by Lee Bond
So. Three men, sitting on an old couch, talking. Talking about their encounter with Garth Nickels of the Properly Unpronounceable Last Name, sharing –quietly, oh so quietly, secretly terrified that their stories would somehow leak out into the world around them- the things Garth had said and done to them.
In that moment, something had clicked. Like a heavy chord ringing deep in their chests. Richie and Steve had admitted to the feeling as well, cementing their collusion in the Church of Nothing.
Heady times had followed, each man whispering basic CoN tenets to friends and family … anyone who’d listen, with Steve falling smoothly into his role as Church Security Minister and Richie -with his roots in policing- becoming Church Intelligence officer, leaving the grand prize to Jerry and Jerry alone.
In addition to being the chief visionary of this new church, Jerry’d been it’s financier for nearly six whole months, using payouts from the government for the destruction of his bus and all the emotional and physical trauma he’d endured. Around the time that their fledgling church had been at it's most darkest -both financially and membership-wise- the fourth and final cornerstone of the Church of Nothing had appeared on their doorstep.
That person?
Gary Poorfowl, aka Gary Bad Chicken.
A thorough criminal, even in the eyes of a disgraced cop, a disillusioned ex-arm breaker for Voss_Uderhell and an unemployed bus driver, Gary’d stayed away from the Church and their doings simply because he hadn't wanted to be involved in something as ridiculous as a church. At the time, the crook claimed he'd only finally joined the Church, announcing his far more intimate connection with Nickels, because the pressure of not being with others like him was growing too great to bear.
Jerry had been no fool then, nor was he one now; back then, with the church still in it's infancy, it'd been apparent to everyone involved that sooner rather than later, it'd start pulling in hefty donations.
But that revelation, though, that he'd met Nickels years before anyone else in the Church?
It'd come perilously close to driving a permanent wedge into the fundamental core of the Church.
Steve, still possessed of a somewhat larcenous heart, had been adamant in his beliefs that Gary's much older introduction to Garth counted for a great deal, perhaps equaling Jerry's in terms of importance.
Richie had been the polar opposite, going so far as to announce his belief that the final meeting with Nickels -his own, in fact- was of far greater value than any of the others combined.
That argument had raged hot and wild into the night, leaving all three original members of the Church of Nothing and the would-be fourth pillar with sore throats, headaches, empty stomachs and hearts full of anguish.
Had the Church not been in such desperate times, Jerry knew he would've done everything in his power to keep Gary and his dark heart out of things altogether, but where he had been no fool, neither had Gary been; with Church donations and tithes still inconsistent and with coffers nearly dry, Gary’s 'gift' of cash money in lieu of Church favors had been too impossibly timely to turn down, no matter that all three inducted members viewed the not-quite-bribe as a bastardization of their efforts.
Steve, not so far out of the game that he'd lost ties and connections to the criminal element on Tenerek, had promised to keep an eye on Gary and his comings and goings; intimately aware of the sort of people Gary spent most of his time with, Steve's promises had rung very clear with Jerry.
Not to be undone, Richie had done the same, vowing to carefully -and stealthily- monitor any and all of Gary's activities, keeping a particular eye out for any underhanded schemes or backroom deals that'd put the Church in jeopardy.
Doubts concerning Gary's intentions had run long and strong for more than a year, and not a day went by when Jerry Seinfeld wished they'd trusted Gary sooner rather than later; while the man's underground establishment, the 'Black Altar', wasn't necessarily an entirely legitimate operation as far as the failing government on Tenerek believed, it nevertheless played an incredibly crucial role within the greater Church. When you waited for the end of everything to come swooping down on your heads to snuff your life out like a candle in a storm, you needed to cut loose, purge yourselves of the bleakness that settled in.
People went into the Black Altar full of loathing and fear, darkness and hatred.
People came out of the Black Altar emptied out, full of Nothing. More importantly, they also tended to leave with empty wallets, of which, Gary unstintingly delivered an even 35% every week, in boring manila folders seemingly invented for no other purpose.
