Fidel - 9. JECHIS Arrives & Lance Returns

Directly after the evening news about a week later, every television screen in the country went black, a trumpet sounded, and the following message appeared on the screen in golden letters while a warm but somewhat unctuous male voice read the words as they slowly scrolled up the screen.

Public Announcement

Soft doctors make stinking wounds. This is as true today as it has been in all preceding centuries. If the body has an infection, kill it. Don’t allow the infection to remain in the body. It will regrow, spread further and contaminate the whole. After excision, sterilise the wound and keep it clean! If a cancer threatens the body, cut it out completely. Do not leave little bits behind in the hope they will become benign.

For nearly a century our governments have treated social infections and cancers like soft doctors, sometimes punishing wrongdoers with a slap on the wrist, sometimes with a fine, sometimes with a prison term in the hope that after a few years they will miraculously become good, moral, law abiding citizens. They will not. Their continued presence pollutes society. During incarceration the evil infection grows and on release spreads to the entire community. The result? Murders, bashings, cheating, lying, stealing.

The most profitable companies pay no taxes to support the society that supports them. Wages are so low and unemployment so high that thousands are homeless, starving and ill, unable to cure themselves. Moneylenders bleed their fellow citizens, as do Corporations to fill the coffers of their shareholders.

In homes across the land most marriages end in divorce. Dissatisfied husbands and wives who have married thoughtlessly grow to hate and hurt and murder each other. Sex-crazed boys, girls, men and women choose sexual partners with less care than their clothes. Children are out of control, wandering the streets at all hours with no adult supervision, thieving, vandalising, causing misery and insecurity to neighbours.

Bored men and women demand access to alcohol every hour of the day and night, and drunkenness fills streets and homes.

Women insist on the right to expose their bodies without restraint anywhere, anytime yet demand severe punishments for men responding naturally to their provocation.

Millions are crying out for decency, honesty, justice, morality.

And in his infinite compassion God has answered.

JECHIS is the instrument of the Lord and Master of the Universe who has decided to give his human creations one last chance to choose the path of goodness by obeying his laws and living with decency, restraint and respect for themselves and each other.

The End Times are upon us, so while there is still time, seek out the evil in your hearts and repent and mortify yourselves in the hope of mercy on the day of judgement.

I. M. Phoul. Senior Communications Officer. JECHIS.

Internet surveys indicated that seventy-six percent of the community agreed with the basic premise of the notice, thirty-three percent considered it a tasteless joke, and only one percent were seriously worried about the intentions of the authors. No one publicly questioned who was behind JECHIS or how they were able to hijack the television network.

Three weeks later the warning was all but forgotten—obviously a joke in very bad taste.

And then an explosion partially demolished a large, recently refurbished Shopping Mall in a middle class suburb, killing seventy-two and maiming scores, mostly patrons of a well-patronised sex shop in which the bomb had been placed.

That evening in a prime-time slot on every TV channel, the program was interrupted in the same way as before, this time for one full minute, displaying a silent message.

Death to Fornicators. All sexual activity between men and women outside marriage is forbidden by God. A woman who tempts a man and thus loses her honour by committing fornication, dishonours her father, and her life will be forfeit.

JECHIS.

The regular program resumed with a polite apology for the interruption to their service, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Who or what JECHIS was, was now of great interest, so politicians immediately proved their worth by demanding more and stronger laws and a curtailment of the few remaining individual rights and freedoms in order to protect the nation from further terrorism. Civil Rights spokespeople responded with the valid observation that we already had too many laws infringing personal privacy and freedom, and more couldn’t make any difference. The current legislation was perfectly adequate to allow an efficient security force to keep citizens safe.

The following day after work, Arnold and his team were seated around the table in the office as usual planning the week’s schedule, when Hylas, who had been mulling over the bombing suddenly asked, ‘What’s the difference between what they're doing, and what we decided to do the other night?’

‘What do you mean?’ Arnold asked.

‘We said that if Lance did something we didn’t like, we should kill him. That's what they’ve done, killed people who were doing things they don’t like.’

‘You're not serious, Hylas?’

‘Sort of. Confused anyway.’

‘Fornicators hurt no one, least of all the people who planted the bomb. It’s the idea they dislike. You can’t kill someone for having an idea you disagree with.’

‘We do in Australia.’ Robert disagreed. ‘At least we lock them away. There are loads of men in prison who've only written on the Internet and in emails that they'd like to blow something up, or kill someone. They haven't done anything wrong, but they're still punished for thinking about it. So we can hardly complain if these JECHIS people do the same.

