The Good Slave (10 page)

“That’s right, Pete,” Jimmy shouted above the cheering crowd.
 
“The atmosphere is electric in the Family Values Center here today.
 
It’s standing room only, with an estimated crowd of twenty thousand men!”

The boys behind the reporter cheered, laughed and yelled.
 
Turning to a small boy on his right, Jimmy Valentine asked, “And what’s your name, little man?”

The boy leaned in toward the mic.
 
“Seth McDonald!” he shouted, and a wide grin spread across his face.
 
He was missing a front tooth.

“And where are you from, Seth?”

“I’m from the great lone-star state of Texas!”
 
The boys behind him cheered again.
 
“We
all
are!”

“And how old are you, Seth?”

The boy hesitated, then stammered, “Teh... uh, t-twelve. Twelve!
 
Just old enough to be here!”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Jimmy said with a wink.
 
“You look ’t-twelve’ to me, sport.
 
And is this the first lapidation you’ve ever attended?”

“Yes, sir, it is!”

“And what made you want to come here today?”

“I came ’cause God don’t make no mistakes and He don’t make queers neither!
 
That’s the devil’s work!”

His companions cheered him on.
“Right you are, Seth!” Jimmy agreed as he stood up.
 
He turned to a husky older boy to his left.
 
“And what’s your name?”

“My name is Johnny Whimpleton!” The boy had a dimpled smith and a mouth full of perfect white teeth.

“And why are you here, Johnny?”

“I’m here because the Holy Bible says faggotry is an abomination!
 
Leviticus 18:22 ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind’!”

“We’re here to watch that faggot get his ugly
face
smashed in!” shouted a hulking brute behind Johnny Whimpleton.

The boys began to chant, “Kill!
 
Kill!
 
Kill!
 
Kill!”
 
And they laughed as they jumped up and down, engulfing poor Jimmy Valentine.

“That about sums it up!” the reporter yelled with a laugh.
 
“Back to you, Pete!”

The three men at the anchor desk were all chuckling to see such merriment.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Pete said.

“It’s nice to see good, wholesome,
normal
boys turn out to witness the dispensation of American justice,” Bart said.

“And with normal
Christian
names, too,” Paul added.
 
“Did you know, Pete, that the name Stephen is only mentioned thirteen times in the Bible?”
 
He shook his head in disgust.
 
“Talk about an evil omen!
 
His name might as well be Judas!”

“Anyone With an ounce of common sense knows that every homosexual
is
a Judas,” Pete pointed out.

“The name Stephen may
be
in the Christian Bible,” Bart added, “but it’s
still
not Christian enough in my book!”

“Nor the
Good
Book!” Pete added, and all three men laughed at his quick and clever wit.

“I can see they’re about to begin things down on the field,” Pete said, switching gears from jovial sports anchor to serious newsman.
 
“Walking out onto the field now is Penal Commissioner Benjamin Philips flanked by a security escort of at least a dozen strapping young men.”

“An even dozen, to be exact,” Bart said.

A wave of silence washed over the spectators.

Commissioner Philips walked with his goon squad to the center of the field where a four-foot-deep hole had been dug.
 
A plastic white tarp had been tucked inside the hole, its edges spreading out onto the field in a circle fifteen feet in diameter.
 
This was to be Stephen Messinjure’s burial shroud.
 
A white chalk line thirty feet in diameter encircled the shroud, giving each of the dozen executioners—each wearing bright white jumpsuits and matching white sneakers—standing behind the line fifteen feet to lob rocks—each man had his own waist-high pile—at the condemned.
 
Each rock was the size of a (very large) man’s fist, in accordance with Church-State law.

A microphone had been set up midway between the center hole and the chalk circle.
 
The commissioner stepped up to it and discovered he was far too short to reach the mic.
 
The image on the gigantic video screen made him look like a dwarf and sent waves of laughter rippling through the crowd.
 
One of the security thugs rushed over to lower the microphone and the crowd rewarded him with cheers.
 
The diminutive commissioner then stepped up to the mic and held up a hand for silence.

“Gentlemen!” he said, his voice echoing throughout the stadium.
 
“We are gathered here today for a most solemn and sad occasion!
 
As Federal Penal Commissioner it is my sworn duty to carry out the courts’ punishments in accordance with God’s law!”

A deafening roar as the spectators leapt to their feet and cheered.

“Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind,” the commissioner yelled, his spittle audibly hitting the mic.
 
Thousands of voices joined in as he proclaimed, “It is an abomination!”

The multitude roared its approval.

“If a man...” the commissioner continued, pausing for a few seconds until the crowd to settled down a bit.
 
“If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination...”
 
Again, the stadium joined him on cue in saying, “They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them!”

Their cheers rattled the glass in the box seat windows.

Just as the roar began to subside it suddenly swelled again as the monitors showed a gaunt Stephen Messinjure—barefoot in his pink prison jumpsuit, hands cuffed behind his back, his pale face freshly bruised—being escorted onto the field by a ring of guards clad all in black.

Phoebus’ breath caught in his throat; Stephen looked so small standing near the middle of the giant white tarp surrounded by angry-looking brutes.
 
Tessa’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“Heh-heh-
heh
!” old George chuckled.

Stephen seemed to have a permanent slouch in his back now, prompting the crowd to mock him as a hunchback.
 
The goons marched him to the center where two of them grabbed him under the arms and picked him up.
 
The teen began to kick as they tried to lower him into the hole.
 
He struggled and spread his legs wide so his feet landed on the sides of the three-foot-wide hole.

At that moment the spectators in the stadium and viewers at home discovered that the network had added a new treat for them—a small microphone had been placed somewhere on the prisoner’s body and his cries were echoed throughout the Family Values Center and broadcast live coast to coast.

“No!
 
