The Good Slave

by Sellers, Franklin

  “Welcome to paradise,” Stephen had often snickered with a wink at Phoebus whenever their limo exited into the real world. Master Josef didn’t approve of his son’s cynicism, of course. Arguments often ended with Stephen concluding that his father’s beloved revolution was a colossal joke, and a dare to stop the limo—a truly terrifying prospect—and risk walking to wherever they were going. The preacher couldn’t understand why Stephen was so angry. He’d always thought his son would be happy to live a privileged life, not miserable.

  The drive home took hours. By the time they arrived, the white gravel driveway was already growing eerily in the moonlight. Silhouetted in front of the open front door was gray-haired George, the head slave who had been with Josef Messinjure the longest. Since most of the other slaves had been sold to stave off bankruptcy, old George had been serving as butler, mechanic, fixit man, gardener, and just about every other role reserved for male slaves. Master Josef was running a high fever when the car pulled up to the house, and complaining of chest pains. So both Phoebus and George helped him out of the car, the tiny pale stones crunching against each other under their feet, into the house and straight to his bedroom.

  Tessa, the old slave now solely charged with cooking and cleaning and tending the flowerbeds—which were looking shabbily neglected, to be honest—was waiting for them in the foyer. She nagged them all the way up the grand staircase and down the hall, leading the way like the grand marshall of a sad little parade. Then Tessa shooed Phoebus out of the bedroom once their master was lying down. “Go make yourself useless someplace else, boy!”

  The little slave peered over his shoulder as he shuffled out of the room, catching one last glimpse of his master, eyes closed and mouth gaping wide, sweat beading on his forehead. He moaned and looked painfully ancient as he struggled to breathe, his hand clutching at his chest, the horizon of his skull clearly visible through the thinning white hair made luminous by the lamplight (his black-dyed hair having grown out soon after the TV cameras disappeared). Hair-thin wrinkles stretched down his hollow cheeks from the smooth skin stretched over his cheekbones, disappearing under hundreds of silvery quill-like whiskers blanketing his lower face and the folds of loose flesh gathered under his jaw. The handsome young man Phoebus had seen in a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon video recorded decades ago was barely recognizable in old Josef Messinjure’s hoary profile. The little slave wondered if his old master was going to die soon from a broken heart, and his own heart ached at the thought. The boy knew none of the other slaves loved Master Josef. At least not as much as he did. Phoebus wanted to be with him when he died. Wanted to hold his hand. And he didn’t want any of them to be there.

  “Scat!” Tessa snapped.

  George called the family’s longtime physician Dr. McCallister, who wasted no time in coming over. He was elderly like Master Josef, but corpulent and bald on top with a snowy white band of hair horseshoeing around his head. He sported a matching white goatee, rather longer than most, which made him look somewhat like an agèd and fat nineteenth-century intellectual. Freud or somebody like that. He was certainly as sober as one, bringing neither merriment nor mirth with him whenever he walked through the door.

  Tessa wrung her hands as she escorted him to her old master’s bedroom.

  “Goodness knows what’ll happen to all of us if Master Josef dies,” she worried out loud. “I’m too old to be sold! Who would want me? I’m nothing but an old woman now.”

  “For pity’s sake, woman!” Dr. McCallister snarled as he brushed past her. “Stop your jibber-jabbering and get out of my way!”

  He trotted rapidly down the length of the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.

  Tessa shook her head and slowly turned and went back down stairs to make some tea. As she passed the living room she heard arguing and, never one to pass up an opportunity to stick her nose into other people’s business, turned to investigate.

  The slaves were debating whether or not to watch Stephen’s execution on TV. Tessa was dead set against it, her lip quivering at the thought.

  “It just ain’t right,” she said. Her voice suddenly cracked with emotion.

  George, on the other hand—well, old George never liked Stephen. And he never made no bones about it whenever Master Josef wasn’t around.

  “That stuck up, snotty little faggot thinks the sun shines out his ass,” George always said. “Always has, always will.”

