by Nathan Allen
Chapter 5
The St. James Cathedral was filled beyond capacity for its next Sunday service. From front to back, every space in every pew was occupied. Latecomers had to squeeze through the crowd to find a spot in the standing room only section. Many more would crowd around outside the door to listen in, unable to get any closer.
The tragedy on the set of Where’s the Love? had shaken the world to its core, coming less than one week after the brutal slaying of reality television starlet and social media influencer Krystal Blayze. And then just two days ago, a popular musician known as Skrillex and celebrity clothes horse Cara Delevingne were both gunned down in separate incidents.
If one silver lining could be gleaned from the horrific events of the past week, it was that they had brought everyone together. Famous people dying was too much for many to handle, and the public needed a way of making sense of these slayings. For some, it was like losing a family member. For others, it brought their own mortality into focus. If their favorite actor or model could die so suddenly, they could too – especially since a large percentage of the population harbored the grandiose delusion that one day they too will become famous.
People longed to be comforted during this bleak moment in history. In such a godless and materialistic world, demand for spiritual nourishment far outpaced supply. Some who hadn’t set foot inside a church in years rediscovered their long-lost faith. They had been reminded of what a precious gift life was, and how it could be snatched away at any given moment.
But while the past few days had been a sobering experience for many, it was a hurricane of activity for Fr. Gerdtz. Due to the massacre occurring on the grounds of his church, it fell upon him to assume the mantle of spokesperson when the media descended. He fronted up before the cameras the morning following the tragedy to offer his condolences to the families and fans of the deceased. When asked how or why an alarming event like this could occur, he could provide no real answers other than to wonder aloud as to whether it may have been a sign that the world was no longer listening to God. He suggested it was time for everyone to take a step back and consider what was truly important in their lives, and that maybe we should cease this illogical obsession with the rich and famous.
His words struck an immediate chord with both the community and the wider public. It was exactly what they needed to hear, perfectly articulating their thoughts and feelings at such a bewildering time. He soon found himself in high demand, agreeing to dozens of media appearances over the next three days, from local morning TV shows, to satellite link-ups with late-night news programs on the opposite side of the world.
His schedule was at times exhausting, but inside he was buzzing. This was the most invigorated he had felt in decades. Something extraordinary was happening here, and it was all his doing.
His many media appearances boosted his Twitter followers to 8,571. A Google search for “Fr. Arthur Gerdtz” returned over one hundred thousand results.
He now faced an unfamiliar sight as he assumed his position behind the pulpit. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were looking back at him. Never in his life had he performed Mass for so many people. He expected to have at least some nerves, but he felt nothing but serenity. This was exactly where he deserved to be. These people were in need of a spiritual rebirth, and he would be the one to deliver it.
He took a sip of water and cleared his throat. The congregation leaned forward slightly, ready to absorb his every word.
“In times of great crisis, when terrible things happen to decent people for no good reason, it is natural to ask questions,” he began. “We ask ourselves what kind of God could allow this to happen. We wonder if God cares for us at all. It can be difficult to accept that God has a plan, but He does. It may be something we fail to understand it at first, but the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Three nights later, police were called to a party at the Malibu mansion of Hollywood super-producer Martin Krauth after the bullet-ridden body of actor Ansel Elgort was discovered in the hot tub. Police cordoned off the scene and took statements from the guests in attendance, but as yet no arrests have been made.
Later that same night, rock musician David Lee Roth was found backstage at the Whisky a Go Go following a performance with his band. The cause of death was currently being investigated by the coroner.
Meanwhile on the opposite side of the city, a twenty-three year old pharmacy assistant by the name of Nicola Jeffries dialed a number and waited for an answer. It rang four times before she heard a click and a recorded message:
“Hello, you have reached the home of Fr. Arthur Gerdtz. I am unable to come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and contact details and I will return your call at my earliest convenience. Thank you and God bless.”
“Good evening Father,” Nicola said following the beep. “This is Nicola Jeffries from the Westwood Center Pharmacy. I’m afraid there’s been a slight mix-up with your recent prescription, where we believe we may have given you the wrong medication by mistake. Please call us back as soon as you get this message, or come in and see us and we can have this issue resolved right away. Thank you.”
Nicola was struck by a slight feeling of irritation once the call had ended. Even though she knew Fr. Gerdtz was in his seventies, it was still unusual for a customer to have only a landline phone. She found it hard to believe in this day and age there were still people who couldn’t be reached at any time of the day or night. Even her grandparents had cell phones.
