The Good Slave

by Sellers, Franklin

  “Think about it,” he’d told his coast-to-coast congregation. “The Party of God. Of God. I am profoundly humbled to be a member of the one true party blessed by our Creator. For how could the Almighty not bestow his grace upon those who serve Him with such humility? There is no democracy or republic in Heaven, and there should be none on Earth. God decides all, and as God’s messengers it is our sacred duty to ensure that His will be done. We must eradicate deviants and nonbelievers, and return the descendants of Ham to their rightful place of subservience, for that is the will of God!”

  He would always pause dramatically long to build anticipation for whatever came out of his mouth next.

  He smiled and said, “Just you wait, my fellow Christians. When peace and prosperity reign throughout the land, we will welcome our rebellious brethren back into the fold with open arms, and love them and forgive them, for God is nothing if not merciful. Our Lord’s warm embrace await all who repent.”

  He was speaking of the anti-POG protestors, of course, but cruel punishment was the only thing that awaited such heretics. Repentance didn’t matter. Nor conversion nor supplication. Many were beaten into submission before being sold into slavery. Their leaders were they first to be publicly executed to serve as an example of what happens to those who dare defy the laws of God and the laws of the POG—officially one and the same.

  Even for the humblest, kindest, most subservient free citizens, however, the United Christian States of America had never come close to the Heaven on Earth the Church-State had promised. Most people were poor now, and totally controlled, their every move under the constant surveillance of security cameras everywhere.

  Josef Messinjure, his son and his slaves had it pretty good, though. He was a celebrity highly valued by—and useful to—the POG. They lived in the lovely gated community of Nine Verges amongst beautifully landscaped lawns and colorful flowerbeds. Tall cypress trees camouflaged a twenty-foot high, three-foot thick cinderblock muraille bulwarking the entire community. The wall was topped with alternate long and short metal spikes—black, electrified, and each sprouting hundreds of vicious, needle-sharp thorns. The structure was attractively stuccoed on the interior but the exterior was left ugly and bare to discourage would-be miscreants.

  Although Josef Messinjure still lived in his lovely mansion, the halcyon days of playing public prophet were over for the televangelist. These days he wasn’t praised, but daily mocked and ridiculed. The Church-State media, which is to say all media, made sure of it.

  The young Rev. Messinjure had lobbied for the first public executions since Rainey Bethea had swung in Kentucky a century before. But the older, though not necessarily wiser, Josef Messinjure couldn’t bear the thought of his own only son—his only child—swinging at the end of a rope.

  Or worse.

  So the old man had recanted, but too late. Not that there is ever an “in time” for turncoats. His fate was sealed as soon as he spoke out for the first time. His and his son’s and his slaves’ and countless others whose lives would be inalterably affective both negatively and positively (for nature hates a vacuum, especially in the world of televangelism) by the veteran preacher’s epiphanic political change of heart.

  What a fool he had been. He was an old man now, not a young revolutionary. He had always known he was nothing more than a useful party puppet, not a decision-maker. He was a political follower, not a leader. Despite his celebrity, in the end Josef Messinjure was just another obedient lapdog blinded into thinking he was something more by his own ego, which had been ceaselessly stroked by gushing toadies both within the party and without for too many years. The arrest of his son on trumped-up charges of homosexuality was meant not to simply embarrass the televangelist, but to break him and shut him up for good, and it worked. But still, an example had to be set.

  He had not mentioned Stephen’s name when publicly declaring the error of his ways, hopeful that the party would quietly release his son and pretend the whole affair had never happened. But it was an infantile fantasy. The Rev. Messinjure immediately returned to his Bible-thumping indignation, but the Church-State only allowed him on the air long enough to publicly reaffirm his loyalty to the POG—the one true party of God—the only party the country needed. Then they pulled the plug under the authority of the Anti-Sedition Act of 2029, and in the blink of TV screen Josef Messinjure was gone. The next time the public only saw him he was on the news entering the courthouse at his heretical son’s trial, then exiting, then going back the next day, then leaving, day after day, week after week.

  The little slave couldn’t understand why the media said his master was “lying low” and “plotting his next move against the Church-State.” Master Josef had already said that he believed the government’s case against his son was just and the trial fair, but he also asserted Stephen’s innocence and would be proven so in the courtroom.

  “Justice is paramount to the Church-State’s interest, which is why we have trials in the first place,” Rev. Messinjure had told the passel of pseudo journalists that hanging outside the courthouse every day. “Not all accused heretics turn out to be heretical, and not all accused blasphemers have blasphemed. People are falsely accused throughout history and our wonderful system of justice roots out the truth. I am confident that the truth of my son’s innocence will likewise be proven beyond any reasonable doubt.”

  But before long something changed.

  Shortly after the trial began the reporters started ignoring him when he arrived for his son’s trial. He might as well have been a janitor coming to work. No one raised a camera lens to take his picture or shoot video for the TV and internet news. As the trial progressed both Josef Messinjure and his attorney had statements they wanted to make, but they had to almost cajole some reporters into scribbling down a few notes, none of which ever went beyond the courthouse steps.