On the face of things, all four corners of the church were rock solid pillars upon which their endeavor would grow mighty and strong. Most of Tenerek followed the gospel regularly, with the other worlds in the system destined to join in.
But Gary Bad Chicken was Gary Bad Chicken.
A long-time criminal and oftentimes loser, he was the sort of man who found it nearly impossible to forgive or forget slights against his person. And while he was officially listed as one of the founding Fathers, Gary still kept a part of himself away from the others. He simply couldn't forgive their doubts, and it was a bit of sand in an otherwise perfect engine.
A pop bulb of light flashed off to one side, drawing Jerry out of his musings. He chuckled at his foolishness; with the CoN ready to hit the next phase with Darren Freoli, he was all sorts of philosophical.
Jerry smiled wide as the cameras began flashing and popping in a non-stop frenzy of photo opportunities. Through the haze of bright lights and eager faces, the leader of the Church of Nothing caught sight of Darren Freoli heaving a huge sigh of relief as the focus was taken from him and put on someone used to the attention.
“Now,” Jerry said, his voice picking up the odd lilting, story time trick he’d learned from listening to politicians during his time as a limo driver, “as you can see, our friend Darren is wonderfully on the mend. The best and brightest doctors are working on his care day and night, and the highest levels of medical science have been deployed to speed his recovery up to the point where, one day, it’ll seem as if he'd never suffered in the first place.”
Questions hammered at him from all sides. Thanks to his years of experience, Jerry could tell -from tone alone- which reporter followed the Faith and which did not.
Moreover, emanating from those who were faithless, the church leader felt a distinct burning pressure as they struggled to follow the script for the day; Jerry could tell they ached to ask direct questions concerning the inner workings of the Church.
Sadly, after one intrepid reporter's cunning attempts to infiltrate the church to reveal ‘everything’, there was a permanent moratorium on any and all such lines of inquiry. Jerry would not allow faithless heathens to tear his community apart and went to great -and costly- lengths to see that didn't happen.
The reporter who'd tried to blow the lid off the Church was in some prison somewhere, slowly suffering for her temerity. None of the reporters questioning himself or Darren would ever risk that kind of punishment, not again.
Jerry smiled, wide as he could. He loved this. The cameras kept flashing, the reporters kept shouting stupid questions, Darren waited silently for everyone to leave.
The Church was life. Life was the Church. Jerry would have it no other way.
Finally, someone asked a question worth answering.
Jerry smiled again and made eye contact with the reporter, Trish Wakana. “Thank you, Trish. Well, as you no doubt already heard directly from the man himself, not to mention his physicians, Darren experienced tremendous physical trauma, as we can all see quite easily. But there’s a bit more to the tragedy than all that. Our poor friend suffers trauma-related amnesia. He remembers so little about his old life before the accident, that it’s barely worth mentioning. We’ve been working endlessly to see if those lost moments can be resurrected, but sadly, it’s looking like it’ll be an uphill battle the whole way. Unlike the medical equipment we brought in to spe
ed his physical recovery, there's nothing in the system truly designed to do the same for the mind."
Truth be told, Jerry didn’t want Darren to recall a single moment of his life before being blown to Kingdom Come by that terrorist! Washed clean by the fires of the spaceport exploding on all sides, rebuilt with the best technology fear and faith could procure, Darren Freoli was a man with no past and a fresh start. Even his face was different, now, thanks to all the reconstructive surgery he'd undergone.
This man was a sign from the Universe that the church was going in the right direction. They’d had one before now, and they'd flubbed it, very badly indeed.
Jerry Seinfeld had waited too long to accept Gary Bad Chicken into the fold and because of that short-sightedness, their relationship was strained at the best of times. Jerry regretted his actions on a regular basis, and -as a matter of fact- had only recently stopped trying to mend that particular fence; Gary Porfol was satisfied with the way things were, and would remain a staunch supporter of the Church, but … he held himself apart.
Not enough to cause serious friction in the Church, just enough for the other three pillars to be reminded on a constant basis of what could've been.
