The Messiah

by Vincent L. Scarsella

  “You’re on,” the kid said as he burst into Green Room 2. “After the next commercial break.” He stepped back a moment to look at Pantera, who had stood up in his long white robe. After regarding him a moment longer, the kid said with a nod, “You look awesome.”

  A moment later, Pantera was striding behind the kid down the hall to a hidden waiting area behind the stage. Along the way, the kid told Pantera he would have no more than two or three minutes of airtime. Amara’s appearance, as expected, had run long.

  Back in Green Room 2, Amato stood and moved to the television screen. As he picked up the remote on a table below it and increased the volume, he said, “This is bullshit. What’s he gonna say in three minutes?”

  “He can say a lot in three minutes,” Renata told him. “More than a lot. All he has to do is give the worldwide audience his look and launch into it.”

  Amato held his sour look as he stared at the TV. After a moment, he sighed, then sat down on the couch between Constantine and Renata while the TV played a seemingly endless series of inane commercials—for shampoo, car insurance, and the last, a drug for male erections.

  Finally, there was Opal on her couch, legs crossed, with a serious expression. The camera panned to her guest, Pantera, sitting on the chair next to her, a strangely compelling and attractive figure with dark, shoulder-length hair framing a square handsome face, wearing a long white robe with his hands clasped together on his lap. He certainly comes off as a wise man, a man to be listened to, Constantine thought. Gravitas was the word that finally came to mind. Gravitas and sincerity. And his good looks and searing blue eyes didn’t hurt.

  “Finally, we have with us this afternoon a most unusual guest,” Opal began. “I would like to introduce Cristos Pantera, whose stirring sermon about peace and love and societal advancement in a Baltimore park went viral yesterday.” She turned and nodded to him, and he smiled and nodded in return. “As I understand it, Cristos, you’ve been traveling up the East Coast along Interstate 95 this spring with a caravan of followers, all the way from Key West, spreading your message of peace and change.”

  “That’s right, Opal,” Pantera said, shifting in his chair with a gaze that seemed to unnerve his host. Indeed, Opal seemed to have been struck momentarily dumb. Constantine noted in that moment that Pantera looked magnificent and powerful sitting across from her—anything but ordinary. No one could mistake him for a crazed evangelist leading some wacky new cult. In the next instant, Opal shook herself and returned to her script.

  “So can you give us a sample?” she asked. “Of your message. What you preach.”

  Constantine checked his watch. The preacher had perhaps another minute.

  The camera tracked him as Pantera shifted in his chair, turning fully to the audience, and began his compelling spiel—how everyone’s life was a lie, an illusion, based upon false beliefs that society programs into people’s heads causing them to do and think trivial or destructive things; how these false beliefs were perpetuated by the hidden powers in control of the world—the Supremacy, Constantine thought—in furtherance of their own selfish interests in keeping everyone under their control. He told the audience that they must reject these beliefs and embrace those that he espoused, based on the dignity of the human spirit; and that only by doing so would each of their lives be improved, and the species’ survival be enhanced, as they collectively moved closer to a comprehension of God and the Cosmos.

  As he spoke, the camera briefly panned the audience, mostly women, who appeared rapt, mouths slightly open, heads cocked slightly to the side, engaged by what this substantial and striking man had to say. The camera turned to Opal for a moment, and she too looked enraptured by her eccentric guest’s presentation.

  “Through my ministry,” Pantera went on, “I seek to inspire everyone to gain an appreciation of the true meaning of life so they can become Sons and Daughters of Man in the Kingdom of God on Earth, and in doing so, gain salvation for themselves and the whole of humanity. Once each of us has awakened, mankind will attain peace and reach its highest potential.”

  “That’s a compelling message, Cristos,” Opal chimed in. Then she leaned toward him with a serious expression and said, “You claim to be the messiah, mankind’s savior. Do you also claim to be, like Jesus, the son of God?”

