I paused from my dream-immolation for a second in order to take some time to uncover the meaning behind the balloon heads of the two most important women in my life, but I quickly discerned that, whatever that meaning was, it wasn’t likely to be of practical use in the predicament I was in, and so I resumed dream-screaming in unimaginable dream-pain, and it was right around this time that the balloon heads began to talk.
“Don’t—fizzwaawaawwerrrrrnt—” the balloon head of my mother said as I screamed.
“Flurntiwizzzilyspek—with you!” the balloon head of the wife said.
There was more at the beginning and the end of what they said, but I was screaming too loud to hear everything clearly, so those parts were unintelligible.
This went on for some time—me screaming and the balloon heads talking—until I looked to the island again and saw Sparky.
He was a full-grown version of his little old man self, but red-faced, yellow-eyed, like an extra from Michael Jackson’s Thriller. He was jumping on the queen bed—my bed—laughing like a loon. Pissed at his brazen insolence, but helpless to do anything to stop him, my eyes went back to the balloon heads and it was then I finally dug deep enough to find the requisite dream-strength to keep my dream-wits about me long enough to pick out the entirety of what they were saying.
Here it is:
“DON’T…FORGET…TO…TAKE…HIM…WITH…YOU!”
9
Update from the Summoning. No demon yet, but I have managed to get myself bound and gagged. A moment ago, I’m proud to say, while Phipps was jabbering to Tituba, imploring her to make haste, I had yelled the following:
“GORZY-MORZY-WORZY-GORZY-WORZY!”
That’s right. Suck on that, Phipps. The language of the angels. Where’s your “baby babbling” now, eh?
Why would I do such a thing?
To slow down the demon.
And why would I want to slow it down?
Um. Not sure. If I want a definitive answer as to Sparky’s identity, then slowing the demon down would qualify as a shitbrain idea, but I guess I just felt like putting up a fight. It seems like this is the kind of situation where a Christian should.
So I fought. Gorzy-morzy. Take that, Phipps. Take that, Tituba.
At which point the goons reappeared and bound and gagged me.
10
The morning after the balloon-head dream, I leapt out of bed with an excitement I hadn’t felt since the days of my pursuit of the Perfect Attendance Award, and in my eagerness, I ran to the bathroom and whizzed all over the toilet seat before racing to the phone to call my father.
My fog had lifted. Everything was as clear as it had ever been.
My purpose. My calling.
I knew—I just knew—that the wife had been right all along. That these weird happenings and occurrences were pointing to one thing and one thing only: unchecked, my son would become the Antichrist, but I, God willing, was to be the one to stop him.
Everything else had been a trick, a trap. All my other yens, my lusts, my need for achieving greatness in other facets of life: deception by the Devil.
I was still right—I was still going to be great—but it was to be according to God’s Purpose, God’s Will, not my own. I would have the kind of Greatness known only to me and the Almighty, the kind that comes with acts of prevention. Small consolation considering my big plans maybe, but then again, if the Bible is correct with how the Lord rewards the faithful, maybe not.
After ordering my father to send my son home, I fell to my knees and begged God’s forgiveness. I rededicated my life to Him—to His Intentions, His Objectives. I swore to hinder and hamper this son of mine, this soon-to-be man of mischief and mayhem, with all my strength.
I, God willing, would keep the boy dumb.
I, God willing, would keep the boy fat.
Friendless. Insignificant.
All by myself.
True, I had been sort of helping with these things already, but I hadn’t ever put forth the world-famous one-hundred-and-ten-percent Horvath effort. I had been in and out of fogs for far too much of it, couldn’t really say my heart had ever been in it, and to top it all off, my motives were terrible.
I had been too wrapped up in myself, in revenge, and that was why we were losing, and perhaps that was even why my wife had died. It was like the Old Testament here. Such a thing as this had to be done in a holy way or somebody was getting squished.