‘Come on, Robert. Those guys want to kill, but people who have sex outside marriage hurt no one.’

‘This country encourages and supports all religions, even those with really batty beliefs. They get Government assistance to set up their own schools where they can indoctrinate kids. Some religions are convinced their god wants his followers to kill anyone who transgresses any of what they reckon are holy decrees. So as the state is encouraging people to do their god’s bidding, we shouldn’t be surprised when they do.’ Robert looked around at four sceptical faces. ‘Humans will believe anything that supports their inner desires, no matter how bizarre. They don’t want to die, so they believe there’s life after death. They want to get rid of someone, so they reckon god spoke to them and told them to kill everyone who disagrees with them.’

‘You're joking!’

‘No. All three monotheistic religions share more or less the same holy text that makes similar demands on believers, promising hell-fire and damnation to all who disobey their God’s rules, or laws as they call them, that were written by a bunch of control freaks calling themselves Leviticus. In Exodus believers are told that followers of other religions must be killed. This is reinforced in Chronicles where we are told that everyone who does not follow the god of Israel, must be put to death, whether small or great, man or woman.’

Hylas wasn’t convinced. ‘So they believe they are right in wanting to kill, and we believe we are right in wanting to live; that means we’re no different from them.’

‘If you believe their religious texts really are laws made by the invisible, omnipotent bloke who made the universe and everything that's in it, then you're right, we’re no different. But we don’t believe it. Our desire not to be murdered is based on the fact that death is real. It is the cessation of life. Their belief in their right to kill is based on wishful thinking, not on facts. There’s not a skerrick of proof that anyone except humans wrote the books that justify murdering and destroying other tribes. I reckon if you kill someone for doing something that hurts no other human, then you're a vile assassin. We, on the other hand, would be defending ourselves from death in this life. Quite different.’ Bart sat back with a satisfied smile.

‘No, it isn't different.’ Robert frowned. ‘They also believe they’re defending themselves from being killed - in their case by their god, for not killing people who offend him.’

Fidel was astonished. ‘But surely they can see the difference between what's real and what isn't?’

‘Sorry, Fidel, religious people can’t distinguish between fact and fantasy, reality and illusion. The need for an overlord to make decisions for them, makes them psychologically weak and terrified by the proposition that there's no purpose in their lives or any other life. They have to believe there’s a big daddy who’s in charge, and the purpose of their life is to serve him until they go to the next life after dying here. The reality of life, the permanence of death and their own unimportance, is terrifying, so they pretend they're important, that there’s a god who cares about what they think and do, and when they die they’ll go somewhere better than this. Poor fuckwits, they live in fear of annoying a figment of their own imagination. They're crazy, the lot of them, and they rule the planet. Is it any wonder humans have started the sixth great extinction that’ll see the end of us; probably by the end of this century if the experts are right.’

‘Thank you, Robert for putting it in perspective,’ Bart laughed. ‘I guess that means it’s irrelevant whether we’re the same as them or not. We consider ourselves justified in what we intend to do and that's all that matters. Agreed?’

Everyone nodded and the problem was shelved in the interests of getting home to bed.

Over the following weeks seven more explosions rocked the city, causing damage to life and limb. First a cinema on South Side showing a season of erotic films, then a brewery just west of the City Centre, followed by a Family Planning clinic, another Sex Shop, and three night clubs famous for their pole dancing girls, lap top dancers and floor shows featuring couples engaging in sexual intercourse. The total death toll was in the high hundreds with many more maimed.

After each atrocity, messages flooded Internet Social Media, arrived as spam in every email box, and were dropped in thousands by drones. All were clearly derived from the usual old religious texts, but being in modern English were somehow more frightening than if they'd been direct quotes in traditional religious jargon.

Men who act like women will be put to death.

Adulterers will be put to death.

Whoever worships another God will be offered up as a burnt offering to the LORD your God.

If your brother, son, daughter, wife, or friend, entices you to serve other gods, stone him to death.

Anyone who blasphemes must be stoned to death by the community.

And then the attacks stopped. No one knew why. After a few weeks with no reports of more attacks or police ineffectiveness, it all began to seem like a bad dream. A very, very bad dream.

 *****

Lance Returns

Lance considered he had used his time well in the years since Greg’s transfer. He’d made no enemies but many useful contacts with both inmates and guardians. He’d been generous, but not foolish in the dispensation of largess, and thus was admired—even loved by both his fellow prisoners and the guards who let him have a private room whenever he demanded it.

The reality was somewhat different from the febrile imaginings of the unpleasant young man.

