Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  "Whatever you have to say can be said in front of my congregation. Be warned, sinner. Speak no lies in God's house, or suffer his wrath!"

  Now, wasn't that the pot calling the kettle black? Bellows wouldn't know the truth if it grew lips and whistled Dixie. Suddenly, my blood pressure rose, and my carefully rehearsed speech flew clear out of my head. "I wanted to talk to you about a friend of mine named Fargo Green. Somebody beat on him a month or so ago and left the poor boy for dead."

  Bellows' eyes bulged, and his finger jabbed repeatedly in my direction. "The Lord sought to smite a fornicator, a sodomite. You should take His warning to heart, and change your sinning ways, because it might be you the next time!"

  People around me were nodding; I could see heads bobbing through my peripheral vision, although I kept my eyes and the camera trained on Bellows. I noticed Matthews' eyes grow wide, and he took a step away from the pulpit, as if he knew what was coming and wanted to distance himself.

  "It wasn't God who beat on poor Fargo. We know who did it. A witness came forward who decided to tell the truth about the matter. His conscience has been bothering him, and he's ready to go to the police." Even though it was Bellows' church, I still cringed a little, afraid God would strike me down for telling such a whopper. Besides, it was true... in a way. Ashley had told us who was behind the beating. When nothing happened, I relaxed a bit. "We're not anxious to go to the law and stir up a hornet's nest. We read the Bible, too. We want to turn the other cheek, but we need an apology first, and a promise that it won't happen again."

  The blood leached from Bellows' face. I could see him turning a sickly gray, and watched Matthews, looking even paler than Bellows, take another step back, closer to the rectory door. "Lies!" Bellow hollered. "You dare come into the house of God and spew lies against a deacon of my church?"

  "Now, I don't recall naming anybody. Didn't even say the person responsible was from this congregation, much less a deacon," I said, feeling my lips curve in a smirk. I deliberately turned to stare at Matthews, and noticed he was sweating profusely. Good, I thought. I hope the camera is picking that up. "Funny how you just assumed you knew who I was thinking of, though."

  "Who is this person who claims to know who beat the boy?" Bellows demanded. "Tell me the name of this liar!"

  "Oh, now, I can't do that, but I can tell you it's the same person who saw the folks responsible for nailing a dead peacock to the front door of Outland last weekend," I said. If I was going to stretch the truth, I might as well pull it as far as it would go. I looked around at the congregation. Some of them were blinking in confusion, looking back and forth between Bellows and Matthews. I realized that even though they swallowed Bellows' hateful ideology, most probably didn't know about the church's involvement in the attack on Fargo or the peacock.

  Matthews, however, took that as his cue to run for cover. He ducked through the door into the rectory. Just like a coward to run at the first sign of trouble, I thought. Wish I could be a fly on the wall when Bellows gets hold of him later.

  "Why, where did your deacon disappear to?" I asked, trying to appear innocent. "Seems like he sure ran off in a hurry."

  Bellows glanced at the closed rectory door, and his expression was priceless when he realized his right hand man had tucked tail. He regrouped quickly though, and turned a venomous glare at me. "Why exactly did you come here?"

  "I came here to tell you that I want it to end, Bellows. I want the violence to stop," I said, speaking up loud and clear, so everyone could hear me. "No more attacks. You can go on believing whichever way you please, make your posters and hold your rallies, but leave us alone to do the same."

  "No! As long as you continue to live in sin, to flaunt the will of God, nothing will change," Bellows hissed. His fingers gripped the edges of the pulpit tightly, knuckles whitening. "You're very existence is an insult to God! The good people of his congregation will not stop until every last one of you is gone!"

  The congregation was getting riled now, shifting in their seats, some standing up, talking and calling out their support for Bellows, and I figured I'd better get gone while I still had the chance. I turned around without another word and left, not taking an easy breath until I was in my truck and on my way back home.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I got to the house, I found Hank, Fargo, Jethro, and Skeeter gathered around the television in the living room. Skeeter hooked up his laptop to the TV and was running the film I'd taken in the First Corners Church.

  Hank rushed me the minute I walked through the door. He planted a hard, brutal kiss on my lips, but backed away before I could even begin to appreciate it, and proceeded to skin me alive. "Are you crazy, Beaver? Pushing them the way you did! You were supposed to walk in, give the speech we rehearsed, and get your scrawny ass back out again!"

  "Hey! How about, 'you did real well, Beaver,' or 'thank you very kindly for risking your dang fool neck, Beaver,'" I sniffed, a little offended that he'd rather scold me like a naughty ten-year-old than thank me for marching into the enemy camp with nothing to protect me except a tricked-out tie tack.

  "We are grateful, Beaver, but Hank nearly blew a gasket watching you," Jethro said, trying to look stern, but failing. His face split into a grin. "For a minute, I thought Bellows' head was going to start spinning on his neck, like that chick in The Exorcist, when you walked in and started talking."

  "Too bad it didn't," Fargo added, jumping up and throwing his arms around me. "You're my hero, Beaver," he said, squeezing me tightly.