Of more pressing concern was her slightly unprofessional slip-up – she had mixed up his arthritis pills with medication used to treat insomnia – but she didn’t think it would cause too many problems. At least, she hoped not. She assumed Fr. Gerdtz would have figured out by now the pills he had been given were not his usual ones. Even if he had taken them by mistake, the consequences would not be especially dire. He may experience some unpleasant side-effects such as headaches, nausea and dizziness. At worst, a bad reaction could result in Fr. Gerdtz becoming delusional; he may hear strange voices or experience unusual, vivid dreams and bizarre hallucinations. But thankfully he was not at risk of long-term damage, and any side-effects would cease as soon as he stopped taking the medication. It was an embarrassing mistake, but nothing that couldn’t be undone.
A few minutes after making the call, Nicola finished her shift and called her boyfriend to come pick her up.
Twenty-three minutes later, William Shatner was gunned down while filming an advertisement for frozen pizza.
The Staples Center was teeming with fans this Saturday night in the week leading up to Christmas. It was an audience that traversed many key demographics including giddy fanboys, urban youths, trend-chasing hipsters, career women, and more screaming teenage girls than a Glasgow maternity ward. Over twenty thousand viewed the performance, the majority through the four and a half inch LCD screens of their smartphones.
A single spotlight focused on the beloved pop star as she stood center stage, tearing through a maudlin ballad about holding on to hope in the midst of seemingly insurmountable pain and suffering. Outfit by Marc Jacobs. Shoes by Giuseppe Zanotti. Cost: more than what an average fan earned in one year. Total number of times the pop star will wear said outfit: one.
A touching montage paying tribute to all the stars who had tragically passed in recent weeks played on the massive screens behind her. The audience saw the smiling faces of the dearly departed Krystal Blayze, James Franco, Seth Rogen, Bella Thorne, Courtney Cox, Billy Bob Thornton, Sonny “Skrillex” Moore, Cara Delevingne, Ansel Elgort, David Lee Roth, William Shatner, Kelly Osbourne, Marvin “Meat Loaf” Aday, Tobey Maguire, Mark Harmon, Alice Eve and Larry the Cable Guy.
The music ended, the pop star stretching the final note out a further forty-five lung-busting seconds. The crowd rose as one to applaud this spine-tingling, emotionally uplifting performance. She paused respectfully to give the moment the appropriate levity.
The final image faded to black and was replaced by
a single line of text. The screens now displayed eighteen giant characters that said more than complete sentences or well thought out debate ever could: “#FamousLivesMatter”.
“That was my new song,” the pop star announced. “It’s called ‘Crying Wit’ Open Eyez’, and I dedicate it to everyone we have lost these past few weeks. It will be available exclusively on Tidal from tomorrow.”
Further manic cheering from the crowd.
“And now, I would like to invite some of my dearest friends onto the stage tonight for a very important message.”
Out came the cavalcade of megastars, one by one. Leading the way was her husband, a successful rapper famous for his intricate and inventive lyrics that alternated between gritty street vignettes and shameless product placement for his multiple corporate masters. Next came the frontman for a multiplatinum middle-of-the-road British rock group, popular with both the very young and the very old. Several famous actors, all of whom were eager to push their social causes if they happened to coincide with their film promotion duties. Another well-known female pop star, successful but not so famous that she threatened to steal the limelight from the one true star of the show. And a fashion designer, allowed to tag along tonight as a reward for all the free clothes he had gifted the pop star over the years.
There were seventeen celebrities in total. They joined hands and stood side-by-side to form one united front.
“Celebrities, all of us in the public eye, we perform an important service to the world,” the pop star said. “We deliver hope to those who have none. We give you something to aspire towards when you have lost your way. We brighten your day, and we rescue you from a mundane existence. We selflessly let you into our lives, and we ask for nothing in return.”
The crowd lost their collective minds at this historic moment. With so many luminaries in the one place at the one time, there was the very real prospect of a riot erupting at any moment.
“It has never been easy to do what we do,” she continued. “I know that may be difficult for ordinary folk like you to understand. But believe me, being famous just keeps getting harder and harder. The shocking deaths of so many of our fellow stars has affected us greatly. Famous lives matter. But we are strong. We are survivors. Together we stand as one to fight this evil. We will not give in to any violence or intimid–”
Her stirring speech was cut short when the designer’s chest exploded. His body was thrown forward, and he was dead before his head hit the stage.
A quarter-second of stunned silence passed before the place erupted into pandemonium.
The celebrities all made a desperate dash for safety, but they had a whore’s chance in heaven of escaping the unremitting gunfire. The British rock singer caught a bullet to the stomach. He fell to the floor, bleeding out in front of thousands of terrified fans. One of the actors dived into the crowd and attempted to use several audience members as human shields. The shot somehow sailed past the innocent bystanders and grazed the actor’s throat. A jet of blood spurted out from the ruptured artery.
