What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [110]
“Men!” said Festus. Someone in the lighting booth decided to turn a spotlight on him, and Festus tried to think of what to say next. “Men!”
There were a couple more celebratory whoops. One man, in his apparent exuberance at the arrival of the Savior, punched another, and a little brawl broke out at the back of the crowd.
“Men, I want to talk to you about your gas masks.” He looked out over the crowd and watched as the half that wore gas masks turned sideways to look at the other half. It looked like a sea of confused ducks, looking this way and that with their big, black rubbery beaks. He saw several skeptical faces, and anyway he figured that this last thing might not be a very Jesusy thing to say, so he decided to inject a bit of Bible-speak. “Verily, I say unto you…” More confused looks. Festus girded up his divine nether bits. “Take off your masks, and throw them away!”
“Huh?”
“You needest them not! Cast them away from thine ownselves! Lo, I shall keep you – uh, thee – safe! Verily!” He raised his arms in a gesture of Messianic victory. If Cadmon and Whitford were going to start gassing people, these fuckers were going to go down, too.
“Jesus f’ing Christ,” said Jimmy, shoving and swaggering his way up to the front of the crowd. He called up at Festus, “Get down from there, you dirty hippie!”
A soldier standing nearby turned and smacked Jimmy on the side of his head. “Wront wront wront wront wront wront!” he said.
“What?” asked Jimmy.
The soldier removed his gas mask. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, and pointed to the stage, “‘Specially when he’s standin’ right there!”
Jimmy regarded the man as if he were trying to see him through a fog. A couple of others nearby made hushing sounds and gestures.
“He ain’t Jesus. Goddamnit.”
The soldier smacked Jimmy again. “I told you not to do that!” Another whack. The man seemed intent on beating the sin out of Jimmy.
Jimmy threw up his arms. “Okay!” Behind him, Wayne pretended to be totally engrossed in staring at a random point in space. Jimmy stepped back from the soldier and rubbed his head, and pointed to the stage. “That,” he announced, “ain’t Jesus!”
Now more of the soldiers and cowboy types turned to look at the doubter. Jimmy glared at Festus, and spoke in a low, but still very audible voice. “You ain’t Jesus, you dirty hippie.”
Up on stage, Festus paused and shook his head. “Woe unto us, verily. We have a doubter in our midst. It breakest my heart.” He crossed his hands over his broken heart and pointed a pained, beatific expression up toward the ceiling.
“Get him!” said one of the men, pointing at Jimmy.
“Yes,” said Festus. “Gettest thou him.” He bowed his head and raised one hand to make the sign of the cross.
A group of angry patriots and soldiers surrounded Jimmy, closing in, in an ever-tightening circle. He did that thing that surrounded people sometimes do, which is to try to back away in one direction, only to bump into someone else who is just as hostile as the person he was backing away from. The circle of redneck friends drew closer, and Jimmy seemed to sink down into the middle of the group, his arms flailing above him.
“No!” he said. “Wait! He’s not Jes—” But the rest sounded like gargles. Whatever it was that Jimmy was trying to tell his compatriots was lost – though at least one witness would state later that he was sure he heard a “Help me Jesus!”
After smacking him around a bit, they stopped, and rejoined the rest of the men cheering on the putative Jesus. They left Jimmy there on the floor by himself to think it over. He lay very still, moaning just a little bit. The soldier who had smacked Jimmy earlier turned and gave him a good, hard kick.
“Quit your whinin’, you heathen,” said the soldier.
“Good job, men,” said Festus with a holy fist pump. “Now, I want you all to take