But no more mistakes, I vowed. No more distractions. No more screwing around. This was my charge, and I would not fail again. I would save mankind. I would stop the end of the world, and if worst comes to worst and I was to die in the process, well, I’d do exactly as the balloon heads of my wife and mother had instructed:
I’d make sure to take him with me.
Not that I should have to point this out anymore, but obviously my attempts to please God and save the world through the stultification of my son’s growth didn’t work out as I’d hoped—surprise, surprise—but not all of the blame can land on me this time. I too was fought against. Hindered at my hindering. Dark forces, which I can only assume had been taking more of an active interest in the matter, decided to turn up the heat.
In short, Sparky saw even more growth.
His grades came back with B’s again—three this time—and even worse, no D’s, no F’s.
His friendship with Little Eddie Reddingham blossomed.
With my father around more than ever and Joyce in charge of the cooking, Sparky began to eat better than at any point in his life and dropped some serious poundage. Moreover, my father also signed Sparky up for pee-wee football, and Sparky managed to stay on the team all year as a sub on the offensive line.
I know, nothing too incredible here, but still, this was not good. Territory long thought safe was now in jeopardy.
How long before B’s became A’s? How long before fat became fit? How long before friend became friends?
And in the maelstrom of compassion and charity that had invaded my world, with Sparky’s grandparents and teachers and other parents and coaches fussing over him due to the untimely death of his mother, I soon realized that I, now alone, was powerless to stop them all.
This, my only trust, my only purpose, and I was going to fail yet again—miserably as always.
11
Although I had toyed with the idea of offing Sparky since the rededication of my life to God, I don’t think I ever would have considered putting any kind of plan in motion had he not tried to off me first.
Fair’s fair after all.
Sparky had come home from school one afternoon with Little Eddie Reddingham. They were singing the official song of the Hitler Youth—“The Rotten Bones Are Trembling”—and goose-stepping around the living room.
The songs and marching were punctuated with laughter (and the occasional Heil!)—the laughter of boys at play, and with this latest instance of my failure paraded in front of me, I exploded. With my voice at its boomiest best, I sent Little Eddie Reddingham racing out of the house cursing at me in German, and Sparky to his room with a spanked bottom.
Through the wall I yelled that he was grounded, that he would never see Little Eddie Reddingham again nor sing Nazi songs, satirical or otherwise. At the very least, I said, not for one month.
It was sad. Feeble. A hollow victory. Penny was long gone and virtually the entire town was now of the opinion it should meddle in Sparky’s life; it would be impossible to enforce this.
Still, it was satisfying. Best of all, it made Sparky cry.
It also made him come flying out of his room a few minutes later wielding a Swiss Army knife.
“No more! No more!” he yelled, trying to stick the knife into my right quad. “No more! No more! No more!”
I easily dodged his clumsy thrusts, grabbed his arm, and lugged him back to his room.
<
br /> “What the hell, kid?” I hissed in his ear. “Am I not worthy of one of your crazy storms? Not good enough for one of your birdy pals to come and crap me to death?”
I threw him back on his bed and slammed the door.
“Two months!” I yelled.
To which the Antichrist responded by kicking the wall and screaming all night.
By three a.m. my mind was as set as his was. My son and I were in total agreement.
No more! No more! No more!
12
You just missed it. After jumping in front of the pentagram and spinning around exactly six times, Reverend Phipps is now on the floor face down. Sleeping, dead, or just dizzy, I know not.
Me? I’m still bound and gagged, and Sparky is still seated in the pentagram, tracing a finger over the purple chalk and smearing the residue on his face.
He’s looked over at me once or twice, and I have made noises and motions consistent with the kind one would make if one wanted to be untied and un-gagged, but so far Sparky has shown zero interest in doing either of these things for me.
I’d make him promises, promises to be nicer to him and let him see Little Nazi Eddie Reddingham from time to time, but I can’t make them verbally, nor do I know how to make my constricted motions propose them. My only hope is that he can see it in my eyes, but then he would have to look at me again.
