The Good Slave (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Showtime!

Federal law mandated that an hour-long execution was to be broadcast live every other month beginning on New Year’s Day, making them the odd months.
 
These extravaganzas were always rating bonanzas and multimillion-dollar advertising bids often weren’t locked in until minutes—sometimes
seconds
—before the show began.

Despite the fortunes to be made, greedy network executives were always trying to cook up new ways to increase profits.
 
They’d lobbied and paid off Congress for months to pass the Ferity Execution Act that would have legalized execution by ravenous, starving animals like grizzly bears and hyenas.
 
Most congressmen were initially enthusiastic about the so-called Beast Bill, but most clergy likened it to pagan Roman executions and guaranteed its defeat; once the preachers turn on legislation it’s sunk.
 
Fortunately, however, a senator from Texas quickly introduced the alternate Federal Incendiary Requital Execution or FIRE Act.
 
Rather than being shred by fangs, the condemned would be burned alive as were heretics in centuries past.
 
A modern twist would forego tying the condemned to a primitive wooden stake, a huge pile of kindling at his feet.
 
Today’s damned would instead be handcuffed to a metal pole and submerged ankle-deep in the middle of a small round white-bottom pool, ten feet in diameter, filled with clear hydrocarbon jelly, which would instantly ignite at the touch of a single match.
 
The accursèd wretch would be clad in a long white robe saturated in a retardant mixture of the jelly that would burn much more slowly.
 
Half the clergy who had pooh-poohed the Beast Bill gleefully rallied behind the new FIRE Act, declaring it a renaissance of the time-honored practice of the just immolation of heretics and other ne’er-do-wells.
 
Execution by burning at the stake has a long and proud tradition
, they wrote in a press release to EBN News.
 
We welcome its return as a means of meting out God’s justice
.

The FIRE Act passed a Congressional vote one a beautiful summer morning without a single nay and the president signed it into law that very same afternoon.
 
Despite its popularity, though, the traditional—and arguably more graphically savory—lapidation (aka death by stoning) would always remain the public’s favorite.

The execution of a criminal as infamous as Stephen Messinjure was rare.
 
His stoning had been so widely anticipated that the Church-State had granted EBN an unprecedented hour-and-a-half broadcast.
 
Advertisers and network execs knew viewers would be spellbound and advertising bids were celestial (pun intended), to say the least.
 
Moments before the broadcast Epiphany Entertainment ponied up ten million dollars for a thirty-second spot during the first commercial break—a new record.

“The Evangelical Broadcasting Network has pre-empted tonight’s episode of
Nearer to Thee
in order to bring you the
live
execution of infamous homosexual heretic Stephen Messinjure in three-dimensional high definition!” came an announcer’s voice from a black screen.
 
“Your regularly scheduled program,
Jesus in the House
, will air in its entirety following this sacred event.”

The screen suddenly lit up with a nighttime aerial view of a massive football stadium packed to capacity.
 
A title that looked like the cover of a superhero comic book read: DIVINE EXECUTION OF STEPHEN MESSINJURE--LIVE!

“Isn’t that picture something?” George said.
 
“Hey, Tessa, remember when we was kids and had to wear glasses to watch TV in 3D?
 
Times sure do change.”

Tessa didn’t respond.

Brass horns blasted a triumphal fanfare as the picture faded to sports announcer Pete McIntosh sitting behind an anchor desk.

“It’s a beautiful autumn evening here at the Family Values Center in Hypocropolis, Texas,” Pete said, behind him a breathtaking view of the packed stadium, “Spectators and clergy have gathered from all over corners of America to witness the much anticipated execution of Stephen Messinjure
live
on EBN!”

The music crescendoed as the shimmering logo of luxury automobile manufacturer Trinity Motors appeared onscreen.

“Brought to you today by the new Trinity Saxon!” a deep-voiced announcer said.
 
“Comfort and peace from zero to eighty in five seconds.”
 
The logo morphed into to a sleek black sedan with tinted windows.
 
“All the style and sophistication that Heaven allows!”

