*Dystopia*
Excerpt
Introduction: The Sacred Exchange
When the Mossad
obtained incontrovertible evidence that the Grand Ayatollah of Iran not only
had a nuclear bomb, but it was installed, ready to launch on a missile in a
silo disguised to look like a mosque, Israel pushed the button on its own
secret missile and Tehran was obliterated. Although Iran had only one
nuclear-tipped missile, it had distributed nuclear knapsacks to hundreds of
willing suicide bombers who entered Israel and detonated the small devices in
as many Jewish settlements as they could, thus helping the Palestinians to gain
their own long-sought-for, if now-irradiated nation. Al Qaeda, not content with
that great victory over the Zionists, unleashed its own nuker-knapsackers on
the Satanist capitals of Europe and the costal cities of America. The newly
elected American Christian Pastor President and his Christian Pastor Vice
President were evacuated before a nuker-knapsacker leveled a two-mile radius
around the White House. Retaliation was ordered. No backpacks from America.
Missiles. To Cairo, Damascus, Baghdad, Kabul, Jeddah, Mecca. Sometimes their
arrival nearly coincided with missiles from France and Great Britain. Mecca got
a triple whammy. North Korea used its one missile to kill millions in Tokyo.
China solved its Taiwan problem; there was no more Taiwan. India and Pakistan
nuked each other to their hate’s content. For some reason, cooler heads prevailed
in Russia. They decided to sit and watch and wait.
The world entered
another Dark Age. Religion ruled again.
Chapter 1
Bob Crowley, drunk
and very tired, almost tripped over the broken toy truck before kicking it out
of his way then trudging around the side of the house to the back of a former
duplex that now housed six families of 50-some Christian souls. Work on the
Great Christian State of Kansas Cathedral went on from dawn to dusk, almost a
14-hour, hot, summer day. After Bob had made the long climb back to the ground,
he stopped at one of the small booze-holes at the edge of Rabbletown to drink
its oily-smelling, stomach-wrenching, blessedly mind-numbing alcohol before
going home. Now, in the doorway to his basement apartment, he burped and smelled
the sour acid of his empty stomach. Pulling the burlap sack of tools off his
shoulder and dropping it to the floor when he entered, the noise of his own
household assaulted him. The twins came, screaming their welcome, and he picked
the bag of tools back up, swung, and caught one of them on the side of the
head, sending him sprawling sideways and setting up a wail of tears and pain
that caused his wife to yell, “Stop beatin’ the kids, will ya?”
“Well keep the
little retards away from me.”
A pounding on the
ceiling prompted his wife to grab a broom and bang back against the floorboard
above them. “Mind your own business up there!” She then focused her scream at
her brood, “Get to bed!” A couple of the older ones, Bobby and Lila, started
hushing and herding the younger ones over to the corner where their pallets
lay. Through the blare of the “Truth Today” news channel on portal, he could
make out his eldest son spouting Bible verse, “Strong drink is raging. Suffer
the little children.”
“Bobby, shut up. And
can’t you turn that damn thing off?” Bob shouted at his wife over the noise of
the portal. “It’d be nice to have a little peace and quiet for once. And get me
something to eat! God, what a day,” he said and sat down in exhaustion at the
table.
“If you don’t stop
swearing, your own children will report you. We’ve been told to expect a portal
message from the Pastor President. Here, some soup is left.” She plunked a
dirty bowl in front of him. The smell of split pea almost made him vomit.
“What, another message
from Jerry the Jerk?” he said, and then did get worried as he noticed Lila
looking at him. Pious little shit, she
just might report me to the Inquisitors, he thought. At fourteen, her
breasts were developing. He’d seen her praying with one of the neighborhood
boys. It was about time she found a mate and got out of the house. More likely, it’d be Bobby–the
twelve-year-old who stared into space until some Bible verse got disgorged from
his brain to his mouth–who’ll rat on me.
