Operation: Writecrime -Suite Sister Mary-

So, I was talking to a dear friend of mine a few days ago about Operation: Mindcrime–possibly the best thing to come out of the 80’s ever–and how it would be fantastic if the whole rock opera was turned into an animated movie.

I’m not a huge fan of live action movies anymore. Don’t get me wrong, filmmakers can do some amazing things with computers these days, but in my opinion, some of the magic has gone out of the movies. I blame Michael Bay. Now movies have become more about how many special effects can be shoved in and less about the story and acting.

Not in every case, I’ll admit to that. It just seems like the best films are the ones directed at the kids these days.


I told him it would be grand if that could happen. If someone contacted Queensryche and said ‘hey guys, what about–‘ and then it happened and I would sqwee a little.

He was all for it, asking me if it would be a movie movie with the album as a soundtrack or exactly like Les Miserables is going to be and Phantom of the Opera was.

I’m a fan of blending the two. And I swear to God I wish I could animate it. Of course he had to play Devil’s Advocate and wonder if the fans would even go for it, citing years since the album and Operation: Livecrime. And would the new generation go for it?

I tended to agree.

The fantasy is still alive in my head, though. But, since I have no animator’s training, I’ve decided to take to the virtual page and tell the story as I see it in my head.

Now, before we begin there are a few things I want to make very clear. What follows is a fan fiction, something I haven’t done since I was thirteen and just beginning to write. It’s meant as entertainment, nothing else. The stories are simply a representation of how I see the album–the rock opera–in my head. Nothing else. The album Operation: Mindcrime, the lyrics, the whole damned thing is owned by Queensryche and EMI records. All of the copyright laws still apply.

Clear as rain? Good.

Now, for my turn!

My fan fiction.

Operation: Writecrime.

–Suite Sister Mary (track 8 from Operation: Mindcrime)–

My watch reads 9:59 p.m. The black window in front of me reflects the liquid night. Rain begins to fall, pattering gently down, tapping the limousine’s window without me lifting a finger.

There’s an electric hum as the window rolls down just enough for me to see a finely moulded mouth.

That’s why they follow him.

That mouth.

That’s why I follow him.

A dull thud echoes in my blank brain. No thoughts penetrate it. No emotion. No feelings. Just sweet oblivion.

“Kill her,” that fine mouth says, the voice emitting from it low and seductive. “That’s all you have to do.”

That’s how he gets them.





“Mary?” The name erupts from my lips automatically. My voice is flat. “Kill Mary?” I ask again, just to make sure.

How did he know? Dear Jesus, how did he know I was supposed to meet her? The cure-the cure is wearing off. She promised me an extra dose.

He knows. He knows she knows.

Kill her.

I can’t.

Kill her.

What else does he know? He can’t-

Kill her.

I can’t.


The thud in my brain becomes a roar, drowning out lucid thoughts and fear. I’m blank again, staring at the doctor with deadpan eyes.

A shrug in his voice. “She’s a risk. And get the priest as well.”

Another hum of electricity. The window rolls up, relieving my vision of the perfect mouth. It blocks the seductive voice from my sensitive ears. The limo drives away, ink black body reflecting street lamps and neon lights, dismissing them and me as it leaves the abandoned parking lot of the wrong side of town behind.

Ten o’clock. My feet move. I feel the rain on my skin. I see flashing lights, couples rushing to and fro, newspapers over wives or girlfriends heads as they look for the nearest shelter away from the growling storm. Mothers with children. Men. Women. Old folks. The only ones brave enough to face the rain are the addicts and the whores and even they look uneasy.

I take my time. There’s no need to rush. The job will be done. My body hums with an electricity of its own. Its comfortable, takes the pain of withdrawal away. My brain hides in it, uncomfortable with facing reality. She had given me the shot.

Kill her. Kill Mary.

Kill Mary?

Kill her.

I can’t.

My hands find their way into my pockets. Inside my jacket is the Glock he had given me. The Doctor. Doctor X. The man with the cure.

Kill her. Kill Mary.

Kill Mary?

Kill her.

I can’t.

My brain flags again before the cure fills in the gap. My steps stutter only once. Someone sees and averts his eyes from my stare.

I can kill him. I can kill them all.

They’re mine. All of them.

Don’t make me kill Mary.

Kill her.

Others sidestep me on the sidewalk, hurrying against the rain. It pours faster. Harder. Angrier. Thunder rolls.

Do they know?

Are they in on it?

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. KILL HER!

Father Williams doesn’t live within the church. That’s Mary’s domain. He lives attached to it, in a small but richly furnished house. It’s dark when I enter. Muttering from somewhere inside lets me know that Father Williams is home. Of course he is. Dr. X thinks of everything.

I can’t kill her.

Kill her.

I can’t.

Kill her.

I can’t.


Soft music plays from a stereo system I can’t see. A hymn. A psalm. Something. I don’t know. I don’t care. I follow it, brain still blessedly numb. He’s on his knees in front of an altar, crucified Jesus staring down at him, eyes full of pity. A flash of light.

When had the gun come out?

Kill her.

Father Williams slumps to the ground, blood pouring in rivers down his cheeks and chin, staining his collar. A neat hole is in the middle of his forehead.

Kill her. Kill her. KILL HER!


The church.

Black windows crying millions of tears.

Kill her.

She’s at the door even before I knock.

Kill her.

Sister Mary. Virgin Mary.

Kill her.

“What are you doing out in the rain?”

Kill her.

“Mary,” my words are a plea. I can feel the rain running down my cheeks and chin.

Kill her.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Come in.”


I can’t.

My hands leave my jacket, leave my gun. Suddenly I’m awake. Fear courses through me. I hurry inside.


She doesn’t answer. How can I explain?

The heavy church door slams behind us, echoing in the hall. We follow it to a small room. Everything we need is there, sitting on a metal plate. The needle winks at us. Already full. Already crying. I sit, jacket disappearing somewhere in the room, arm laid bare. Need throbs through me, stretching the seams of my jeans, sharpening my senses.

“Mary, they’ve sent me for you.”

“I know.”

She wraps a tourniquet around my arm, around her own. The needle cries for us both.

“We need to get out,” I beg her, the cure deadening my brain.

I moan. Feeling liquid fire rushing through my veins. My eyes close. I lay back on the pillows.  The room’s only furnishings. I can feel her moving toward me. Her lips cover mine. Her breasts fill my searching hands through the thick, restricting habit.

I tear her clothes and mine, needing her. She moans. I’ve waited so long for this. For her.

“We have to get out.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“You know too much.”

“I know.”

Heat suffuses the room. Whether from the candles around us or our bodies, I don’t know. Don’t care.

“We have to get out.”

Kill her.

The voice is weak. Faint. Pleading.

Kill her.

“Do you trust me?” I ask. Beg. Plead. Demand.

She’s naked underneath me, cold eyes searching mine, a hint of warmth in their frosted depths.


Her lips find mine.

Talk to me!

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