By Jonathan Rayne
Part
IV. Reunion
Throughout time, man has turned to sport to escape the
ills of his fallen state. Those more jaded, perhaps, might cite warfare, the
true sport of Kings. The ancient Greeks made do with their Olympics; the
Romans, the bread and circuses of chariot races and gladiatorial combat. During
the Middle Ages, nobleman and serf alike mingled at the jousting tournaments.
Modern Man, the Master of Materialism, Creature of
Leisure and Convenience, had expanded the concept of sports beyond the
athletic. Whether Super Bowls or World Series; attending garish, neon
cathedrals of decadence and greed called casinos or following the latest
misadventures of the cartoonish bankruptcies of vainglory and superficiality
masquerading as the “newest talents” and the “latest sensations”; piggish food
eating contests that gave new meaning to gluttony or a paradoxical invention of
mass illusion promoted as Reality TV, there was no shortage of entertainment to
sate his appetites.
Tribulation Man journeyed to the past for his present,
borrowing from the Romans. In palatial closed and open-air Coliseums of plush
seating and sleek sight lines; dining on sushi and prime rib and the “peanuts
and crackerjack” of designer popcorn and Beluga caviar and all washed down with
fifty-dollar cups of corporate caffe latte and hundred-dollar flagons of
imported beer; where he could spectate in luxury, commingling with the ghosts
of Caligula and Nero, Trajan and Diocletian; cheering and applauding, hooting
and whistling, he engaged in Natural Man’s last sporting spectacle: The Final
Solutions.com Blood Bowl … the extermination of the post-Rapture Christians.
* * *
The executions of those who refused the Mark were held on
Sunday, excluding autumn when they were moved to Saturday, so as not to
interfere with the pro-football season. The event was a lavish, ceremonial
spectacle of priestly pronouncements, martial music, and, upon conclusion, a
gala fireworks display. The condemned, heads shaven and clothed in crude red
tunics, were paraded onto the killing field in the company of Satayne’s
golden-robed priests. Each victim’s forehead was stamped with an execution
number, Lucifore having become obsessed with an accurate account of those who
had rejected him. As their names were announced, the last of the good that
humanity had produced were sacrificed to the god of Maniacism, the god of Lies.
An admirer of Robespierre, mastermind of the French
Revolution and its Reign of Terror, Lucifore had chosen the guillotine as his
killing machine. Fully automated with a glistening angled blade, the efficient
device was programmed to emit a searing, high-pitched squeal as the blade
descended, inducing shivers from even the most hardened attendees. The
Hellifax, a name similar in sound to an early guillotine-like device called the
Halifax Gibbet[i], were
aligned in three rows of six machines and each was manned, or wo-manned, by two
executioners.
During intermission, fans were able to replenish while
priests gathered the blood that was to be used for the executioner’s
purification rites, though there were rumors that much of the blood was
purified, seasoned and served in various capacities at the feasts of the Tables
of the Just Ones.
* * *
… And so it was that Jonny Goode and Arli Ryan had found
their last day. Both had been given the Final Chance to accept the Mark but
Jonny had spat blood upon the sandals of the high priest Inquisitor and Arli
had whispered “Jesus”.
Side-by-side they marched to the Hellifax, Arli crying
and Jonny spitting. Wiping a tear, Arli gasped.
“Roscoe … Roscoe. It’s me … Arli”. Her voice softened …
“your sister.”
Roscoe Ryan was a squat, hulk of a man, two handles shy
of resembling a refrigerator. He had made millions on Wall Street and had an
uncanny ability to weasel his way out of the many financial scandals that had
been the hallmark of his career. But it was the end of the Age of Common Sense
and Ethics, Principles, and Integrity were considered museum pieces; as Roscoe
had joked to his clients: “people think Scruples is a breakfast cereal.” His
senses dulled by the world of finance, he had found a new game to sharpen them
… executioner.
“You think I don’t know that, bitch”, his features frozen in an expression of hatred, first, and
then amusement. “It’s an honor to execute a family member and you get special
status, too; bonuses and bargains. And for every ‘loved one’ “, his voice soaked
in sarcasm, “you get a free dinner with the Supreme One at the Table of the
Just Ones. C’mon, Arlene dear, you always knew my favorite four letter F word
was free … well, usually. Just consider yourself my very special … Buy one, Get
one”
It would not be Roscoe’s first dinner.
Several months previous, a supervisor had shown a rare
moment of compassion and offered a substitute as Roscoe’s mother approached his
Hellifax. Ever the good soldier, he had refused. “Besides, she always liked
that slut of a sister better than me”, was his reasoning.
As Arli was strapped to the bed of the machine, face-up,
“the better to see the blade fall, my dear”, as Roscoe was prone to say, she
made one last plea: “I don’t know if it’s too late for you, Roscoe, but, dear
God, accept Jesus!”
“Here’s my
salvation right here, bitch”, Roscoe
screamed. “Here’s where the power
is; where the righteousness is.”
Roscoe thrust the back of his right hand into Arli’s
face, bloodying her nose, as the 666 Mark glowed. The Mark was designed to be
emotion-sensitive, causing some historians to joke that it had been patterned
after a lamentable invention from the 1970’s known as a mood ring, and Roscoe’s
mark was a ferocious red.
“Kiss it, bitch.
You’re the one who’s lost. I win, bitch … I always win.”
His eyes bulging with rage, Roscoe pressed the kill
button and a guttural, nearly primordial sound escaped from him, emanating from
a pit so deep within him even he could not determine its origin.
Then the shrieks and cries from the crowd were
overwhelmed by the otherworldly screams of the Hellifax as the Blades of Death
descended.
[i]
The Halifax Gibbet was an earlier version of the Guillotine and was used for
public executions between the 13th and the 17th centuries.
The Gibbet utilized an ax-shaped blade and was simply dropped from a height
several feet above the victim.
About the author: Jonathan Rayne is an amateur writer who currently
resides in a small town in Western Pennsylvania. He recently retired
from a major corporation after working in the accounting/finance field.
His passions include politics, sports and the written word.
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