The pop star ran as fast as it was possible to move in a glittery pair of six-inch heels. A blast rang out seconds before she was about to reach a point of safety behind a large speaker, and her kneecap was obliterated. She collapsed in agony.
Fr. Gerdtz emerged from the darkness. In his hands was his newest toy – a Remington M870 pump action shotgun. It had appeared on his doorstep several days earlier, and in the time since he had done little else but search for an opportunity to put it to use.
He stepped around the bodies sprawled across the stage, finishing off the remaining few displaying any signs of life, and made his way over to the injured diva.
When Fr. Gerdtz first became aware of this much-adored pop star, the biggest name in popular music this century, he hoped he had finally discovered a celebrity deserving of such unadulterated fawning. For someone to be so universally respected and admired by everyone from housewives to presidents, she must have surely achieved some extraordinary feats. But the further he looked, the more despondent he became. This woman was far from a hero. She had not been forced to overcome any great hardship in her life to get to where she was now. She had been raised in a comfortable upper-middle class environment. She had been part of the entertainment industry since her teens, which meant she never suffered the gross indignity of having to work a real job. She liked to portray herself as an icon of female empowerment, but was in actuality a self-absorbed puppet who relied on dozens of men to do everything for her, from writing, producing and performing her music to managing her business interests. She loudly and proudly supported progressive causes such as civil rights and gender equality, but only after making absolutely certain it wouldn’t harm her record sales. The last thing she wanted was to offend the wrong people. She waited for braver, less-famous artists to test the waters first, then ran it by her management and focus groups before finally jumping on the bandwagon. She appeared far more interested in expanding her empire and raking in dollars than helping out anyone less fortunate than herself.
As far as Fr. Gerdtz could tell, her only contribution to the world was a string of mildly inoffensive pop songs containing the kind of vaguely inspirational or motivational messages one might find inside a greeting card. She was a triumph of PR over talent, a product as soulless as the cans of Pepsi she spruiked.
In summation, she was no different from every other pampered starlet with a runaway ego and deluded sense of self-worth. A perfect symbol for a shallow and materialistic generation who idolized her for the money she made and the magazine covers she adorned.
The pop star tried crawling to safety, but could only make it a few feet before the excruciating pain prevented her from going any further.
Fr. Gerdtz stood over her body, lying prone on the stage. He rested the barrel of the shotgun against her throat.
“Wait ...” she wheezed. “Don’t you know who I–”
He pulled the trigger. A two foot wide crater was carved into the stage, and the pop star’s head became liberated from her body.
An apocalyptic howl tore through the stadium. It was the cry of thousands of disciples witnessing the demise of their messiah.
Fr. Gerdtz looked out into the crowd. He took a moment to drink in all the chaos he had created. A large proportion of the audience had bolted for the exits as soon as the shooting commenced, but many remained in their seats. Whether this was due to being paralyzed by fear, or whether they were simply unable to look away, he wasn’t sure. But he saw that he now commanded the biggest audience of his life. The eyes of the world were upon him, and he had to make the most of this opportunity.
He reached down to collect the wireless microphone lying beside the pop star’s headless body. He cleared his throat in preparation for his most important sermon to date.
“You all believed this woman was a living goddess,” he began. “You believed she was something extraordinary. Something beyond a mere mortal.”
He clasped a handful of bloodied hair extensions and lifted the pop star’s disembodied head into the air. Screams of terror rippled around the auditorium as her lifeless eyes opened up and stared back into the crowd.
“She appears quite mortal to me. She is very human. Nothing but the manufactured byproduct of songwriters, stylists, choreographers and stage parents. A mega-millionaire who used poverty and violent imagery as stage props and set dressing, then retreated to the safety of her limousines, bodyguards and fortress-like mansions. And you dare worship her as an icon? This woman has performed no miracles. No halo rest atop this head.”
The words flew from his mouth with a righteous fury.
“Salvation may be too late for her,” he continued, tossing the head aside. “But it’s not too late for all of you. You need to open your eyes and recognize the virus of celebrity for what it is – a tool of the devil, used to manipulate those with weak wills and indolent minds. Reject these false icons. Give your life to the one true God.”
He held
the microphone out at arm’s length and released it from his grasp, a move he had seen others employ to convey a sense of faux-rebellion. It hit the stage with a jarring clunk and a squawk of feedback.
He took a step back and disappeared into the shadows. By the time security rushed in with their weapons drawn, he was gone.
Twenty-four hours later, “Crying Wit’ Open Eyez” was the world’s most downloaded and streamed song. Subscriptions for the struggling music streaming service Tidal had increased a further three million.