  "Hey, don't squash the camera and mike!" Skeeter added, poking his long spider-like fingers between Fargo's body and mine, trying to fish out his equipment. Feedback shrieked from his laptop, making us all cringe. "Let me unwire him first. You can maul him to your heart's content later!"

  Hank peeled Fargo off me, and let Skeeter do his thing, unclipping the microphone and camera tie tack, and unwrapping the duct tape that held the battery pack to the small of my back. Once I was electronics-free, Hank elbowed his way past Fargo and Jethro, grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me into the bedroom, locking the door behind us.

  That's when I knew I was really in trouble.

  "In all the years we've been together, I never took you for a fool, Beaver," Hank began. His face was like granite, grim and fierce, and the fact that he wasn't yelling chilled me. "Not once have I ever doubted your judgment, or been sorry I agreed to let you have your way in things... until now."

  "Hank…"

  "Don't Hank me. I just spent two of the worst hours of my life, Beaver. I need to tell you, and you're going to stand there and hear me. Understand?"

  I'd never seen Hank this way. His anger was controlled, but he was so cold he'd have given me frostbite if I touched him. I nodded, knowing better than to try to say anything until he'd had a chance to get it out of his system.

  "When I had my heart attack, you told me you felt helpless. I understand that, believe me, but at least it wasn't my fault. I didn't go skydiving, or bungee-jumping, or do anything else to bring it on, except for having a piss-poor diet and bad genes."

  I nodded again, already knowing where he was going with this, and feeling like a Class A shit because I knew he was right.

  "You were in that church for almost twenty minutes, and I have a new gray hair for every one of them. Why didn't you stick to the speech? If that crowd had turned on you, if even one person there was armed and decided putting a bullet between your eyes would earn them a place in heaven, you'd be dead, Beaver. I'd have watched them kill you without being able to do a damn thing about it."

  "I'm sorry, Hank," I muttered, letting my head hang.

  "Sorry don't cut it. Your mouth ran off and left your brain behind in the dust, Beaver. I swear, if you ever do anything so stupid again, we won't have to worry on Bellows, because I'll kill you myself!"

  The steam went out of him, and his stony expression slipped, letting me see just how upset and frightened he'd been. I reached for him, pulling him
into my arms, resting my head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," I said again. "I know that's not enough, but that's all I have, Hank. When I got there, I just... with those people staring at me, and Bellows and Matthews standing up front so pompous and arrogant, and me knowing what they did..." I tried to find the right words to explain, but came up short.

  "I know. Just don't do it again."

  "I don't plan on it," I said with a slight chuckle. "Don't have any intention of going near First Corners again. Got what we went in for, and that's enough."

  "Okay, then," Hank said. He squeezed me, and tilted his head for a kiss, and I knew I'd been forgiven. Instead of the grinding, punishing kiss he'd given me at the door when I came home, this one was soft and tender, and so very sweet that I felt it from my hairline to my ankles.

  I rubbed myself against him, sighing softly as my body responded, and felt his do the same. All the tension I'd felt all day bled out of me, leaving me feeling empty, and needing him badly.

  My hands slid from his waist to his ass, cupping his cheeks, as his fingers massaged my shoulders. Our kiss deepened, his bristly chin rubbing my freshly shaved cheeks raw. Hank's prick hardened in record time, before mine was even at half-mast. I edged him toward the bed, intending to strip us both bare on the way down to the mattress.

  A knock at the door interrupted us. It was Fargo. "Hank? Beaver? You coming out? Skeeter's got the video ready."

  "Damn it," I groaned. "They have the world's worst timing. Don't they know it takes time for you to rip me a new one?"

  Hank snorted. "Be there in a minute, Fargo!" he called, pulling away from me and adjusting his pecker. It bulged at his crotch, thick and hard to the right of the fly.

  "A minute is all I'd need," I said, looking down forlornly at my own fledgling hard-on. I laughed when he stuck his tongue out at me.

  "Serves you right for worrying me like you did," he said, smacking me on the arm. "Come on, let's go see. I want to be there when Skeeter puts it up."

  I nodded, gave my dick another prod until it aligned with my zipper, and followed him back into the living room.

  ***

  Jethro eyed the bulge in my pants and cocked an eyebrow at me. "All's forgiven, huh?" he said, smirking. His hands held two cups of fresh coffee, which he handed off to Hank and me as we sank onto the sofa in the living room.

  "Oh, Hank's forgiven me, but I don't know that we've forgiven you for interrupting us," I said, taking a sip. The coffee was hot and strong, and braced with a shot of whiskey, just what my jangled nerves needed. I nodded toward Skeeter, who hunched over his laptop, long fingers flying over the keys. Fargo placed one hand on the desk, and the other on the back of Skeeter's chair, intently watching the screen over Skeeter's shoulder. "How goes it?"

  "Just about done, Skeeter says," Jethro answered.

  "I'm formatting the video into an MPEG now. It'll only take two or three minutes more, and we'll be ready to go," Skeeter said, finally sitting back. I noticed Fargo laid a hand on his shoulder, fingers massaging Skeeter's muscles, as a small smile played on his lips.

  Good, I thought. About time that boy noticed Skeeter. Lord knows Skeeter's been trying hard enough all summer to get his attention.