  “You’re just as jealous as you always was about that boy,” Tessa said. Phoebus was standing off to the side watching the same argument play out for the hundredth time. “Ever since the day he was born.”

  “No,” George countered. “I ain’t never been jealous. But I was pushed aside when Master Josef brought that low-class hussy into this house. And downgraded even further when that snotty little faggot was born.”

  The hussy George was referring to was Josef Messinjure’s late wife, Julia, who “tragically passed away while birthing forth a new son, whom she named Stephen with her dying breath.” At least that how the office Church-State press release announced her death. George was wrong; he had always remained Josef Messinjure’s favorite slave, but that only meant he was trusted enough to chase after a toddler all day, play second fiddle to a nanny. He was uncharacteristically reticent after Master Josef had appointed him chief protector of the very brat who, in his mind, had deposed him, but Tessa could tell right off that he’d been stewing about it.

  “I’d rather’ve spent my days hittin’ the poontang that popped out that little fucker!” George once announced to the other slaves not long after their mistress had departed this world. Some snickered nervously as they looked around to make sure their master wasn’t within earshot.

  Tessa had only glowered at him.

  “That kinda talk’s gonna get us all in trouble, George Messinjure!” she’d said. “You need to mind what you say and show some respect—especially of the dead!”

  “Shit, woman,” George said, “the dead are dead, and they ain’t comin’ back no matter if I run ’em down or sing their praises to the Lord.”

  There was no such sparring between the two old slaves tonight, though. George, more brazen than ever, turned his back on Tessa and sat down in Master Josef’s comfortable soft black leather recliner and kicked off his shoes. He watched with admiration as each spun through the air before landing with a satisfying and audible THUD! onto the gleaming hardwood floor. He slid into a comfortable slouch, crossed his ankles and rested his feet on the ottoman and pointed the remote control at the TV, eighty diagonal inches of three-dimensional high definition dominating the opposite wall.

  Chapter Nine

  Showtime!

  Federal law mandated that an hour-long execution was to be broadcast live every other month beginning on New Year’s Day, making them the odd months. These extravaganzas were always rating bonanzas and multimillion-dollar advertising bids often weren’t locked in until minutes—sometimes seconds—before the show began.

  Despite the fortunes to be made, greedy network executives were always trying to cook up new ways to increase profits. They’d lobbied and paid off Congress for months to pass the Ferity Execution Act that would have legalized execution by ravenous, starving animals like grizzly bears and hyenas. Most congressmen were initially enthusiastic about the so-called Beast Bill, but most clergy likened it to pagan Roman executions and guaranteed its defeat; once the preachers turn on legislation it’s sunk. Fortunately, however, a senator from Texas quickly introduced the alternate Federal Incendiary Requital Execution or FIRE Act. Rather than being shred by fangs, the condemned would be burned alive as were heretics in centuries past. A modern twist would forego tying the condemned to a primitive wooden stake, a huge pile of kindling at his feet. Today’s damned would instead be handcuffed to a metal pole and submerged ankle-deep in the middle of a small round white-bottom pool, ten feet in diameter, filled with clear hydrocarbon jelly, which would instantly ignite at the touch of a single match. The accurs�
�d wretch would be clad in a long white robe saturated in a retardant mixture of the jelly that would burn much more slowly. Half the clergy who had pooh-poohed the Beast Bill gleefully rallied behind the new FIRE Act, declaring it a renaissance of the time-honored practice of the just immolation of heretics and other ne’er-do-wells. Execution by burning at the stake has a long and proud tradition, they wrote in a press release to EBN News. We welcome its return as a means of meting out God’s justice.

  The FIRE Act passed a Congressional vote one a beautiful summer morning without a single nay and the president signed it into law that very same afternoon. Despite its popularity, though, the traditional—and arguably more graphically savory—lapidation (aka death by stoning) would always remain the public’s favorite.