  All of the former televangelist’s calls to the news media went unanswered. They promised to get back to him, but they never did. Even EBN, the Evangelical Broadcasting Network, which had broadcast Walking With Jesus for so long, turned its back on him. Despite their sudden apathy, headlines began to appear proclaiming DISGRACED TELEVANGELIST REMAINS MUM ON HOMO SON!

  Soon the beleaguered minister gave up trying to have his voice heard and simply trudged his way past the reporters, completely ignored just like any ordinary Chuck Schmuck.

  Chapter Four

  Behold the Attestant

  Phoebus’ face was pointed at the floor, but his eyes were aching with the strain of trying to look up at the front of the courtroom without lifting his head. The D.A. lazily scrolled through text messages. The little slave hated that scumbag. He hated the way he was always twisting witnesses’ words to make them sound like liars. Isn’t that... Phoebus searched for the right word. Tricky sneakiness? Or sneaky trickiness? Or is it trickery? Yes, that’s the right word! Trickery! Isn’t that trickery? And isn’t trickery a sin?

  “Admit it, you filthy little imp!” the D.A. had yelled during Phoebus’ own testimony. “You and your master’s son had unnatural sexual relations! Didn’t you?!”

  “No!” Phoebus had cried. He didn’t even know what an “imp” was, and he couldn’t understand why the old meanie didn’t know the truth when he heard it. “Never! Never! Never! Stephen never touched me in that way!”

  “In what way did Stephen Messinjure touch you, then, slave? You slept in his room, didn’t you? Do you still?”

  “I... I’ve always slept on a mattress on the floor at the foot of his bed,” the little slave quivered. The man glowered at him with such repugnance that Phoebus felt deeply ashamed, even though he had never done anything terribly shameful in his entire life. He looked down at his hands clasped tightly on his lap. Then he closed his eyes and prayed to God to make this devil disappear.

  “And did you never sleep in his bed?” the old man asked, sounding implicatively sinister as he turned toward the crowd hanging on every word.

  “No!” Phoebus had excl
aimed. “Only when...”

  He hesitated.

  The D.A. whipped back around. He was smiling. The boy immediately realized he his mistake, but he had to continue. “When I was little,” he finished in a meek voice.

  Several people gasped. One man even burst out laughing. The little slave’s heart sank when he saw Master Josef grimace and shake his head. Stephen’s expression remained blank, perhaps with a hint of sadness if one were determined to see it.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” the D.A. boomed. “Apparently now you’re too old for the sodomite’s pedophilic depravities! But when you were very small he took you into his bed, didn’t he? Where he wrapped his arms around you and had unholy and carnal relations with you, didn’t he? Didn’t he?!”

  “No!” the little slave yelled. “No he didn’t! Stephen would never touch me in that way! He’s my friend!”

  “How many other pretty little slave boys did he fornicate with? I’ll bet a degenerate little piggy like you loved it, didn’t you?”

  “No!” Phoebus protested. “That never happened! Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Objection, your Honor!” Master Josef’s lawyer had bellowed with real anger. “The district attorney is badgering the witness!”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  The D.A. backed away from the witness stand, his arms outstretched. He made a show of composing himself by pulling his suit jacket down at the hem and smoothing out the fabric with his palms. Then in a softer but ever malicious tone he said, “Explain to us how you just happened to share Stephen Messinjure’s bed, slave.”

  “He only let me sleep with him when I was ascared of the dark,” Phoebus said, fighting an urge to cry because he realized that the reason didn’t matter. “Or when there was a thunderstorm outside. But he never touched me!”

  Murmurs filled the courtroom.

  Phoebus was so upset he could feel the blood pumping through his temples. A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound, he thought as his face contorted in his failing effort not to cry. He didn’t want to endanger or embarrass Master Josef or Stephen any further.

  The D.A. began to slowly pace back and forth in front of the witness stand. After a quarter of a minute he stopped and looked up at the boy.

  “Are you a good slave?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, sir,” Phoebus whimpered.

  “And do good slaves lie?”

  “N-no sir.”

  “Then why are you lying now?” the D.A. insisted. “Why are you being a bad little slave?”

  “I’m not lying,” Phoebus muttered, afraid to look up and no longer able to stop from crying. “Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because I do not... believe... LIARS!”

  Suddenly the little slave did look up—and straight into the old man’s eyes. Everyone was riveted. A few women gasped but the district attorney only smiled.

  “I don’t believe you, slave, because your arrogant insistence that you are not lying betrays that fact that you actually are. Methinks thou dost protest too much, my boy. Besides, it’s in every slave’s nature to lie, to deceive, to selfishly plot against their master and the society that takes care of them.”

  “But if everything I say is a lie, then anything I say is a lie, isn’t it?” Phoebus asked, honestly dumbfounded. “Even if I say I’m not lying!”

  That same man in the courtroom who had burst out laughing earlier erupted in laughter again, and others. Within seconds the room was in an uproar, and the little slave was astonished. The judge pounded his gavel. The D.A. was seeing red but the crowd had given the boy courage.

  “So it doesn’t matter what I say, does it?” Phoebus asked with a new confidence. “Even if I said Stephen touched me the way you want me to, that would be a lie, too, wouldn’t it?”

