The Wildcard

by Fallacious Rose

  "You," he said sternly, "are not telling me the truth. You are a liar."

  Ted Irving shrank back and put both his plump hands up in denial, sweating into his Armani suit. Of course, he’d known he was in some kind of shit when the Healer himself called him into his own office on the forty-fourth floor of the House of Healing - actually he’d spent the last hour cowering in the executive bathroom suite trying to get rid of the queasy feeling in his stomach, without success. Now, he fingered his wide blue tie and shifted on the seat - which was, deliberately, three inches lower than that of the Healer.

  "No, you’ve got to believe me!" He wrung his hands under the table, leaning forward eagerly. "I’ve told the truth. I haven’t done anything - I’d never do anything that would hurt the movement, you know that!"

  The Healer leaned back, hands clasped at the back of his raven black head. He let a minute go by in tense silence, then another. He could see the beads of sweat rolling off the plump man’s forehead and down his three chins to disappear under his collar. Jesus Christ and Mary Mother of God, the people he had to work with! But the mission was what mattered. He clasped his hands together, one finger sliding pleasantly over a large diamond ring, and leaned forward to mirror the man’s stance.

  "I know that you approached The Washington Post. Lisa Milligan told me. You are wasting your time and mine in denials."

  "I didn’t! I didn’t know she was from the Washington Post. I just - I was in a bar, having a drink after work, and there was this woman sitting next to me, and we got talking. I didn’t tell her anything. Ask her."

  "I don’t need to ask her." The Healer frowned, and Irving quailed. He felt like shitting himself right there and then. Could it be true that the Healer knew everything, without having to plant a wire or rely on spies? He’d always thought the Healer was just a human, like everyone else - maybe a smart one, charismatic, for sure, and those looks - but human. Now he wondered. "I know what you told her. I know everything."

  Ted began to cry, fat tears rolling down over his jowls. He’d be sacked. At the very least he’d be sacked - and then how would he pay the mortgage on that eight-bedroom brownstone overlooking Central Park? At the worst...he didn’t dare to think. There’d been others who’d crossed the Healer - you never heard of them again, but there were rumours. Horrible rumours.

  But how was he to know the attractive woman in the tight-fitting white suit, whose honey-golden tan extended so smoothly down into her c-plus cleavage, and so relaxed and friendly - how was he to know she was a journalist? Anyway, he hadn’t said anything about New Hope - he knew better than that, no matter how drunk he got. He was sure he hadn’t. They’d just talked about...what had they talked about? Life was so stressful when you were CFO for the biggest faith-based business since scientology collapsed. You had to take a breather sometimes - was having a drink in a bar a crime now, or what?

  "We own your soul. So yes, having a drink in a bar is a crime, if we say it is."

  Ted’s heart dived into his stomach. So it was true - the Healer could read your mind, and god knows what else.

  The Healer, Demetrios Kapalades (these days known only as The Healer) reached forward and picked up the heavy crystal paperweight that sat on the desk in front of him. With cold deliberation, he threw it at the silver-framed mirror behind the quivering CFO. In the mirror, the back of Irving’s head splintered and fell to the floor. The reality cowered in his chair, trying not to piss himself.

  The Healer’s eyes were liquid green fire. Irving’s own eyes bugged. He’d never seen Demetrios like this. He looked like an alien out of hell - was he going to grow vampire fangs and zoon across the desk to sink them into his neck? Irving put his hands up to his chins protectively.

  "You are no longer Chief Financial Officer of this organisation. There’s no room at the top for liars - and loose lips."

  Somewhere in Irving’s dazed, frightened bald head, a tinge of relief crept in. He’d been thinking - every now and again, secretly, as he lay beside his trophy wife at night - that he wished he’d never accepted the job of Chief Financial Officer. For a start, the finances of New Hope were so dodgy that if the IRS ever got on to them, they’d be cat shit. And he would be the one to go down. He knew that. For another thing, the hours were killing him. Sure, it was nice to have pretty young actresses thrown his way from time to time, and he wouldn’t have Amanda if it wasn’t for the hefty salary - but did it make up for the stress? No, it sure as hell didn’t.