  “No, I don’t claim that,” he said with a beguiling smile. “Jesus never claimed that either. Like him, I am God’s messenger; a mere mortal on a divine mission to effect change in each of us, to instill beliefs that can advance and save the individual and all of mankind.”

  Opal nodded and seemed impressed with this direct, appeasing answer. And then The Opal Show! jingle softly played from speakers attached somewhere up in the rafters above the stage.

  “Well, it appears our time is up,” Opal said. She seemed slightly flustered, as if disappointed with the quick end to the segment and wanting more.

  “This has been quite a fascinating discussion,” she added. “Can you…can you come back and continue it tomorrow?” And then, she had a sudden, bright thought as the closing jingle sounded again. The show was rapidly encroaching on a commercial break and, at his spot off-stage, Saul Hemick made a gesture across his throat to apprise her of that. “Give us one of your magical sermons, start to finish?”

  When Pantera returned to Green Room 2, the others stood and clapped. Then, they went to greet him one by one.

  Renata was last and said to him, “You were magnificent.” She hugged him around his waist and put her head to his chest, and then backed away.

  “You were great, Master,” Amato agreed.

  Constantine held back. He didn’t know what to say. He’d been impressed by Pantera’s appearance, moved—even inspired. But inspired to do what? He quickly rejected his feelings. What he was feeling and thinking a moment before seemed treasonous. What kind of spell was this Pantera putting on him? Perhaps he was too much into his role as Donald Summers. That was not unheard of, an agent becoming sympathetic with a group he or she had infiltrated. Renata Singh was an extreme example.

  “And you, Donald,” Pantera asked, startling Constantine. “What did you think?”

  Constantine nodded and thought a moment.

  “I thought it went well,” he said. “You were…inspiring.”

  Inspiring enough to kick-start something, as Renata had predicted? That needed to be his concern. It just might have done exactly that—and Chief Bradley and the Director, who had certainly watched the show, would not be pleased. It might even convince them it was time to for Constantine to take the “action” Chief Bradley had referred to in a recent call, switching Constantine’s role from infiltrator to assassin.

  In the next moment, Saul Hemick entered the room. When Pantera turned to him, the executive producer gave him a brief, sarcastic grin.

  “So you really are Jesus,” he said. “Or, his second coming. What did you say? Oh, the messiah, right?”

  Pantera looked at the man again with mild amusement.

  “Opal wants you back for tomorrow’s show,” he said. “Our phones are ringing off the hook. The emails are pouring in. And you’re trending as we speak on Twitter. In short, you made quite an impression on her and her viewers. So what do you say? Come back tomorrow. We’ll even put you in Green Room 1.”

  “Yes,” Pantera agreed. “We’ll be there.”

  “She was so taken with you, young man,” Hemick went on, “for tomorrow’s show, you’re going to be her only guest. And do you know who I had to bump to do that? Brad fucking Pitt.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What’s Next

  Hemick told them he was putting them up for the night at the Plaza Hotel overlooking Central Park. He’d booked a four-bedroom penthouse suite.

  Yet another stretch limo took them to the hotel. Stretched out on the chairs and loveseats waiting for them in the spacious lobby was Spartacus Rex and his entourage, consisting of a half-dozen thick-bodied, steroid-laced guards, three of them ex-NFL linemen, a
lawyer and an accountant wearing shiny, gray pin-striped silk suits, a gangsta rapper wannabe named Kill-Y’all, and several slinky-looking black and white women in clingy pants-suits. Every one of them, especially Rex, wore multiple layers of gold bling.

  As Pantera and his own entourage entered the lobby, Rex got up and opened his arms to them with a roar of laughter.

  “Here come the man!” he shouted. “My main man.”

  A couple of Rex’s bodyguards got up with him and remained at his side, ready for action, as he crossed the lobby to Pantera’s group. Rex strode up to Pantera and after a solid bear hug, turned him around in his arms and patted his back. Finally, Rex let go and stepped back. He gave Pantera the once-over, up and down, and then again broke out into a wide grin.

