Read Online The Good Slave by Franklin Sellers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Franklin Sellers
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Pete pointed out.
“The name Stephen may be in the Christian Bible,” Bart added, “but it’s still not Christian enough in my book!”
“Nor the Good Book!” Pete added, and all three men laughed at his quick and clever wit.
“I can see they’re about to begin things down on the field,” Pete said, switching gears from jovial sports anchor to serious newsman. “Walking out onto the field now is Penal Commissioner Benjamin Philips flanked by a security escort of at least a dozen strapping young men.”
“An even dozen, to be exact,” Bart said.
A wave of silence washed over the spectators.
Commissioner Philips walked with his goon squad to the center of the field where a four-foot-deep hole had been dug. A plastic white tarp had been tucked inside the hole, its edges spreading out onto the field in a circle fifteen feet in diameter. This was to be Stephen Messinjure’s burial shroud. A white chalk line thirty feet in diameter encircled the shroud, giving each of the dozen executioners—each wearing bright white jumpsuits and matching white sneakers—standing behind the line fifteen feet to lob rocks—each man had his own waist-high pile—at the condemned. Each rock was the size of a (very large) man’s fist, in accordance with Church-State law.
A microphone had been set up midway between the center hole and the chalk circle. The commissioner stepped up to it and discovered he was far too short to reach the mic. The image on the gigantic video screen made him look like a dwarf and sent waves of laughter rippling through the crowd. One of the security thugs rushed over to lower the microphone and the crowd rewarded him with cheers. The diminutive commissioner then stepped up to the mic and held up a hand for silence.
“Gentlemen!” he said, his voice echoing throughout the stadium. “We are gathered here today for a most solemn and sad occasion! As Federal Penal Commissioner it is my sworn duty to carry out the courts’ punishments in accordance with God’s law!”
A deafening roar as the spectators leapt to their feet and cheered.
“Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind,” the commissioner yelled, his spittle audibly hitting the mic. Thousands of voices joined in as he proclaimed, “It is an abomination!”
The multitude roared its approval.
“If a man...” the commissioner continued, pausing for a few seconds until the crowd to settled down a bit. “If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination...” Again, the stadium joined him on cue in saying, “They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them!”
Their cheers rattled the glass in the box seat windows.
Just as the roar began to subside it suddenly swelled again as the monitors showed a gaunt Stephen Messinjure—barefoot in his pink prison jumpsuit, hands cuffed behind his back, his pale face freshly bruised—being escorted onto the field by a ring of guards clad all in black.
Phoebus’ breath caught in his throat; Stephen looked so small standing near the middle of the giant white tarp surrounded by angry-looking brutes. Tessa’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“Heh-heh- heh !” old George chuckled.
Stephen seemed to have a permanent slouch in his back now, prompting the crowd to mock him as a hunchback. The goons marched him to the center where two of them grabbed him under the arms and picked him up. The teen began to kick as they tried to lower him into the hole. He struggled and spread his legs wide so his feet landed on the sides of the three-foot-wide hole.
At that moment the spectators in the stadium and viewers at home discovered that the network had added a new treat for them—a small microphone had been placed somewhere on the prisoner’s body and his cries were echoed throughout the Family Values Center and broadcast live coast to coast.
“No! No! No!”
“The name Stephen may be in the Christian Bible,” Bart added, “but it’s still not Christian enough in my book!”
“Nor the Good Book!” Pete added, and all three men laughed at his quick and clever wit.
“I can see they’re about to begin things down on the field,” Pete said, switching gears from jovial sports anchor to serious newsman. “Walking out onto the field now is Penal Commissioner Benjamin Philips flanked by a security escort of at least a dozen strapping young men.”
“An even dozen, to be exact,” Bart said.
A wave of silence washed over the spectators.
Commissioner Philips walked with his goon squad to the center of the field where a four-foot-deep hole had been dug. A plastic white tarp had been tucked inside the hole, its edges spreading out onto the field in a circle fifteen feet in diameter. This was to be Stephen Messinjure’s burial shroud. A white chalk line thirty feet in diameter encircled the shroud, giving each of the dozen executioners—each wearing bright white jumpsuits and matching white sneakers—standing behind the line fifteen feet to lob rocks—each man had his own waist-high pile—at the condemned. Each rock was the size of a (very large) man’s fist, in accordance with Church-State law.
A microphone had been set up midway between the center hole and the chalk circle. The commissioner stepped up to it and discovered he was far too short to reach the mic. The image on the gigantic video screen made him look like a dwarf and sent waves of laughter rippling through the crowd. One of the security thugs rushed over to lower the microphone and the crowd rewarded him with cheers. The diminutive commissioner then stepped up to the mic and held up a hand for silence.
“Gentlemen!” he said, his voice echoing throughout the stadium. “We are gathered here today for a most solemn and sad occasion! As Federal Penal Commissioner it is my sworn duty to carry out the courts’ punishments in accordance with God’s law!”
A deafening roar as the spectators leapt to their feet and cheered.
“Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind,” the commissioner yelled, his spittle audibly hitting the mic. Thousands of voices joined in as he proclaimed, “It is an abomination!”
The multitude roared its approval.
“If a man...” the commissioner continued, pausing for a few seconds until the crowd to settled down a bit. “If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination...” Again, the stadium joined him on cue in saying, “They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them!”
Their cheers rattled the glass in the box seat windows.
Just as the roar began to subside it suddenly swelled again as the monitors showed a gaunt Stephen Messinjure—barefoot in his pink prison jumpsuit, hands cuffed behind his back, his pale face freshly bruised—being escorted onto the field by a ring of guards clad all in black.
Phoebus’ breath caught in his throat; Stephen looked so small standing near the middle of the giant white tarp surrounded by angry-looking brutes. Tessa’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“Heh-heh- heh !” old George chuckled.
Stephen seemed to have a permanent slouch in his back now, prompting the crowd to mock him as a hunchback. The goons marched him to the center where two of them grabbed him under the arms and picked him up. The teen began to kick as they tried to lower him into the hole. He struggled and spread his legs wide so his feet landed on the sides of the three-foot-wide hole.
At that moment the spectators in the stadium and viewers at home discovered that the network had added a new treat for them—a small microphone had been placed somewhere on the prisoner’s body and his cries were echoed throughout the Family Values Center and broadcast live coast to coast.
“No! No! No!”
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