked eye. She may as well have carried the devil in on her shoulder (sure feels like he’s camped out up there sometimes), like it’s painfully obvious she didn’t come for the opportunity to worship. She simmers under the weight of collective gazes for a bit, loses her train of thought in festival food, in watching tanned faces spin circles in the courtyard and trying to place the most common faces to their positions in the church hierarchy. No one ever gives her the third degree that she’s expecting.

In fact, and it’s strange to say, but the festival almost reminds Isa of home. Of biting God in the wrist and feeling teeth crack left and right. Of tip toeing the line that keeps revelry at bay. Insurrection could almost be religion when you do it right, but the way Fiestas Patronales de San Salvador rolls off her tongue like gravel leaves her curious, at the very very least. There's something about God Bless You’s from the mouths of mothers when so much as a shoulder collides; all blackberries and powdered sugar, a summers worth of restitution clinging sticky-sweet to ragged teeth. All Isa can think is I might believe it when you say it like that.

Isa’s peeling petals off a rose and watching the pious to her profane get their fill in before the festival finally winds down when a familiar face approaches. Committed like she was there when Isa’s will power had an affair and divorced itself from her better judgement, though the jury’s still out as to whether or not that eagerness is just the spillage of being a good host or a preacher’s girl sniffing out the riffraff. “Right -- hey,” she pushes cherry stem curls out of her face and let’s recognition wash over as the bristle in her spine fades to nothing. For something to be so unlike her usual scene, Isa could honestly say she was enjoying her time. Here the weather hardly shifts like a dog on it’s last legs, provides a tame kind of consistency that her brain can appreciate in spurts such as this.

“I am, actually. Never thought I’d say that about a church event. Guess y’all just have a different vibe or something.” Or something. Roses by the bunch and a priest to match; lamentations and praises alike thicker than tar. The combinations usually enough to spook anybody. Still, everything’s gotta come to an end at one point or another. And it’s not like Isa came to the desert to reify God. He's made it more than clear to her that restitution rings loud and true when you listen for it -- she's just not in the habit of listening these days. Remembers when her hearing got selective as a child at dinner time. Remembers February hanging overhead, a pastel backdrop reminding her the years don't last as long as the days and perhaps there’s a little something behind the idea of foresight. You can't take the world from someone else's shoulders when your own spine's been set to snap, but youngins always try, don't they? Roll in like a freak storm in the dead of the night, dissipate completely when there's nothing left to destroy. Nothing left to drown.

It’s a shame things can’t be easy anymore. Like orange peels boiling on the stove top, southern saints reminding everyone to just be a simple kinda man and everything'll work out the way it should. Isa knew better than most that nostalgia only softened edges better left anatomically correct -- and she had a surgeon's precision when it came to taking a scalpel to the soft skin of days long passed -- but she’s far too removed to let ancient history pull itself off the shelf.

Or she will be, once she figures out how long someone has to be gone before you stop looking for them on every street corner.

“Anyway, I’m not in a hurry to get where I’m going, you know? Just trying to enjoy the whole thing while I’m here.”

“Thanks, by the way.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Friday Knapp Character Portrait: Nico Pastor Character Portrait: Jack Soto Character Portrait: Luca Pastor Character Portrait: Hackett Deimos Character Portrait: Damon Soto
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Jack has seen the desperation of man; on his knees, bent backward, flesh digging into walls or dragging red marks into skin with concrete kisses.

Every morning brings in a new sin to behold, a revelation in sweet sacrilege that leaves Jack a quaking mess just waiting for the other dime to drop. The cash to be settled along nightstands, beside rosary beads laid out for safe keeping. He is a brand of faithful that reeks of gratification.

But aren't they all? A group of living pigments existing on the same color wheel of faith whether in the light, or in the dark of a room bathed red. Bleeding out over bedsheets with hands formed into fists. Pleasure in the house of god. The scandal it could be (that it is.) That he intensely enjoys.

Today is the kind of day that dregs these thoughts into tangible form. A busy day, only slightly off from his usual routine - or as much of a routine as he can manage between quick fucks and worship.