Time for him to pick a trade, Crowley thought, but I’ll still have to support him until he turns 14. Then I can
finally kick him out of the house. Cheryl thought little, darling Bobby
would be accepted to pastor preparatory school if they could come up with the
application fee. Fat holy chance. Jesus,
why do I dream of the kids leaving anyway? With 11 of ‘em I’ll be long dead
before the youngest is grown. And the retarded twins, the ones who had run
to greet him, will never leave.
A squeal broke out
from the corner where the kids slept, and Bob got up to roar at them: “Go to
sleep you God-damned shits or I’ll beat your heads in!” That quieted them, but
he saw the hatred in Lila’s eyes. The way she looked at him reminded him of the
eyes of the feral cats that roamed the work site. A mason would sometimes lob a
stone down at them from those many stories above and occasionally squash one.
It made the survivor cats look up from time to time with hatred in their eyes
at those who let such things fall upon them. Yes, he thought, I’d better see
that she moves out soon or she will report me. But what do I care? How could my
life be any worse than it is now? He looked down at his red, raw, scraped
hands, calloused and rough from years of laying brick and stone. He picked off
a dried bit of cement. What if they did
turn me in as being an UnChristian? How could Bible Re-education Camp be any
worse than working on that J-damn cathedral? After all, I haven’t done or said
anything to warrant stoning. Then he wondered how had he come to have such
thoughts? He used to be proud of his skill. One of the Order of the Mason’s
fastest layers. Took two hod carriers to keep up with him. He looked around at
their basement home, and remembered how proud Cheryl had been of him when he
first had been able to afford its rent. Basements were prime locations. Cooler
in the summer; warmer in the winter. He recalled his grand plan of using stones
as he could acquire them to face the patchwork siding, which was a quilt of
unpainted scrap wood. Now the basement's dirt, and the smell of the bodies of
his own family, sickened him, and he looked at his wife. He’d married her when
she was only 16 and now she was 30, and after 11 kids she looked 50. Cheryl’s
once deep-chestnut-brown hair had gone to a mousy gray. And what a slob she’d turned out to be, Bob thought. He heard her
say to the kids:
“You kids say your
prayers, and say one for your father and his safety. It’s only because of God’s
grace that he hasn’t fallen yet. Hung-over as he is up there.”
Yes, pray for our safety because the state
don’t provide no safety nets for us, he thought bitterly to himself. Six
masons had died in the last two months alone. He had been working aside
Clarence when the old man lost his balance, tripping over an idiot hod
carrier's foot, and went tumbling down to his death. The bodies of Clarence and
five other masons were still stored in the morgue, waiting until there were
enough dead for a group funeral. The Pastor Governor wouldn’t bother himself
for a service for less than 12 workers, representing the 12 apostles in some
sort of warped church symbolism.
Depressed at that
thought, Bob put his head down on his folded arms, but the smell of the
split-pea soup came up to his nostrils and he pushed the foul bowl away.
“Gimme some bread
and cheese.”
His wife turned
the portal up even louder, because the screen was now filled with the face of
Pastor President Jerry Falwell V. His fat face smiled, his hair was slicked
back making him look like a plump seal, but with a weasel’s nose.
“My fellow Christian
Americans, I have wonderful news for you. Praise God, for how HE HAS blessed
this land. More people across the world join us each day in accepting Christ
into their hearts as their savior, just as all of you have done. One day, with
the help of the papists, we will regain Jerusalem from the devil Muslims. And
one day, too, we will bring Christ to the yellow people. The Second Coming is
near! Christ’s return is soon! We must show that we tried to save every soul
from Satan we could reach. Oh, that Jesus will find ALL the world is Christian
when He returns. And woe then to the UnChristians.”
Bob hated the
Pastor President’s voice. He hated the voices of all ministers, that sing-song
specially modulated rant made Bob want to smash his calloused fist through the
portal.
“I have a special
joy and great revelation to reveal to you. God has spoken to Me! As I was on My
knees asking for His guidance, He gave Me that guidance. He wants Me to run for
a third term.”