  “You converted fucking Opal,” Rex said. “That’s an exact quote. Bitch said it was all in your eyes, that silky voice like listening to Sinatra croon. Hypnotic, that’s what she called it. Put a goddamn spell on her.” He laughed. “You got charisma with a capital C, Mister Preacher man. There was no way she was gonna let you go, especially when I told her you been asked to appear on the Mid-Day Show.”

  “I was?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but they ain’t shit. Got no ratings. Not like the ratings you’ll be getting on Opal tomorrow. The whole world’ll be watching.” He laughed and clapped his hands together and looked skyward. “You pulled it off, my man.” Then, he looked at Pantera and told him, “Even Jesus never had these ratings.” He cocked his head with an inquiring look. “We got us a hospitality room spread out with champagne, shrimp, you know. Wanna come celebrate?”

  “We’re tired,” Pantera said, nodding to the others. “We’d like to go up to our suite.”

  Rex shrugged, nodded, then said, “Let’s go on up, then. Me and you, we need to talk a minute anyhow. Then you could drink your milk and cookies or whatever you do and rest up for tomorrow. Got to be fresh to sermonize, right?”

  “Talk about what, Mister Rex?” Pantera asked.

  “Why, about your mission,” Rex said. “You know. What’s next.”

  Pantera thought about it, then nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Come on up.”

  Pantera, Renata, Amato, and Constantine crowded into one of the elevators near the lobby with Rex, two of his burly guards, and his thin, morose-faced black lawyer, introduced by Rex as Maurice Watson. They zoomed up to the twentieth floor and found the four-bedroom suite at the far end of a long hallway after a right turn from the elevators. Everyone let out an appreciative gasp at the room’s exquisite furnishings and the expansive view from the window that stretched the length of the far wall.

  “Holy shit,” Amato said, and even Renata sighed.

  “Something else, ain’t it,” Rex agreed.

  His guards stood near the door with their arms crossed while his lawyer sauntered forward and looked around, stopping to pick up a vase and examining the bottom.

  “Something else,” Rex repeated as he looked out the window as dusk began to settle over Central Park.

  Pantera was the only who didn’t seem impressed. Constantine sensed that he was in a bad mood or simply tired.

  “You came here to talk,” the preacher reminded Rex.

  Rex turned to him and his smile disappeared as he said, “Sure thing, Reverend,” He came over and put his arm around Pantera’s shoulders and led him back into the master bedroom, just him and Pantera, and closed the door. Rex’s two guards took up positions in front of the closed door like ill-tempered bookends.

  “I don’t like this,” grumbled Amato.

  “Cristos knows best,” Renata said.

  “What concerns me is that the mission become a circus,” Amato told her with a frown.

  Renata thought of responding, but only shook her head and sat on one of the lush couches set at various angles around the spacious living room. After a moment, seeing no further comment necessary, Amato sat on a high-backed antique chair across from her.

  Seeing an opportunity to call his handler, Constantine told them he was going to settle into his room and take a nap.

  The handler seemed glad to hear from Constantine. Chief Bradley wanted to talk to him and the handler immediately patched him through.

  “Impressive show he put on today,” the chief said. “I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And I hear tomorrow the world will get even more.”

  “The entire show,” Constantine confirmed.

  “Well, this certainly isn’t getting any better,” the chief said.

  “There’s more,” Constantine said. “He’s in a meeting with Rex as we speak.”

  “Any idea about what?”

  “The mission,” Constantine said. “You know, what’s next.”

  “What is next, do you think?”

  “Got to be a speaking tour,” Constantine said. “You know, arenas, stadiums. Who knows, maybe even a festival in some farmer’s pasture attended by five hundred thousand idiots with some famous rock bands as a sideshow, a modern Woodstock or something. Spartacus Rex is guiding him, so it’ll be big. And as you also know, he can pull it off.”

  “Yeah,” Chief Bradley said, “that’s what worries me. And that’s what worries the director.” He sighed and after a moment, added, “Well, it is what it is. But I would never have thought it would happen so fast.”