He is standing naked, staring at the mess of his bed and wondering when he'll get the energy to clean it up a little. He's a mess, from head to toe, internally and externally to the greatest extent. A trait that had never failed him the grief of others. And yet, with the sheer amount of fucks he gives (none) he still feels that crippling insecurity from a childhood of hard-hands.

After all, some shadows exist only as reminders of missing shapes with nowhere left to go. Afterimages burned onto retinas 'forever more.' He can still hear them if he thinks about it for too long. Long-suffering sighs and disappointed looks. Something, everything, that should be forgotten and yet that still balances on a tightrope in his head.

He should be more lively today.

Fiestas Patronales de San Salvador.

An event in full swing that will no doubt gather plenty of attention to feed his escapism. Theres nothing better than worship under the sheets. And he knows that today is for sinners just as much as for saints (Where La Basilica is concerned.) He wants to indulge as much as possible, only partially for the money. More so for the feeling of skin pressed to his. Tearing at him with the ferocity of a repressed beast.

Clothes first. There are steps to take today, and none of them include walking through the church with his dick hanging out. That usually came later, during those delightfully panicky moments of wondering how he would find the discarded garments without running into at least one person. Maybe, for the sake of the church itself he'd avoid the party usually responsible for that - or, maybe the thought of being caught indulging those darker fantasies makes it even better.

His own groaning snaps him from thought. He glances south, sighs, and drags his clothes on painfully slowly.

"Not the time." He reminds himself. "So not the fucking time."

Adding fuel to the fire that will no doubt be in that damned smirk that haunts him. Talk about afterimages...he isn't so sure he'll ever get away from those pretty blue eyes. Doesn't think he'll ever want to.

After dressing, with few other interruptions from his own constantly churning mind he manages to gather as much of the mess in the room as he can. Presentability aside, he needs the room to make even more of a mess later. It only takes him half the time as it took him to get himself together in the first place. He feels particularly slow today like his skin is crawling at the thought of moving with any haste. Yet there's something frantic about the way he leaves, an excitement building on top of what has already been built.

This is what he's fucking built for.

A whore is a whore, but some of them do it far better than others. None of them are here to be the victim, they're tied too deeply into the foundations of the La Basilica network for that brand of 'worker'. No. Enjoyment, on their ends, is just as deeply connected to this pretty crime of theirs. And nobody can claim that Jack doesn't enjoy every fucking minute of this place - well, shit, that's only half true. His hands graze the scar, that damned reminder of one of the few times in his life he's been truly fearful of this 'job.' A bullet is probably the least fun thing to have penetrated him.

He can think of a dozen other things he'd have rather it been...

"Nope. No. Stop that." He mumbles to himself quickly, quickening his pace as if to outrun the sudden barrage of interesting things sparking to life. On his way out he spots probably one of the worst things for his frayed edges at that very moment - then again, setting him off isn't exactly hard.

But rather than let himself be bullied by his own fucking body, he steers himself headfirst into the danger zone. Blue Victoria is an interesting addition to the troupe. In the way that makes Jack want to find the nearest hole to crawl in and hide. Fear, having nothing at all to do with it. More so, the fact that he seems to lack the necessary self-preservation to keep himself from indulging in things of a dangerous nature.

Blue, is a thing of a dangerous nature. One that Jack is sure could quite literally tear anyone he damn well pleases apart. Human confetti.

"Blue." Jack greets, "Off to the hunt?" the likeness of predator and prey isn't an exaggeration. However not all of the occupants of this place had decided to mingle with the crowd. Plenty of them had their steady flow of customers, and more so no doubt there were secrets being sold for silence above as he spoke. But Jack liked being among the crowd, pretending to be just another normal person on another normal day.

"Well," He looks past Blue, malcontent with standing still for too long when he could be doing other things. "I'm heading out, feel free to join." And with that, and one final smile of a not-so-innocent nature. He slips away and heads into the light of day.