  The Healer rose, towering over him.

  "Get up."

  Irving rose, his knees quaking. Sometimes the Healer was known to physically throw people from the room. He hoped that today wasn’t one of those occasions.

  "From now on, you’re cleaning toilets. Report to Nasaruddin Khan in the basement, he’ll tell you your duties. I never want to see your face again - unless it’s in the john."

  Irving backed out, nearly tripping over a six-inch statuette of the Venus de Milo. Cleaning toilets? Fuck! He might have known they wouldn’t just let him loose, not with the amount he knew. But at least he’d got away with his life. Some hadn’t.

  The Leader waited until the door was shut, then called Nasaruddin Khan - building manager and head of New Hope’s secret police.

  "He’s coming down to you. See that he’s dealt with appropriately."

  Irving might know plenty now, but a corpse couldn’t tell secrets. When you got that high in the organisation, there was no ticket out, no retirement option on the table. He would have thought Irving would be savvy enough to understand that - maybe before he went talking to some bitch of a journalist from the Post. Ninety percent of people - even top-flight money men - were stupid, and in that, Demetrios put his faith. The world ran on stupidity, and thank god for that. Thank Dionysos.

  He put his head in his hands and started laughing. The thought of Ted Irving’s fat face, collapsing in folds of fear and contrition, in front of him - his weak little eyes behind their glasses, looking every way for some route of escape. He was a terrible liar - even if Demetrios hadn’t been able to see through the best liar on the planet, this guy was the pits.

  He looked around at the Axminster carpet, the crystal chandeliers, the genuine da Vinci on the walls - and the smashed mirror. He’d get that fixed this afternoon - but it was worth breaking it, just to hear the guy scream like a girl. They were weak, all of them from the lowest new member to the most overpaid functionary - and he was strong - and favoured by God. Specifically, by Dionysos, the true God, who would lead the world to light and healing through his greatest protege. Dionysos had taken him from a simple monk in a Greek monastery to the head of the largest religious organisation on earth - bar not even the Catholic Church. And he was grateful - and loyal.

  He closed his hands together and said a prayer to his benefactor. In his mind’s eye he saw him, the author of all his wealth and power, smiling down upon him from his High Hall, well pleased. And her, the Virgin. He didn’t see Her so often now, but the memory sustained him - especially when those lissome young converts took their clothes off in his office, eager to get as close as possible to the nearest thing to God they could reach - him. But they were nothing in comparison to Her. No woman could be as beautiful, as arousing, as the Mother of God. And the best of it was, he knew she didn’t mind when he fantasised about her. She was flattered when he orgasmed thinking of her lush-lipped, angelic face, and that slim, curvaceous body. She liked it. He had long since given up questioning the paradox, that the Virgin Mother of God should enjoy being the subject of her acolyte’s sensual dreams - but there it was, and it was good.

  "You have done well," the voice in his head interrupted his thoughts. It was as familiar as conscience, but far more pleasant, usually. "But you must increase the pace of conversion. We do not have long until the Resurrection."

  "How long?" Demetrios dared ask. It seemed his god was in a good mood, for he replied at once, his molasses-dark voice as clear as if he was sitting right next to Demetri
os.

  "Those who do not follow the Light will not see the new year in."

  The new year - that was less than forty weeks. "And those who accept the Light, we will leave this sinful earth behind and ascend to heaven - I cannot wait, Lord."

  "Only those who truly believe," Set reminded him. As if he needed reminding - he believed with all his heart, and always had. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen God - and hadn’t heard their voices, within and outside his own head - then perhaps he might have doubted. But he had. He wondered what it might be like to ascend to Heaven, amid a throng of followers - he at the forefront, naturally. Would he see the earth as they saw it from space, distant and blue? Or would his eyes and his soul be solely focused on the shining realm ahead?

  The presence left his mind, and Demetrios opened a drawer in the desk and took out a packet of analgesics. He welcomed the visits of the God, but it often left him with a foul headache. He was not strong enough to withstand the intimate touch of divinity. He swallowed the pills with a glass of water, and bent his mind to considering who’d replace Irving as CFO. The new man - or woman - would have to be both loyal to New Hope and professionally top-notch. It was a hard combination to find, given he was restricted to members of the organisation. It was too dangerous to hire from outside. Fucking Irving!