The car was replaced by the image of a rifle, the length of its muzzle exaggerated to exploit the 3D effect.

“And by Canaan Rifles!
 
For when a boy becomes a man!”

The rifle let out a fiery blast and the stadium crowd cheered.

“And now, here are Simon ‘Pete’ McIntosh, Paul Walton and Bart Merryweather!”

Pete sat in the middle with Paul on his right and Bart on his left.
 
Bart sported a blanket of perfectly coiffed jet black hair, greased and sculpted with the precision of icing on an expensive wedding cake.
 
The dark do was at serious odds with the ancient, wrinkled face below it.

“It’s a beautiful day here in Hypocropolis,” Pete said with an enthusiastic smile, “and we’ve got a full house for this evening’s exciting execution.”

“That’s right, Pete,” Paul chimed in.
 
“Although it’s not unusual to see homosexuals executed, it most certainly is out of the ordinary to see the son of such a high-ranking member of the clergy—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as it turns out—brought to justice.”

“Right you are, Paul,” Pete agreed with a broad grin.

“We should clarify that the condemned homosexual’s father, Josef Messinjure, is a
former
man of the cloth,” old Bart chimed in.
 
“His son’s despicable behavior is proof of the former minister’s atrocious parenting skills and his failure to set a proper moral example for his only son, despite the charade of moral uprightness he presented on TV for decades.
 
For his part, Stephen Messinjure selfishly allowed his own vile perversions to destroy his father’s career, and his death today will surely come with no small amount of satisfaction from the Messinjure family.”

“Mm-hmm,” George grunted his approval.

“That’s right,” Pete agreed.
 
“Josef Messinjure’s long and illustrious career came crashing down as his own soul was poisoned by his son’s despicable malady. He actually stood by his son’s side and publicly proclaimed his innocence.”

“Admirable devotion but unbelievably ignorant.”
 
Paul shook his head.
 
“Let’s pray to our Lord Jesus Christ that the old man’s finally come to his senses.”

“You know,” Bart said, “many people say they love their children unconditionally, and that’s fine.
 
But unconditional love does not mean that you can’t set at least a
few
common sense boundaries.
 
And
no one
should be in denial about his child’s mortal sins against God.
 
At the very least, when the Church-State charges your child—charges which are not brought lightly and which result in convictions ninety-seven percent of the time—the most you should do as a loving parent is keep your big trap shut and quietly wait for the punishment to be announced.”

“You mean wait for the verdict to be announced, Bart?” Paul corrected him, a devilish smirk at the corner of his mouth.
 
“Verdicts
usually
comes before punishments, after all.”

“I meant
verdict
!” ol’ Bart snapped, embarrassed.
 
“You know what I mean, Paul.”

Paul chuckled.

“Right you are, Bart!” Pete boomed.
 
“But even after Stephen Messinjure was found guilty by a God-fearing, Christian jury, his father
still
spoke out against the conviction and proclaimed his son’s innocence.”

“At that point I think it was clear that Josef Messinjure had gone from denial to delusional in his hopeless defense of his disloyal and unrepentant son,” said Paul.

Pete turned and looked into the camera.

“Let’s go down to the field now where Jimmy Valentine is waiting on the sidelines with some excited young Christians.
 
Jimmy?”

Jimmy Valentine, a handsome young man with an incandescent smile, wore a black suit just like the old guys in the anchor booth, except
his
tie was maroon silk, not blue cotton.
 
His short blond hair was gelled, parted on the left, of course—
Everyone knows only girls and fags part their hair on the right
—and molded into a whimsical backward wave at the apex of his forehead.
 
He stood at the edge of the field surrounded by a group of a dozen shirtless teenage boys, some fat, some thin, and all sporting red, white and blue “war” paint on their faces with matching crucifixes, some burning, on their chests.
 
One boy’s cruciate was simply two sloppy slaps of scarlet paint, but it did the trick.
 
All that mattered was that he was one of them.
 
He fit in.
 
He was normal.
 
Important characteristics for survival in his America.