That wasn't going to happen with Darren, no sir! Jerry planned on being by the man’s side, offering support, friendship … whatever Darren needed, for as long as he needed it. They were going to be the best of friends, as a matter of fact.
In return, the resurrected police officer would be the new poster child for the Church of Nothing. In less than a month, the whole world would know Darren's story, would be following alongside the man as he journeyed to discover the depth and wonder of his newfound faith. With luck -and a lot of Church dollars- the remaining faithless would be snatched by the poor man's story.
Snatched right into the Church's loving, unbreakable embrace.
Reporters bounced a few more questions around, but the newshounds swiftly realized that the leader of the Church was done talking. They took a few last pictures of both men before filtering quietly out of the room, something else they weren’t used to doing; the Church had very specific rules and regulations regarding entering and exiting any scene where one of the founding fathers were at, and all save Gary Bad Chicken enforced them pretty rigorously.
There was no reason for the rule, unless you considered an expression of power for power's sake a reason.
No one wanted to be barred from future Church coverage, because on Tenerek and in Arturii, there was very little going on anywhere that wasn’t –in some way, shape or form- related to the Church.
Once the last sullen newshound was out the door, Jerry secured it tightly. The chubby cult leader produced a little device Richie'd used his connections to acquire, a handy little gadget that'd seen quite a lot of use after a hastily -and clumsily- quashed scandal involving Steve and a few slightly-less-than-properly-aged youthful women had nearly made the front pages.
Jerry caught the subtle movements of a raised eyebrow and he explained while waving the device around the room.
“An electronic sensor. Designed to detect things ‘accidentally’ left behind by 'forgetful' reporters or anyone trying to get information they shouldn’t. While you and I won't be talking Church policy or secrets, it’s best to play it safe. They’ve been warned against twisting our words before now, but anything taken out of context can be dangerous. Spun the right way, anything can be as devastating as … well, as an explosion." The device in Jerry's had blorped noisily. “Ah. See? Nothing to worry about. Clean as a whistle."
Jordan watched Jerry pocket the scanner clumsily, a dark hunger growling through every cell in his body. Maintaining control in this place grew more difficult by the hour, and the beast crawling around inside him demanded freedom. If something didn’t happen, if this ridiculous holy man didn’t arrange his freedom soon, Jerry Seinfeld would have himself a scandal dirty enough to kill the Church stone cold dead.
“I wanted to thank you again for putting up with those reporters, Darren.” Jerry pulled up a chair and sat down. Though being a part of the Church had invigorated him quite a bit, he was in his sixties. No point in standing when there was a chair so close to hand. “It can be a nuisance, but it’s important to get your story out there. The more people in the Church can get to know you, understand how you came to be one of us…”
“No doubt my story will bring more converts as well.” Jordan regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.
Damn hunger.
Jerry Seinfeld was the leader of the Church. You didn’t get more connected than that and if he lost this ‘in’, prospects for locating Garth Nickels would dwindle down to nothing. Jordan liked the idea of joining Special Services about as much as he liked lying in this hospital bed pretending to be injured, but of the two, the world of Tenerek and it's burgeoning faith was the easier choice.
Time to stretch skills learned across the meeting table to their limits.
Feigning remorse wouldn’t be difficult for this apology. “I … I’m sorry, sir. I … I’m tired.”
Jerry smiled wide and wide. “But that’s just it, you see? No need to apologize at all! That’s just the sort of thing I mean. Yes, Darren, your story will bring more people to the Church. There’s nothing wrong in thinking that way! It certainly isn’t cynical. I’m the leader of the Church. Anything and everything you say to me is strictly confidential, and when it comes to growing the church? I’m willing to do what it takes. Now,” Jerry laid a hand on the bed, “now, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to use you, or exploit your situation or your condition, okay? If you feel like that, at any point, I'll pull back.”