A third term!
Wasn’t it still in the Constitution that a person could only be president for
two terms? But, Bob realized, who would bring suit against him, and so what if
they did? There was no Supreme Court anymore; it existed in name, but decades
ago the Pastor Presidents simply didn’t nominate any new justices when one
died. Same with federal judges. They just died off and were never replaced.
Lawsuits ended. Why file a lawsuit when there was no one to hear it? Still, it
was unusual for them to tamper with the Constitution. Wouldn’t they have to
call the Great Christian National Congress in session and then all the Great
Christian State Legislatures as well?
“God has told Me
that our Holy Constitution has one remaining flaw in it. The limit of two terms
allows too little time for Me to work God’s will in the office of the Pastor
President. Time is short. Tomorrow, I will order the Congress of the United
Christian States of Holy America to convene and introduce an amendment to the
Holy Constitution to eliminate this flaw. I’m asking the Pastor Governors to
convene their Christian legislatures so they, too, will be ready to pass the
amendment. God has great plans for Me and His holy nation: expelling the devil
Muslims from Jerusalem; expanding Christ’s message around the globe; ensuring
that all Americans remain Christian Americans–all this can be done in My
lifetime. With God’s help, and with the help of all true believers. My brother
in God here, Vice President Robertson, has agreed to take on the additional
duties as Secretary of the Department of the Defense of the Faith and National
Grand Inquisitor,” Falwell said as he turned to point to the man behind him,
recognizable by his wide and toothy grin, and the way he was always rubbing his
hands together as though washing them in the blood of sinners. “Thus do we
demonstrate again a simplification of our system of government and that these
efficiencies make us worthy of your vote. My fellow Christian Americans, good
night and God bless. My will be done.”
“Jesus, what’s he
want to be–King?” Bob snorted.
“There is only one
king and that is Jesus Christ our Savior. I hope you don’t talk like this
around your co-workers. They would report you. You haven’t made an altar call
in I can’t remember how long. You really are in need of repentance,” she
scolded him.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Bob was thinking
that when the Kansas pastor senators came to Topeka, they would visit the
construction site of the cathedral with their bevies of church secretaries in
tow. He fantasized about accidentally dropping a stone like other masons did on
the cats to see if the state then regretted not having safety nets. The fantasy
was cut short when he looked at his wife and saw her flushed face. An address
from the Pastor President always did that to her, making her feel righteous,
and Bob knew what was coming.
“We’ve got to
fornicate again tonight, Bob.”
“So soon?” He
remembered the last time: what was it, four months ago? He had finally gotten
it up and they were plugging away when he heard a noise behind him and looked
back to see his two, retarded, eight-year-old twins, their identical, right
index fingers in their identical, right nostrils, snickering.
“I failed the
pregnancy test again at the clinic today, and they said if I failed next month,
they’d have to art-preg me.”
“Well, tell them I
can’t get it up anymore.”
“That wouldn’t
matter. You know that. They’ll haul you in and hook you up to the
electro-ejaculator. Bob, I don’t want to be one of those women who have to be
art-pregged.” She was starting to cry. “My Personal Pastor Counselor says God
looks with disfavor on art-pregged wives. Other men perform their duty to God’s
Church of the Evangels. I don’t know why you can’t.”
“Alright! Alright!
Where’s that bottle you keep hidden from me? If I’m going to fornicate tonight,
then I damn well am going to get drunk.”
He heard a
snicker, turned around, and roared, “And if any little shits come over to
watch, I’ll kick their asses out the door!”
He put his head
back down in his hands. Sweet Jesus,
he thought, and tomorrow they would start laying stone on the last story. Just
the thought made him dizzy.
“And, Bob, Honey,
you come home right after they let you off early from work tomorrow for stoning
Friday. The kids and I don’t want to miss that holy event.”
Then he heard Bobby say, “Let him
drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.”
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