And how does one make someone look at them? I mean, other than by looking at them and hoping for the best?
It is then I hear a voice.
A crackling, popcorny, cellophane-ish, ancient-sounding woman’s voice, whispering.
Craning my head, I see no woman at the door behind me, which means there are no women in the room, which means I am—as one should be upon hearing a bodiless ancient woman’s voice within the context of waiting for a female demon—sick with fright.
Unless something shows up to prove otherwise, it would seem I am face to face, or ears to voice, with pure evil.
The voice continues whispering words I can’t make out, then this:
“I...am...TITOOOOOBAAAAAA!”
Reverend Phipps, alive after all, rises to his knees. He does not speak, but takes a vial of what looks to be dust, empties its contents onto Sparky’s head, and waits as Tituba goes “Ahhhhhhhh...”
The wind blasts through the open balcony door, tosses papers off the desk, and blows through what’s left of my son’s hair. His reaction to this is to raise his arms in a worshipful pose and, catching a glimpse of his face, I can see his eyes are closed and he is smiling.
Well, shit. I probably should have just strangled him in his sleep. Or poisoned the Grape-Nuts Joyce gives him. Or shot him in the car; stabbed him with the goat opener; beat him to death with Phipps’s recycling bins.
The demon will only confirm what I have known all along: I, bound and gagged, will be dispatched of with ease. My son, protected and prepared, will emerge, years from now, brilliant, cruel, and all-powerful; he will unleash devastation across the globe, command nations, and maybe, if Phipps is right, deport the Creator of the Universe Himself.
All because of me. Because I’m a doubting schnook.
Why did I need this confirmation again? Why do I always falter when Greatness is in my grasp?
Tituba is still whispering in demon-ese, praising the incipience of the Dark Messiah, but it’s not as scary as it was a few seconds ago.
I’ve kinda gotten over it.
Maybe because I have just discovered a slim possibility of victory, what in naval warfare parlance is called a long shot.
Take heart, oh mankind. Rejoice, rejoice, my fellow Christians. We’re not completely screwed yet.
And how’s that, you wonder?
Because I, Franklin Bartholomew, the Great Horvath, have just undone my knots.
13
Before I can even think, I’m up off the couch.
To do what, I don’t know, but here I am. Still with no memorable last words, but in my head is music.
What’s playing?
Nothing good, nothing fitting or appropriate for the occasion. If I had my druthers, I’d prefer something sublime, something ethereal, heavenly. An old hymn like “Jesus, I Come to Thee” or “It Is Well With My Soul.” Something to prepare this spirit of mine for evacuation, ascension, and acceptance into Heaven. I’ll take “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” and, if that’s too much to ask, I’ll even take one of those candy-ass contemporary Christian pop songs.
Anything but “Joy to the World” again.
Ah, but hey, that’s still not so bad, you say. It still works, as, whatever it is you’re planning to do here to stop the Antichrist once and for all, from a Christian point of view, the celebration of the birth of Christ ultimately results in the redemption of humanity which—
Just knock it off, already, okay? It’s not the hymn, it’s still the pop song, and to make matters worse, it’s Sparky’s version.
Something I suppose I wholly deserve.
Assuming the sneakiest sneaky crouch I can, I creep toward Phipps and Sparky, “Joy to the World” slow and swelling in my head, a la Frank Sinatra at the end of “New York, New York.”
Joyyyyyyyy to the worrrrrrld...
Nobody is paying me any mind as I inch my way closer. Phipps is swaying back and forth, eyes closed, in telepathic conference with Satan himself at this point; Sparky is smitten with whatever the lint from his navel smells like, and Tituba is still flapping her jaws about how super-definitely certain she is my son is, like, totally the Antichrist.
Allll the boyyyyys and girllllllls...
Nobody notices me cross the threshold of the pentagram. Nobody (other than Sparky), notices me take him up into my arms.