  The execution of a criminal as infamous as Stephen Messinjure was rare. His stoning had been so widely anticipated that the Church-State had granted EBN an unprecedented hour-and-a-half broadcast. Advertisers and network execs knew viewers would be spellbound and advertising bids were celestial (pun intended), to say the least. Moments before the broadcast Epiphany Entertainment ponied up ten million dollars for a thirty-second spot during the first commercial break—a new record.

  “The Evangelical Broadcasting Network has pre-empted tonight’s episode of Nearer to Thee in order to bring you the live execution of infamous homosexual heretic Stephen Messinjure in three-dimensional high definition!” came an announcer’s voice from a black screen. “Your regularly scheduled program, Jesus in the House, will air in its entirety following this sacred event.”

  The screen suddenly lit up with a nighttime aerial view of a massive football stadium packed to capacity. A title that looked like the cover of a superhero comic book read: DIVINE EXECUTION OF STEPHEN MESSINJURE--LIVE!

  “Isn’t that picture something?” George said. “Hey, Tessa, remember when we was kids and had to wear glasses to watch TV in 3D? Times sure do change.”

  Tessa didn’t respond.

  Brass horns blasted a triumphal fanfare as the picture faded to sports announcer Pete McIntosh sitting behind an anchor desk.

  “It’s a beautiful autumn evening here at the Family Values Center in Hypocropolis, Texas,” Pete said, behind him a breathtaking view of the packed stadium, “Spectators and clergy have gathered from all over corners of America to witness the much anticipated execution of Stephen Messinjure live on EBN!”

  The music crescendoed as the shimmering logo of luxury automobile manufacturer Trinity Motors appeared onscreen.

  “Brought to you today by the new Trinity Saxon!” a deep-voiced announcer said. “Comfort and peace from zero to eighty in five seconds.” The logo morphed into to a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. “All the style and sophistication that Heaven allows!”

  The car was replaced by the image of a rifle, the length of its muzzle exaggerated to exploit the 3D effect.

  “And by Canaan Rifles! For when a boy becomes a man!”

  The rifle let out a fiery blast and the stadium crowd cheered.

  “And now, here are Simon ‘Pete’ McIntosh, Paul Walton and Bart Merryweather!”

  Pete sat in the middle with Paul on his right and Bart on his left. Bart sported a blanket of perfectly coiffed jet black hair, greased and sculpted with the precision of icing on an expensive wedding cake. The dark do was at serious odds with the ancient, wrinkled face below it.

  “It’s a beautiful day here in Hypocropolis,” Pete said with an enthusiastic smile, “and we’ve got a full house for this evening’s exciting execution.”

  “That’s right, Pete,” Paul chimed in. “Although it’s not unusual to see homosexuals executed, it most certainly is out of the ordinary to see the son of such a high-ranking member of the clergy—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as it turns out—brought to justice.”

  “Right you are, Paul,” Pete agreed with a broad grin.

  “We should clarify that the condemned homosexual’s father, Josef Messinjure, is a former man of the cloth,” old Bart chimed in. “His son’s despicable behavior is proof of the former minister’s atrocious parenting skills and his failure to set a proper moral example for his only son, despite the charade of moral uprightness he presented on TV for decades. For his part, Stephen Messinjure selfishly allowed his own vile perversions to destroy his father’s career, and his death today will surely come with no small amount of satisfaction from the Messinjure family.”

  “Mm-hmm,” George grunted his approval.

  “That’s right,” Pete agreed. “Josef Messinjure’s long and illustrious career came crashing down as his own soul was poisoned by his son’s despicable malady. He actually stood by his son’s side and publicly proclaimed his innocence.”

  “Admirable devotion but unbelievably ignorant.” Paul shook his head. “Let’s pray to our Lord Jesus Christ that the old man’s finally come to his senses.”

  “You know,” Bart said, “many people say they love their children unconditionally, and that’s fine. But unconditional love does not mean that you can’t set at least a few common sense boundaries. And no one should be in denial about his child’s mortal sins against God. At the very least, when the Church-State charges your child—charges which are not brought lightly and which result in convictions ninety-seven percent of the time—the most you should do as a loving parent is keep your big trap shut and quietly wait for the punishment to be announced.”

