Read Online The Good Slave by Franklin Sellers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Franklin Sellers
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Stephen cried out pitifully. “Please stop!”
“Oh my good Lord,” Tessa said.
Everyone in the stadium seemed stunned by the sound.
“Hee- hee !” George was gleeful. “Listen to that little piggy squeal!”
Phoebus felt sick to his stomach.
No doubt the network executives and advertisers were sweating as they waited to see what the crowd’s ultimate reaction would be. Executions were always a ratings bonanza but viewership had slipped a bit for three quarters in a row, and they needed to boost the numbers back up to keep brining in the advertising dollars. Although Stephen Messinjure’s execution was a ratings slam dunk, the network needed a new hook to bring viewers back for the next run-of-the-mill execution in two months, and this was the perfect occasion to generate buzz.
“No-no-no-no!” Stephen cried out in quick succession, his voice quickly becoming high pitched and hoarse as he struggled.
Both Phoebus and Tessa began to cry.
“L-looks like the prisoner has decided he’s not quite ready to meet his maker yet!” Pete McIntosh announced nervously.
Somewhere in the middle of the crowd a man cried out, “Kill him already!”
That was the cue the rest of the spectators seemed to need to break the miasmic spell and bring them back to their reverie. Suffering, after all, was for sinners, upon whom pity is wasted. The men and boys in the crowd were brave and noble (or so they’d always been told) fighting for the greater glory of their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. The sinners were the vermin down on that field. Scum like Stephen Messinjure who deserved all the pain and suffering that befell them, for it was the will of God.
“KILL HIM ! KILL HIM ! KILL HIM !” the entire stadium cried out in unison, their command vibrating the stadium’s steel beams and quaking the earth underneath it. Network execs, advertisers, everyone in the broadcast booth, and more than a few government officials stopped sweating. Their nervous tension quickly gave was to a warm and cozy feeling associated with the prospect of increased profits.
As for the thugs down on the field, every time they tried to lower Stephen Messinjure into the hole he’d thrash and kick like a wild animal desperately trying to escape a steel trap. Fed up, they threw the boy to the ground and based him. In an instant the he was writhing on the ground in agony.
“Whoa!” Bart exclaimed. “Don’t tase me, bro!
“Haha!” Paul laughed. “You just so dated yourself, Bart!”
“Looks like an epileptic pitching a fit!”
The crowd cheered its approval. Everyone laughed when they looked up at the giant screens and saw dozens of boys mocking the condemned by writhing at the edge of the field.
It only took a few seconds for Stephen to go limp. Now that he was incapable of resisting, the men effortlessly picked him up and lowered him into the hole. They held him up upright as two shovel-bearing slaves appeared from the sidelines to fill the hole with dirt. By the time they’d finished the heretic was buried up to his ribcage so he couldn’t bend over to avoid any stones. His arms were also buried up to his elbows so he couldn’t block any blows.
The slaves patted down the dirt and then scurried away, their heads obediently bowed. The guard who had tased Stephen now waved some smelling salts under his nose to revive him. When the teenager’s head jerked back in sudden consciousness the goon nodded at the penal commissioner who stepped back up to the microphone.
“Stephen Alexander Messinjure!” the little man said loudly to shush the stadium. “You have been justly tried and found guilty by a jury of your God-fearing peers of the heretical crime of homosexuality. You have thus been duly sentenced to lapidation and shall be stoned until you are dead. Have you any last words?”
Thousands in the arena and millions across the country held their breath.
“Oh my good Lord,” Tessa said.
Everyone in the stadium seemed stunned by the sound.
“Hee- hee !” George was gleeful. “Listen to that little piggy squeal!”
Phoebus felt sick to his stomach.
No doubt the network executives and advertisers were sweating as they waited to see what the crowd’s ultimate reaction would be. Executions were always a ratings bonanza but viewership had slipped a bit for three quarters in a row, and they needed to boost the numbers back up to keep brining in the advertising dollars. Although Stephen Messinjure’s execution was a ratings slam dunk, the network needed a new hook to bring viewers back for the next run-of-the-mill execution in two months, and this was the perfect occasion to generate buzz.
“No-no-no-no!” Stephen cried out in quick succession, his voice quickly becoming high pitched and hoarse as he struggled.
Both Phoebus and Tessa began to cry.
“L-looks like the prisoner has decided he’s not quite ready to meet his maker yet!” Pete McIntosh announced nervously.
Somewhere in the middle of the crowd a man cried out, “Kill him already!”
That was the cue the rest of the spectators seemed to need to break the miasmic spell and bring them back to their reverie. Suffering, after all, was for sinners, upon whom pity is wasted. The men and boys in the crowd were brave and noble (or so they’d always been told) fighting for the greater glory of their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. The sinners were the vermin down on that field. Scum like Stephen Messinjure who deserved all the pain and suffering that befell them, for it was the will of God.
“KILL HIM ! KILL HIM ! KILL HIM !” the entire stadium cried out in unison, their command vibrating the stadium’s steel beams and quaking the earth underneath it. Network execs, advertisers, everyone in the broadcast booth, and more than a few government officials stopped sweating. Their nervous tension quickly gave was to a warm and cozy feeling associated with the prospect of increased profits.
As for the thugs down on the field, every time they tried to lower Stephen Messinjure into the hole he’d thrash and kick like a wild animal desperately trying to escape a steel trap. Fed up, they threw the boy to the ground and based him. In an instant the he was writhing on the ground in agony.
“Whoa!” Bart exclaimed. “Don’t tase me, bro!
“Haha!” Paul laughed. “You just so dated yourself, Bart!”
“Looks like an epileptic pitching a fit!”
The crowd cheered its approval. Everyone laughed when they looked up at the giant screens and saw dozens of boys mocking the condemned by writhing at the edge of the field.
It only took a few seconds for Stephen to go limp. Now that he was incapable of resisting, the men effortlessly picked him up and lowered him into the hole. They held him up upright as two shovel-bearing slaves appeared from the sidelines to fill the hole with dirt. By the time they’d finished the heretic was buried up to his ribcage so he couldn’t bend over to avoid any stones. His arms were also buried up to his elbows so he couldn’t block any blows.
The slaves patted down the dirt and then scurried away, their heads obediently bowed. The guard who had tased Stephen now waved some smelling salts under his nose to revive him. When the teenager’s head jerked back in sudden consciousness the goon nodded at the penal commissioner who stepped back up to the microphone.
“Stephen Alexander Messinjure!” the little man said loudly to shush the stadium. “You have been justly tried and found guilty by a jury of your God-fearing peers of the heretical crime of homosexuality. You have thus been duly sentenced to lapidation and shall be stoned until you are dead. Have you any last words?”
Thousands in the arena and millions across the country held their breath.
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