  ‘New Hope – or New Money’ screeched Lisa Milligan’s headline. ‘According to Ted Irving, the Chief Financial Officer of monster faith-based organisation, New Hope, the organisation has close links to some of the world’s most notorious crime syndicates...thought to be the world’s wealthiest ‘church’, New Hope pays almost zero in Federal taxes."

  So what, thought Demetrios. It was just a rumour, fuelled by Irving’s drunken boasts about the sexual habits of crime bosses he’d wined and dined over the years.

  The media had already mobbed his office with calls and requests to interview, which he’d ignore for now. Before he disappeared Irving for good, he’d have to get him to front the press - tell them it was a vile slur, fake news - he’d never said anything of the kind. He might as well make himself useful before he met his maker.

  Demetrios tapped his fingers. Dionysos was counting on him to recruit as many poor souls as he could for New Hope before the four horsemen of the Apocalypse rode over the horizon - and the earth was scoured of sinners. To do that, he must avoid the mistakes of the last heretical cult, and keep New Hope’s reputation shining and clean, above reproach. Nothing must be allowed to tarnish its glory. The last big cult movement had fallen apart when its actor-frontispiece had betrayed the movement and gone on Sky News to reveal what really went on behind the scenes. He’d renounced his lifelong commitment over a woman - of all things. The movement had collapsed virtually overnight, after the public heard what the actor had to say. Demetrios was not going to let that happen to New Hope, ever.

  He flicked through the latest reports on his computer. Nearly one billion members and growing. He could take a lot of the credit for that. He ran a comb through his shoulder length black curls, and checked out his skin in a hand mirror. A flawless, olive face looked back at him. He was more charismatic and far better looking than the overweight old con man, L Ron Hubbard. He had more power than the Pope. But, he reminded himself, the power wasn’t his - it moved through him. Those false religions - Christianity, Islam, Scientology - they were built on lies. But Demetrios had seen, and heard God, and knew his idols were real. It was God - and the Virgin - that called the shots.

  As it happened, just yesterday, Dionysos had spoken. He’d told Demetrios about this new phenomenon, the rock star called Orpheus, who’d burst onto the scene like a bomb out of nowhere. Demetrios had heard of Orpheus, of course - who hadn’t. He didn’t listen to his music, assuming it was just the usual meaningless drivel they played on the radio to lobotomise young minds without surgery.

  Just six months ago, Orpheus had been a one-hit wonder, some young grunge singer with a band trying to make it in a scene where singers like him were a dime a dozen. Sure, he had a nice voice - a superb voice, actually, much good it did him. But nobody – not even his manager – thought he was going anywhere.

  And now? Now he was the biggest rock star on the planet – bigger than U2, bigger than the Beatles, bigger than Justin Bieber and Lady GaGa and whoever the hell else had ever quickened the junk-music-fed public’s pulse for a brief moment and then sank like a sodden bag of garbage into a sewage-strewn canal. There wasn’t a teenager in the global village that didn’t know his name – the leather clad, peace-loving, sexy-as-hell lead singer of Tower of Song. His concerts sold out Wembley, Times Square, the Hollywood Bowl. His latest hit, Voice of Reason, was played twenty times a day on every radio station in the country - Demetrios didn’t listen to the radio, thank god. He’d had ten Number Ones in a row. But who gave a shit, really – if it weren’t for this one thing. Orpheus had a pet hate, and it was New Hope. He’d already been interviewed about it.

  "So, you’re not just a pretty face. I hear you’re a man with a message’ (Gary Rozencrantz, legendary rock reporter for The Rolling Stone)

  "Even my girlfriend wouldn’t call this face pretty,” (Orpheus - no doubt trying for modest. Anyone who’d seen him prancing around in front of the pyrotechnics at one of his ridiculous concerts wouldn’t believe that for a second. The man oozed sex - and conceit.) "But seriously" (said with a confidential grin supposed to win the reporter over - Demetrios had watched exactly the same act played over and over on YouTube), "all those great bands from the 60s, the 70s, they had a message. That’s why we remember them today - Dylan, Lennon, Credence."