  “And he hasn’t even played his trump card yet,” Constantine added. “The Jesus connection.”

  “Where is that at?”

  “Rex has Pantera’s blood and saliva,” Constantine told him. “He’s looking into it, I guess. What his sources are to confirm the connection, I have no idea.”

  After another sigh, Bradley said he’d relay the latest to the director and that was it. Secret call over.

  Constantine unpacked the few items he’d stuffed into a backpack for the trip—another pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt, clean boxers, a toothbrush, and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. He had also stuffed a small bag of potato chips inside and he opened and crunched down a handful before stripping down to his boxers and crawling under the covers. The bed was soft and spacious, and he quickly fell asleep.

  His power-nap was short-lived. A bang at the door woke him about five minutes later. Constantine pushed off the covers, growled to himself, and padded across the soft carpet to the door.

  He cracked open the door and saw Renata Singh standing there.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “He wants a meeting,” she told him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A Permanent Camp

  Constantine, Renata, and Amato squeezed onto the couch while Pantera knelt in front of a laptop that had been opened on a polished cherrywood coffee table in front of him. He had placed a video call to Goldstein in the RV back in Maryland, and the other seven members of the Pantera’s inner circle huddled around Goldstein’s laptop.

  “Everyone there?”

  “Yes, Master,” Goldstein said. He counted everyone again, one by one, turned back to the screen and verified it. “Yes. Everyone.”

  Pantera got off his knees and winced momentarily as he stood before them, then bent forward toward the laptop screen and said, “Still see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” Pantera said. “There’s been some developments.” He told them about his special scheduled appearance on The Opal Show! the following afternoon, and everyone in the RV cheered.

  Pantera then asked Goldstein, “How’s the purchase going, Stu?”

  “Of the Carolina property?” Goldstein asked.

  “Yes, that,” Pantera confirmed.

  “Good,” Goldstein said, “Should close in a couple weeks. Sooner, maybe.”

  Constantine frowned, not knowing what this was about. Another new variable for the statistical analysts to plug into their equations, no doubt.

  “Finally, we get a home base,” Pantera said, smiling. He went on to explain that he’d tired of preaching by caravan and therefore had decided to purchase a swath of land for a permanen
t camp, a retreat of sorts, in a secluded spot somewhere. Goldstein had found a perfect spot on some farmland in northern North Carolina.

  “When can we move in?” Pantera asked Goldstein.

  “Right away,” Goldstein told him.

  “Fantastic,” Pantera said. “Well done, Stu.”

  Goldstein nodded, clearly glad for the praise. Constantine had noticed that all of Pantera’s disciples doted on him, begging for his attention and praise like little boys and girls fawning over the most popular kid in school.

  “We’ll be driving back tomorrow afternoon,” Pantera went on. “Then, on Friday, we’ll break camp and head down there. How are the accommodations?”

  “Pretty rough right now,” Goldstein told him. “There’s a large farmhouse, six bedrooms. Plus, some finished rooms in the cellar. Damp, though, down there. It’s an old house. Needs work. I have a contractor coming in to start some rehab.

  “Anyway, for now, we’ll all fit comfortably. It’s livable. The RVs and buses will have access to outlets. I’ll get some Johnny-on-the-spots out there. And I already made contact with another contractor to start that small dorm we talked about. Until that’s ready, he can put up a couple Quonset huts. You know, like military barracks. And another one as a makeshift dining hall.”

  “How much is that going to set us back?”

  “For all that, surprisingly cheap,” Goldstein told him. “Less than two hundred grand.”

  “That’ll pretty much deplete us, right?”

  “Just about,” Goldstein agreed. “But after tomorrow, the donations will come pouring in. They’re already pouring in from your three-minute gig this afternoon. Remember to plug our website every chance you get.”

  “Sure, I didn’t have time today.”

  “No, I know,” Goldstein said.

  “So that’s it. Day after tomorrow, we’ll be at our new base of operations.”