He's overdressed, stifled by the heat of cloth fabric clinging tightly to his body. While dressed to seem less vagrant than usual, his casual wear isn't exactly his sunday best - quite the opposite in fact. His earlier excitement has faded into dull nothing, gazing without seeing over the vastness of the festival before him. There's something spectacular in the way that they have gathered so many various people under this singular guise of a holy event.

There are more than enough people who have gotten their fingers dug deep, past his skin and into the bones below. Branding like a hot iron against his soul. None of them, up until recently had been capable of claiming their place as 'god' in him. Sacrilege, bittersweet on the tip of his tongue.

He spots his target quickly, being accosted by Luca and Damon of all people. For a moment, Jack considers turning back around and finding something else to do. Lord knows there's plenty of people here to bother. However, he isn't going to change course just because of the annoyance that is his own flesh and goddamned blood. Then again, Luca also looks like he means business, and interrupting business is never in Jacks personal interests.

So, with the casual confidence, only someone who spends most of their time unclothed can master, he sidles towards Friday. Casually lets his fingers brush against the other, barely there. Not enough for anybody to notice or call him out on. He looks up, feels his breath quickening by the second. He shoots a meaningful look towards Luca and Damon.

"Come find me." He whispers. And then, as if he hadn't been there in the first place he departs.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Friday Knapp Character Portrait: Nico Pastor Character Portrait: Jack Soto Character Portrait: Luca Pastor Character Portrait: Blue Victoria Character Portrait: Isa Nash
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Hustlers would glisten in this type of heat, unforgiven and unbothered every inch. The sultriness spilled more than bodily fluids behind cherry gates. Forcing her to wonder just how many had gone mad under the sun, Nico flashed a squinty slant of her face at it. But the catharsis - nor the consensus, was lost. It was hotter ’n a b….

Well, God bless the sanity and saintly, for the remarkable display of generosity and equilibrium. Wasn’t quite sure if she’d be too bold and narcissistic to only assume herself responsible for the latter, but, she felt a little better knowing she’d at least had one hand in it. The Catholic fair was going over well. Which was remarkable in and of itself, considering how many Californian home owners split their front doors open only an inch or two just to slap the space shut again. Nearly missing her fingers. Oh, that’s right. She found them under the glow of August, partially bruised at the prime few knuckles. Ironically placed. This is what most people had to say about religion or the invitation thereof. Re-imagining the slamming of the door, she scrunched her digits up and then flexed and feathered them. She’d do it all over again, God willing.

Weekly disorder danced mere inches from Nico, making the contusions on her paws just about vibrate. As to remind her that there is irrefutably punishment for entertaining sin, even just a bit. Now, you wouldn’t very well catch her giving herself lashes for imagining the glint of morning on Friday’s bare shoulder. For all that, you’d hear an superfluity of mumbled prayers both within the house and the church. As though awaiting trial. “Easy, Magdalene,” she’d recoil and ballet recite on the invisible boundary between them, “You aren’t the only one who fraternizes with hookers.” Or the only one who was aware of that red, red line ‘twix the two.

Did he expect that?

She thought maybe not, the way he flushed - not with shock. Oh no, not Friday at something so mouthwateringly spicy. He didn’t feign surprise, just hunger. An unsatisfied curiosity that begged more of such explicitness. Like a child asking for just one more story at bedtime, his winter eyes were all big and bent on her for another hot spell. It was her cue to move on.

There was certain reward to be had, in spite of humoring trespass. Sometimes you’d wait ages to see just a glimmer of it, sometimes it’d no doubt sneak right upon you in the middle of day. Display a simple smile in the few breezes of afternoon, flicking kinks of magnificent hair from pervading. How glorious was God to give this.

Someone drifting yet enjoying the fruits of spirituality. Nico relished in it for a quiet second, wholly smitten. Isa delivered the proverbial pat on the head to a hardworking student without realizing it. Always made Nico ponder, though, how the ordinary angels she deemed, came to be in just this dry, nearly damned, garden of La Basilica. Isa didn’t strike Nico as entirely lost. She thought that perhaps she knew exactly where she was and where she was going, regardless of her shuffling presentation. Maybe God had her plan laid out and she just didn’t catch it in the right light yet. And there Nico was, aching to help another lost acolyte from the darkness.