  More laughter. Out of the corner of his eye Phoebus saw that even the judge was straining to maintain his composure.

  “You insolent little bitch!” the D.A. Hissed, and before the little slave realized what was happening the old man’s big, meaty hand slapped the him so hard his head smashed against the edge of the judge’s bench. Phoebus saw stars as he fell.

  Everyone was dumbstruck.

  “OBJECTION!!” Master Josef’s attorney shouted as jumped to his feet, his chair tumbling over with a clatter. “This is an outrage!”

  Then D.A. reached over the edge of the witness box and yanked the little slave up by a fistful of golden hair. Phoebus cried out as the old man sprinkled his face with saliva as he spouted, “You think you’re funny, you worthless piece of shit? We’ll see how cocky you are with fifty lashes across your back!”

  Phoebus tasted blood in the corner of his mouth. It was bitter and acrid. A second crimson rivulet flowed down from a cut on his forehead and stung his eye.

  “Order!” the judge shouted as he stood up and pounded his gavel. “Order!”

  “I will personally slap that cockiness straight out of your pretty fucking mouth!”

  “Unhand that slave!” the judge ordered and the D.A. shoved Phoebus back down to the floor. Then he turned around, marched back to his chair and sat down with such an air of pompous satisfaction that would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been real.

  The crowd quieted down only after the judge pounded his gavel several more times. He then called for a ten-minute recess and ordered both the district attorney and Master Josef’s lawyer into his chambers.

  An obese female slave waddled up to the witness stand with a scuffed up plastic SLAVE FIRST AID KIT. She wore a XXXL pink CITY PROPERTY T-shirt, her fat fingers squeezed like sausages into tight latex gloves. Phoebus pouted as she wiped his face with an antiseptic swab that burned the cut on his forehead, then patched him up with a band-aid and handed him a small plastic packet of tissues. She had him rinse his mouth out with some salt water and spit it into a plastic cup she put a lid on.

  “I think one of my teeth is loose,” he whimpered.

  “Well, don’t tongue it and it’ll tighten itself back up in no time,” she said quietly as he wiped his tears away before handing him the tissue. “Now blow your nose and wipe your tears and stop blubbering like a baby.” The she leaned in close and whispered, “Never let ‘em see you cry.”

  Phoebus did as he was told and placed the soiled tissue in her outstretched hand while taking a small packet of tissues from her other hand. He wiped his eyes some more as she turned and lumbered away, but he welled up again when he saw Stephen wiping away tears of his own. Behind him Master Josef’s large hand covered his face.

  The little slave felt that he had failed them both.

  The D.A. stood before the judge’s bench and stated in a firm but stolid tone, “The district attorney’s office wishes to issue a public apology to Mr. Josef Messinjure for any regrettable and accidental damage to Mr. Messinjure’s property.”

  A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.

  Phoebus kept repeating this to himself as he tried to drown out the sound of the mean man old man’s voice. He was still sitting on the witness stand, his shoulders rolled forward in an subconscious attempt to make himself appear as small and as invisible as possible.

  A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.

  The slave tried not to think about how degraded he felt being referred to as property, that no apology was being offered to him for his suffering.

  A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.

  “Furthermore, the district attorney’s office guarantees Mr. Messinjure that if there is any permanent damage to his property, he will be duly compensated for his loss up to and including the current full market value of his property for the replacement thereof.”

  The little slave muttered his way through the rest of his testimony. More than once the judge, who was now in a foul mood, barked, “Stop sniveling and speak up!” Phoebus only cringed and spoke up. He wished both fat old men were dead, but immediately felt guilty for such a wicked, wicked thought and begged Go
d’s forgiveness.

  There were no more dramatic theatrics or violence. Phoebus was exhausted by the time his testimony ended and the judge told him he could step down. When he got back to his seat Master Josef put a comforting hand on the back of his head and gently stroked his soft golden hair a few times. The little slave began to weep.

  Chapter Five

  A Hostile Witness

  Phoebus wasn’t the only witness, of course. He was just one of many, in fact. Others had once been good Messinjures friends, or so the Messinjures had thought. But all had lied, of course, to save themselves from similar fates. The D.A. paraded several of Stephen’s high school pals in front of the jury to testify that he had made sexual advances towards all of them at one time or another. Phoebus began to think of them as the Locker Room Gang because every last one of them claimed that his master’s sone had propositioned them when they were alone in the locker room after some soccer or basketball or baseball practice.

  “Obviously they’ve all been coached,” the little slave overheard his master’s lawyer whisper.

  “Stephen approached me in the locker room,” one boy mumbled.

  “It was in the locker room,” said another one, who looked embarrassed. “After soccer practice.”

  It hurt Phoebus to see Stephen’s friends turn against him this way.

  “After basketball practice,” one boy had testified, “in the locker room.”

  “He put his arm on my waist and tried to kiss me,” claimed another.

  “He tried to kiss me as he put his arm around my waist and pulled me up against him,” said another.

  “He put his arm around my waist and tried to kiss me.”

  “Tried to kiss me.”

  “Pulled me close.”