Jordan wanted to laugh at the old man in the fancy suit and the expensive haircut and at the moderately pricey jewelry, wanted to mock his pathetic efforts at manipulation and obfuscation, but held it in; no matter how foolish and ridiculous he thought Jerry Seinfeld was, nearly the entire population of Tenerek bought the man’s patter, and you couldn't overlook an accomplishment like that, no matter how foolish the man was.
Pretending it was difficult to move, Jordan struggled upwards until he could look Jerry square in the eye. The graying old man had adjusted well to life in the limelight, that was for certain, but …
Something was tweaking his newly enhanced senses. A faintly subtle but impossible to ignore tickle, there, in the back of his throat. It happened only when Jerry came to visit, and was so profound that the feeling stole over him when the man was still down the hall by the elevator. Jordan’d never experienced anything quite like it before, and damned if it didn't put his teeth on edge.
Whatever it was, whatever strange quirk that’d transformed a humble old bus driver into the driving force behind the most influential religions on the planet, it was obvious that Jerry Seinfeld wasn’t entirely aware of what he was doing.
Oh, the zealot might wonder from time to time how it was he’d accomplished so much in such a relatively short amount of time, might try to figure out how and why the words tripping from his mouth had such an effect on the sheep-like masses of this overburdened world, but Jordan would never allow the man’s insidious words to creep into his mind like burglars in the night.
There were other things to focus on.
Jerry found the growing silence and penetrating stare on Jordan’s face somewhat uncomfortable, so he cleared his throat and waved his hands around a bit until the other man’s focus returned. “Is everything all right?”
Jordan smiled apologetically. “I’m … I’m sorry. I was … I was thinking about … about my wife. Ygritte.”
Jerry nodded knowingly. A conversation some time ago with the hospital administrator had prompted the Church to dig into the comings and goings of those who visited their poster child on a regular basis.
In the beginning, when the poor man had been unconscious, most of his visitors had fallen squarely into the 'service' category, men and women who'd served with Darren down through the years. Unfortunately, the wounded man�
�s crippling amnesia and personality-affecting side effects from the lengthy -and painful- treatments he had to take in order to survive had brought a swift end to those friendly visits. It was regrettable, but Darren had been through a life-shattering event. You just didn't have a building burn down on top of you and remain unaffected!
These days, the only one willing to make the effort was Darren’s incredibly patient and loving wife, Ygritte.
Jerry wasn't … a fan of these visits. As noble and endearing as the whole situation was, Ygritte simply didn't fit the mold he planned on cramming Darren into, and besides that, he genuinely suspected her frequent stops were the exact opposite of helpful.
Not to be skeptical, or to denigrate the power of the church, Jerry simply found the notion that prayer alone could heal Darren’s profound wounds and internal damage laughable.
The worst part of Ygritte’s delusional state was that she also believed her cherished husband's new face was a passing phase, that as soon as he’d recovered from his grievous injuries, Darren’s face would somehow magically return to that of the man she'd married so long ago. The woman flat-out refused to listen to the advice of an entire panel of doctors who knew so very much more about what how incredibly wrong her beliefs were.
Ygritte Freoli was living in a fantasy world, one Jerry Seinfeld didn’t care for.
“What about her?” Jerry hoped the excitement rising through him didn’t play out in his voice. He’d long been hoping that Darren’d bring the wife up; the Church still didn't possess enough power to restrict a wife's rights to visit her husband, but if someone in the Church made such a request, well, that gave Steve’s branch of the Church all kinds of leeway.
Through slatted eyes, Jordan spoon-fed Jerry just what he wanted to hear, enhanced senses picking out the minutiae of the older man’s predictable excitement and playing them like a maestro. “She … she keeps coming here. All the time. Talking about things I don’t remember, bringing pictures of our life together, of ‘our’ friends. She’s even trying to arrange for my parents to come in from Boolza and … and I can’t take it, sir. I … I just want to be left alone. Almost dying in that explosion, h-having my face changed, being … being empty of all those old memories … it’s changed me. All … all I want to do is give back to the Church, sir, and Ygritte is keeping me from doing that.”