Joyyyyyy to the fishes...
Everybody though, and especially Tituba, notices when, clutching the boy, I go full tilt in the direction of the open balcony at the far end of the Inner Sanctum.
In the deeeeep...
How do I know she has especially taken notice?
...bluuuuue seeeeea...
For one, she’s screeching. It’s high-pitched, metallic, and—this is weird—familiar: “RHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
And for two, well, there is no two, but I don’t need a two. Tituba’s too late. So is Phipps.
IIIIIII LIIIIIIIIKE...
“Frankie, stop!”
...TO POOOOOOOOOOP ...AAAAAANNNND...
Hello, balcony. Goodbye, all.
PE—
PART TEN
Even if he tops out as the Antichrist of Kokomo County and nothing more, that will be enough.
1
I’m awake. The brightest, most blinding light I have ever seen is in my eyes.
Is this it? Heaven? The Promised Land? Paradise? Did I make it? Is this Greatness?
I think it just might be. Stand by; let me get my bearings...
Okay. I hear voices, which is good, though whether they are angelic or the recently arrived dead like myself will take a minute or two for me to figure out.
Another good sign: I think, even though I’m probably nothing more than spirit at this point, I’m lying down somehow, and whatever it is I’m lying down on is mighty comfortable.
I’m thinking a nice, comfy cloud.
Of course, as I have always feared, there are reasons to be disappointed in Life Everlasting right out of the gate, starting with the fact I am in quite a lot of pain, most notably in my upper spirit-head area.
Second, something here smells rotten. Like shit-sandwich breath.
But wait. I’m starting to pick out the voices better; maybe they will help clear things up.
“Shhh...He’s awake,” one of the voices says. “Turn that off.”
And poof, the brightest, most blinding, most heavenly light I have ever seen is snatched
away and my sight is restored.
Do I see cherubim soaring through the skies with their golden trumpets? The gates to New Jerusalem? A lion canoodling with a lamb?
No, dammit, I don’t.
What I see is a grizzly-haired, one-eyed old man with cabbage in his teeth holding a penlight, with a young Jane Fonda doppelganger behind him chewing on her fingernails.
“Say something, Frankie,” Reverend Phipps says, and lo and behold I do.
“Boy, does my head hurt.”
I am groggy. I am hurting. I am not happy.
I am in the Inner Sanctum, in the offices of the Church of Epistemological Emendation, on the sixth floor of the Lawrence P. Fenwick Building.
I’m still in Berry. Kokomo County. Indiana. America. Earth. The Milky Way. Whatever’s after.
I am still totally and undeniably Franklin Bartholomew Horvath, hopelessly mortal edition.
Sparky, still alive and himself as well, is back on the squashy recliner, icepack on his shoulder, and I’m once more on the panther couch, wondering where the hell my icepack is.
Everybody is laughing. Except us Horvaths. We still don’t get whatever it is that’s going on, or I don’t get it, Sparky does, and doesn’t find it to be all that funny.
Either way, we’re not laughing.
“That was awesome,” Danica says.
“What was?” I say.
“You picked up your mutant kid and tried to jump off the balcony,” Danica says. “But just before you got there I managed to close the door, so all you did was bounce off and knock yourself out.”
“Oh, I guess that was awesome,” I say, and with a hatred so powerful it would take more than a thousand years of perpetual sex with her to mollify it.
“What were you trying to do anyway, Frankie?” Phipps says, having adorned himself with a more compassionate tone than his bitch of a secretary.
“Escape,” I lie. As mortifying as this all is, I see no need to betray my intentions toward self-martyrdom. While I am powerless to stop the Satanists from keeping the Antichrist, I still might be allowed to leave, and if so, then I can regroup. Running into a door and concussing myself doesn’t have to be the finale here. As long as I draw breath, there’s still hope.
The Antichrist of Kokomo County Page 23