No!
 
No!” Stephen cried out pitifully.
 
“Please stop!”

“Oh my good Lord,” Tessa said.

Everyone in the stadium seemed stunned by the sound.

“Hee-
hee
!” George was gleeful.
 
“Listen to that little piggy squeal!”

Phoebus felt sick to his stomach.

No doubt the network executives and advertisers were sweating as they waited to see what the crowd’s ultimate reaction would be.
 
Executions were always a ratings bonanza but viewership had slipped a bit for three quarters in a row, and they needed to boost the numbers back up to keep brining in the advertising dollars.
 
Although Stephen Messinjure’s execution was a ratings slam dunk, the network needed a new hook to bring viewers back for the next run-of-the-mill execution in two months, and this was the perfect occasion to generate buzz.

“No-no-no-no!” Stephen cried out in quick succession, his voice quickly becoming high pitched and hoarse as he struggled.

Both Phoebus and Tessa began to cry.

“L-looks like the prisoner has decided he’s not quite ready to meet his maker yet!” Pete McIntosh announced nervously.

Somewhere in the middle of the crowd a man cried out, “Kill him already!”

That was the cue the rest of the spectators seemed to need to break the miasmic spell and bring them back to their reverie.
 
Suffering, after all, was for sinners, upon whom pity is wasted.
 
The men and boys in the crowd were brave and noble (or so they’d always been told) fighting for the greater glory of their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
 
The sinners were the vermin down on that field.
 
Scum like Stephen Messinjure who deserved all the pain and suffering that befell them, for it was the will of God.

“KILL
HIM
!
 
KILL
HIM
!
 
KILL
HIM
!” the entire stadium cried out in unison, their command vibrating the stadium’s steel beams and quaking the earth underneath it.
 
Network execs, advertisers, everyone in the broadcast booth, and more than a few government officials stopped sweating.
 
Their nervous tension quickly gave was to a warm and cozy feeling associated with the prospect of increased profits.

As for the thugs down on the field, every time they tried to lower Stephen Messinjure into the hole he’d thrash and kick like a wild animal desperately trying to escape a steel trap.
 
Fed up, they threw the boy to the ground and based him.
 
In an instant the he was writhing on the ground in agony.

“Whoa!” Bart exclaimed.
 
“Don’t tase me, bro!

“Haha!” Paul laughed.
 
“You just
so
dated yourself, Bart!”

“Looks like an epileptic pitching a fit!”

The crowd cheered its approval.
 
Everyone laughed when they looked up at the giant screens and saw dozens of boys mocking the condemned by writhing at the edge of the field.

It only took a few seconds for
 
Stephen to go limp.
 
Now that he was incapable of resisting, the men effortlessly picked him up and lowered him into the hole.
 
They held him up upright as two shovel-bearing slaves appeared from the sidelines to fill the hole with dirt.
 
By the time they’d finished the heretic was buried up to his ribcage so he couldn’t bend over to avoid any stones.
 
His arms were also buried up to his elbows so he couldn’t block any blows.

The slaves patted down the dirt and then scurried away, their heads obediently bowed.
 
The guard who had tased Stephen now waved some smelling salts under his nose to revive him.
 
When the teenager’s head jerked back in sudden consciousness the goon nodded at the penal commissioner who stepped back up to the microphone.

“Stephen Alexander Messinjure!” the little man said loudly to shush the stadium.
 
“You have been justly tried and found guilty by a jury of your God-fearing peers of the heretical crime of homosexuality.
 
You have thus been duly sentenced to lapidation and shall be stoned until you are dead.
 
Have you any last words?”

Thousands in the arena and millions across the country held their breath.
 
Stephen’s eyes were half closed and drool seeped out the corner of his mouth.

He said nothing.

He barely seemed to be aware of what was going on, a huge disappointment for everyone, especially the VIPs.
 
(“Fucking dumbass meathead shoulda known better than to tase the little fucker!” one infuriated fat executive yelled behind the safety of his box seat’s soundproof glass as he pounded down his drink and marched over to the bartender for a refill.)

Even Phoebus, who was now sobbing, had hoped Stephen would say something just so he could hear his voice one last time.
 
Something defiant and brave.
 
Something heroic.

But it was not to be.

The guard looked at Penal Commissioner Philips and shook his head as if to say,
Ain’t nothin’ comin’ outta
this
boy
.
 
The commissioner, in turn, stepped back up to the microphone.

“By the power vested in me,” he announced, “let the stoning begin!”

The crowd exploded and thousands of voices began to chant, “KILL!
 
KILL!
 
KILL!
 
KILL!”

In unison, the brawny executioners selected by a national lottery, slowly bent over and picked up a stone with each hand.

The crowd went crazy.

The men let the energy build and built until after about half a minute a tall man directly in front of Stephen swung his arm back like he was pitching in the final game of the World Series and threw his stone, hitting its target square in the right shoulder.
 
The teen’s painful cry filled the stadium and flooded living room sound systems and bars across America as his body lurched to the side.

“And there’s the first volley!” Pete McIntosh shouted into his microphone.

“Oh dear God,” Tessa muttered.

“He’s a lousy shot!” George said.

Phoebus said nothing.

Just as the first stone landed on the tarp a second one flew in from behind Stephen’s head and scraped a fair amount of skin off the bone behind his ear.
 
He let out a pitiful squeal and the spectators roared.
 
FIRST BLOOD! flashed in red on the giant stadium monitors.
 
Before the second stone had even hit the ground a third one smashed into the teen’s lower back near the ground.
 
Stephen arched in agony and let out a mournful wail.
 
A second later fourth hit the left side of his face and the sickening sound of his jaw breaking was amplified in astounding 7.1 digital surround sound.
 
Long ropes of spit and blood flew from his mouth.