  "What'll happen next?" Hank asked. He was sitting close to me, his thigh warm against mine, sipping his coffee.

  "Next, I'll upload the video to YouTube. I'm going to add tags, search words that'll help folks find it. After that, I'll send it to every major news site and station I can think of, local news, and Reuters. I'll email the link to the print papers, too, and gay organization websites like The Advocate, and all my Yahoo, MSN, and Google groups. I'll go in and post a comment and a link to all of the videos First Corners has up, and any I can find that deal with gay bashing. After that, it's just going to be a game of wait and see," Skeeter said.

  Hank choked a little on his coffee. "Wait and see? We did all this crap, and had Beaver risk his neck, for a wait and see?"

  "People will see it, Hank. I have a lot of subscribers to my videos on YouTube, and word will get out through the groups, but it's a coin toss whether any of the news media will pick it up," Skeeter explained.

  I could feel Hank starting to bristle. "He's doing all he can. Let the boy be," I whispered, giving Hank's knee a squeeze. He settled back, but I could tell he was less than happy. Neither was I -- it would've been nice to see Skeeter push the "Enter" button on his laptop and have the video instantly plastered on every television station coast to coast, but I understood things didn't work that way in the real world. It was a chance that anyone in the media would notice it at all, and if they did, that they'd take it seriously. Still, it was worth the shot.

  "The video's ready. Do you want to see it before I upload it?" Skeeter asked, looking over his shoulder at us.

  I nodded, and we crowded around his laptop. Skeeter pressed a button, and the screen suddenly went black. Stark white letters appeared on the screen, forming a simple but powerful message.

  This past summer, a young gay man named Fargo Green was beaten nearly to death in the small town of Meridian, in East Haggerty County. The case is yet unsolved, and police have no suspects. The only witness to the crime, Ashley Wills, disappeared shortly after the attack.

  The words faded, replaced by a photo of Fargo lying in his hospital bed after his surgery, tubes crisscrossing his battered body. My stomach twisted as the picture brought back all the fear and helplessness I'd felt at the time. I saw Fargo wince, his hand rising to touch his wired jaw, and noticed Skeeter reach for his hand, holding it.

  Fargo's photo faded to black, more words appearing on the screen.

  A peacock was killed and nailed to the front door of the Outland Bar in Meridian six weeks later. Outland is the only gay bar in a hundred mile radius. Two photos followed, one of the dead bird lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, and the other of the ugly words printed on the door in the peacock's blood. God Hates Homos.

  More words. The message written in blood on the door, God Hates Homos, is a catchphrase often used by the Reverend Jasper Bellows, of the First Corners Church in Meridian. A photo of the church followed.

  We decided we needed to pay a call on Reverend Bellows. The following video is unedited, and shows the result of our visit to the First Corners Church in Meridian. The man wearing the camera is Harvey Turner, one of the owners of the Outland Bar.

  I cringed when my name appeared on the screen and felt my cheeks heat up. Hank gave my knee a little squeeze as we watched.

  The video clip I'd taken inside First Corners played. It began with me walking to the front doors, and ended with me leaving the church at a fast clip, though of course you never actually saw me at all -- the entire view was from my tie tack camera. The whole thing only took a few minutes, even though it'd felt like I was in there for hours while it was actually happening.

  Tell our story, please! Help us stop the violence.

  The screen faded to black again. We stood silently for a few minutes, each man dealing with the emotions the video dragged to the surface, raw and painful. I could feel Hank shaking next to me, and figured enough was enough. "Okay, Skeeter. Good job. Do it."

  Skeeter nodded, turning his attention to the laptop. We watched him upload the video to YouTube, but as he began the tedious task of sending it to the other arenas, Hank, Jethro, and I left him and Fargo to deal with the technical issues. Truth be told, none of the three of us were techno-savvy. I, for one, wouldn't know an MPEG from a peg-leg. We let the younger men do what they did best and went into the kitchen.

  All that remained for us to do was, as Skeeter said, wait and see.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I was a kid, I used to have an ant farm. It was a foot-square wedge of clear plastic, filled with sand. I kept it on my dresser, and spent hours watching the ants filing back and forth, and up and down inside their tiny tunnels. I used to wonder if they saw me as a giant peeking into their world, and if they knew that, at any time, I could obliterate their
entire universe with one swipe of my hand. Made me feel a little like God, I guess, knowing I had that sort of power over them.

  I guess God or fate or whatever-you-believe decided our little ant farm needed some shaking, because just when we thought we had a handle on things, He dropped-kicked us a good one.

  It was Friday morning, and we were alone for what seemed to us to be the first time since Fargo came home from the hospital. He was spending the weekend at Jethro's, with Skeeter. We loved having Fargo living with us, but I reckon we'd both have to admit it was nice to get some alone-time.

  Hank and me were in the kitchen, drinking our coffee and picking over the last of the ham and cheese omelets Hank made for breakfast. Hank's omelets were fluffy and light, and I was just scraping the last of mine from my plate with a triangle of buttered, light brown toast when the phone rang. I started to get up, but Hank waved a hand at me.