  "Elvis?"

  "Nah, Elvis was great – but he was just there to entertain. I’m not dissing that, not at all. He sang about all the great human emotions, love, uh, the blues -."

  Demetrios snorted. All the great human feelings – like vanity, envy, pride. And fear - the greatest of them all.

  "And that’s a great legacy, but I want to leave something for people that’s bigger than just love songs and personal, kind of, tragedies - you know, my baby left me, all that. This world’s got too much hate and violence (so Orpheus, too, recognises that we all wallow in sin) and so far it hasn’t worked, just telling people to turn the other cheek and love their neighbour. I want to put something else out there, something different. Yeah there should be more love in this world, but not just love – we need reason. Faith’s taking us in the wrong direction, telling us to ignore what we learn about the world and what we know to be true. Faith tells us to believe without question and to die for our beliefs – and to kill. But if we’re going to live together in peace as human beings we need to say to ourselves, fuck god, fuck faith, let’s stand on our own two feet, let’s use our brains."

  "Are you against religion? Isn’t that a pretty harsh stand to take - given that plenty of your fans are Christians and Moslems and people of faith..."

  "Not so much religion - but this New Hope thing, that really scares me. You’ve got this organisation that’s bigger than all the traditional churches combined and it sucks people in like a black hole and tells them they’ve got to believe - whatever the hell the Healer tells them to. I think that’s dangerous. Cults shit me, man, and this is the biggest cult there’s ever been."

  "So that’s your message. Use your nut - and don’t fall for cults like New Hope? Seems pretty heavy for a rock star. Not very sex and drugs and rock n roll - aren’t you worried your audience’ll get bored and walk off?"

  "Man, I’m still into sex and drugs and rock n roll – and reason. Join a cult and your balls’ll drop off - but reason can be sexy. Don’t you find me sexy?"

  The reporter laughed - she obviously fancied the pants off him. "Sure, and so does the whole world, Orpheus - you’re a sensation. But your message is, there’s more to you than just tight pants and a great package, right?"

  "That’s right. More to me and more to us. Humans for humans, that’s my message. But hey, if you don’t like it, just listen to the music. The music’s the
thing- I’m no philosopher. Just let the music speak to you. Like Mozart... like Beethoven. People don’t listen to that classical shit as much as they should any more. Just listen to the music."

  Demetrios clicked the window closed. Was this guy for real - or was he just parroting his lines, taking his cue from someone more powerful. He doubted Orpheus came up with his profound philosophy all by himself - the man barely had a high school education. For a non-philosopher, he was pretty into telling people what to think. But a musician was no threat to a rising religious movement like New Hope.

  Still, Dionysos had told him to keep an eye on the situation, and to be ready to act. He had his spies in place, and nothing that Orpheus did was a secret to him. He would be ready to follow the God’s directions when the time came. For now, he would watch the progress of this mountebank on the internet – and turn off the radio. If he had to listen to Voice of Reason one more time, he’d smash another mirror - or kill someone.

  And meanwhile, he needed a new CFO. A name in the sheaf given to him by his Chief of Personnel caught his eye. Sam Alexakis. Wasn’t that the guy who’d wanted to marry the girl - before she nearly ripped his throat out with her teeth? He wouldn’t have much sympathy for cults - as he’d think of them - but he had a reputation as a guy who knew how to keep his mouth shut. And who didn’t care much who he worked for, or why.

  And by all accounts, he hated Green with a passion.

  Chapter 21

  "Free tickets!" Green waved the envelope gleefully under Baldur’s nose. "Madison Square Gardens. I knew she’d come through for us!"

  Hodr took his headphones off, extricating the cord from his curly hair with difficulty. He was listening to an audio version of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, in Finnish. Green had suggested it. From the puzzled frown on his face, she guessed he was finding it a bit heavy going.

  "Tickets?" he boomed.

  "She’s sent us three like I asked. And we’re in the front row, VIP section – and there’s a backstage pass. So we get to meet the man himself. Orpheus."