“I am, actually. Never thought I’d say that about a church event. Guess y’all just have a different vibe or something.”

Being assumptive didn’t furnish too much fruit in the past, so Nico thought it best to nod and listen. Fully absorb before bludgeoning with faith someone might not necessarily want. Indeed, not everyone came to La Basilica for the same thing. Nico - in all this, could not always be the undeclared centerfold white knight. There was so much she didn’t know. She had to be honest with herself about that. She had to be real.

You can never save them all.

A fate surely worse than fiction. There must have been a twinkle of reduction in Nico’s enthusiasm. Possibly a glaze of indication in her regard. But the words ‘not in a hurry’ tacked up her spine like staples, suturing the doubt inside, saving it for some lonely hour of gloaming she’d used to spend in the church. Before Friday started sleeping there and disabling her nocturnal bleeding of cynics and indecision. Perhaps blaming all him was wrong, sure… It became quite difficult to seek solace in prayer when every other syllable was interrupted by someone nudging her with a billfold, as if she ran the floor below. Onerous, to say the least. Directing them to a door that Lucas told her to keep up off of. She’s had more than a peek, and he knows it. He grinds his teeth, but knows her rights and her intentions are better than his.

Again she glistered, the spaghetti thin margin of her dress a perpetual ‘itch’ she couldn’t quite scratch. Dimples pinned up, Nico instinctively bent at the waist. A silent token of gratitude to Isa’s appreciation. “You don’t know what that means to me,” conceding, she murmured, shoulder to shoulder with Isa, “It’s easy to think we do much of everything we do, for nothing.” But it couldn’t all be pointless. Not if Isa landed herself here, looking for no real desire. Not if Blue entrusted Sophie to Nico. Not if every sad soul got a little something out of this place. There was purpose.

Wasn’t there?

“Please stay,” she blurted before Isa half-mentioned her appreciation, “Take in the sights and just stay. As long as you need. It’s free room and board, not to mention food. We’ll have more than what we know to do with.” A cross was motioned on Nico: touch of the forehead, just above the sternum, left and right, “Due to San Salvador, dios bendiga.” Besides… The past might not nip Isa's heels if she kept them up high enough on a bed in La Basilica. Nico just wouldn’t ever say that out loud, even in spite of Isa’s stare looking rather full of ghosts.

“Let’s catch up later.” Was all that was left before Nico trotted away toward a golden girl with hair darker than twilight. With an impressive pivot-turned-full-spin, she encircled a boat of fruit in her arms and dangled a particularly long grape stem just before the true Magdalene, “Eat. If you are going to be so quiet all the time, might as well be for the cause of having your mouth full.” She elbowed the basin into Magdalene’s hands. There wasn’t much more conversing to be done with that one. Still waters ran deep, but Magdalene gave this visage of a wolf sort of hiding in a lamb carcass. Longterm. Nico couldn't rightly say she had the time to deliver the divinity from the carnage, especially when she was so comfortable in the (self) slaughter.

ImageAs one would expect, there was time for all of God's children. Finding it was a task no less.

Where most people had too much time on theirs, Nico's mitts looked bruised and crowded with the self appointed missions of morality, benevolence and well, a lot of BS flung wayside because of her brother. Never a dull moment. All the more, as the largest light in the sky lost its luster by minutes, sneaking into nightfall, the promise of religious duty grew heavier.

She looked to Jack, just slipping by Friday. Missing some scalding from Luca by centimeters. Red sunset rippling behind all of them as they dispersed. A prophecy of the inevitable. There was money to be made, shades to be drawn, scales being tipped. Precision cuts and lines and the pendulum sway of heels and hips. In the house of God. Because there was after all, time for all of them. They'd just learned to make their own. Wages of sin.

It was as though she could feel that big vermilion door emanating inside of her somewhere, too.