  “You mean wait for the verdict to be announced, Bart?” Paul corrected him, a devilish smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Verdicts usually comes before punishments, after all.”

  “I meant verdict!” ol’ Bart snapped, embarrassed. “You know what I mean, Paul.”

  Paul chuckled.

  “Right you are, Bart!” Pete boomed. “But even after Stephen Messinjure was found guilty by a God-fearing, Christian jury, his father still spoke out against the conviction and proclaimed his son’s innocence.”

  “At that point I think it was clear that Josef Messinjure had gone from denial to delusional in his hopeless defense of his disloyal and unrepentant son,” said Paul.

  Pete turned and looked into the camera.

  “Let’s go down to the field now where Jimmy Valentine is waiting on the sidelines with some excited young Christians. Jimmy?”

  Jimmy Valentine, a handsome young man with an incandescent smile, wore a black suit just like the old guys in the anchor booth, except his tie was maroon silk, not blue cotton. His short blond hair was gelled, parted on the left, of course—Everyone knows only girls and fags part their hair on the right—and molded into a whimsical backward wave at the apex of his forehead. He stood at the edge of the field surrounded by a group of a dozen shirtless teenage boys, some fat, some thin, and all sporting red, white and blue “war” paint on their faces with matching crucifixes, some burning, on their chests. One boy’s cruciate was simply two sloppy slaps of scarlet paint, but it did the trick. All that mattered was that he was one of them. He fit in. He was normal. Important characteristics for survival in his America.

  “That’s right, Pete,” Jimmy shouted above the cheering crowd. “The atmosphere is electric in the Family Values Center here today. It’s standing room only, with an estimated crowd of twenty thousand men!”

  The boys behind the reporter cheered, laughed and yelled. Turning to a small boy on his right, Jimmy Valentine asked, “And what’s your name, little man?”

  The boy leaned in toward the mic. “Seth McDonald!” he shouted, and a wide grin spread across his face. He was missing a front tooth.

  “And where are you from, Seth?”

  “I’m from the great lone-star state of Texas!” The boys behind him cheered again. “We all are!”

  “And how old are you, Seth?”

  The boy hesitated, then stammered, “Teh... uh, t-twelve. Twelve! Just old enough to be here!”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Jimmy said with a wink. “You look ’t-twelve’ to me, sport. And is this the first lapidation you’ve ever atten
ded?”

  “Yes, sir, it is!”

  “And what made you want to come here today?”

  “I came ’cause God don’t make no mistakes and He don’t make queers neither! That’s the devil’s work!”

  His companions cheered him on.

  “Right you are, Seth!” Jimmy agreed as he stood up. He turned to a husky older boy to his left. “And what’s your name?”

  “My name is Johnny Whimpleton!” The boy had a dimpled smith and a mouth full of perfect white teeth.

  “And why are you here, Johnny?”

  “I’m here because the Holy Bible says faggotry is an abomination! Leviticus 18:22 ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind’!”

  “We’re here to watch that faggot get his ugly face smashed in!” shouted a hulking brute behind Johnny Whimpleton.

  The boys began to chant, “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!” And they laughed as they jumped up and down, engulfing poor Jimmy Valentine.

  “That about sums it up!” the reporter yelled with a laugh. “Back to you, Pete!”

  The three men at the anchor desk were all chuckling to see such merriment.

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” Pete said.

  “It’s nice to see good, wholesome, normal boys turn out to witness the dispensation of American justice,” Bart said.

  “And with normal Christian names, too,” Paul added. “Did you know, Pete, that the name Stephen is only mentioned thirteen times in the Bible?” He shook his head in disgust. “Talk about an evil omen! His name might as well be Judas!”

  “Anyone With an ounce of common sense knows that every homosexual is a Judas,” Pete pointed out.

  “The name Stephen may be in the Christian Bible,” Bart added, “but it’s still not Christian enough in my book!”