All guards considered him a total nut case, possibly dangerous, who would explode if he realised the other inmates reckoned he was a slimy fag, and only tugged their metaphorical forelocks in order to get cash and other handouts.

Several official requests to have the unstable prisoner transferred to a psychiatric ward had been rejected, despite reports from the prison psychiatrist who described Lance as dangerously unstable and of inferior intelligence. His suggestion that the lad be given a single room, fitted well with the common practice of torturing prisoners with solitary confinement at the slightest hint of recalcitrance. Lance’s frequent stays in a dark, windowless cell, deprived of human contact, stimulation and exercise, successfully turned an unpleasant bigot into a raving, homicidal, deluded lunatic.

In the final weeks of his incarceration, however, Lance was given every privilege possible including unrestricted visitor access, to ensure he did nothing stupid that might interfere with his release.

Two days before that long-awaited liberation, Lance’s father was discovered dead at the bottom of the stairs of his Real Estate office. Slight bruising and a knock to the back of his head would not have been enough to kill him, but in the absence of any other indication of violence—no forced entry, nothing stolen, it was assumed he had suffered a heart attack and simply stopped breathing. Had he been alive the following morning, however, he would have bewailed the loss of a secret cache of sixty thousand dollars in used notes, kept in case of emergency. But as the safe hadn't been tampered with and no one apart from Lance knew the money was there, or the combination, no one missed it.

The elaborate church memorial service on the day of Lance’s release was well attended by men and women of similar financial status and values, who, like their host, had not seen the inside of a church since baptism. None had time to attend a wake, which was fortunate as none had been arranged because Lance wanted to spend the afternoon with the lawyer signing documents. By nightfall he was not only owner of Osbairne Enterprises, Osbairne’s Real Estate, and Oz Cleaners, but his signature was sufficient identification for him to access every bank account, share portfolio, security box and other financial asset accumulated by his father.

Immediately after Greg’s transfer to another prison, Lance had been alarmed to discover that the magnificent orgasms engendered by his cellmate’s firm embrace during daily buggery sessions, could not be replaced by a mere hand job, so as it was getting on for four years since he’d achieved satisfactory sexual release, his first recreational foray on receipt of his fortune was to the brothel where he had pleasurably shared a pretty little whore with his father, in the halcyon days before his unjust imprisonment.

The visit was a disaster. Without the visual stimulation of his father’s thrusting manhood, or Greg’s strong arms wrapped around his chest and hard rod up his bum, his own soft tube of pale flesh refused to respond, causing him to deliver several solid punches to the prostitute’s head and belly. They cost him dearly in hush money, but salved his masculine pride.

Then he remembered that at high school he’d had no erectile problems when his sycophantic acolytes, Earnest and Nigel used to watch him screw Mandy and Raylene, whose complaints that he was much too big and hurt them had been an added stimulation. So then he thought of Desmond, the weight and mentally challenged underling who had been released from prison three weeks before Lance, to whom he had entrusted the whereabouts of the keys to his father’s office, and safe combination. A generous handful of dollars easily persuaded Desmond to act as bodyguard while Lance was screwing a young woman he’d booked on the Internet.

She agreed to an observer if she was paid double, but then Desmond decided he wouldn’t do it unless he could fuck her after Lance. A considerable sum, therefore, changed hands before Desmond got a hard on watching Lance dip his ginormous wick, then Lance managed a second erection and satisfactory manual orgasm watching Desmond plough his furrow.

Meanwhile, the pretty young tart acted her part with commendable zeal, and only Desmond was disappointed, when Lance refused to let him demonstrate how he’d stopped Lance’s father’s heart from beating before tossing him down the stairs.

‘Why not?’

‘Her pimp knows where she is and I can’t think of a way to dispose of the body. Next time, ok?’

‘Ok, but you owe me.’

Within two weeks Lance had assembled a willing band of four henchmen prepared to do anything for money. They staked out Robert ’s flat, recorded his schedule, discussed plans, prepared their tools of trade, and on the same day that in the previous week Robert had arrived home alone for lunch, and remained alone for a full hour, they lay in wait.

What they didn’t know was that the previous week had been unusual. A 3V client had requested emergency counselling, so Bart had remained at the Gym while Robert had cycled home to lunch alone. And what they could never have guessed, was that this week it was Robert and Bart’s turn to host the ‘family’ luncheon, when all five friends shared a meal. Thus no alarm bells rang when Robert again cycled home alone—a little earlier than the previous week, to prepare the meal for his four friends, while they prepared the Gym for the evening sessions.

Robert whistled happily as he took his feet off the pedals and drifted down the ramp into the car park under the block of flats. He put his bicycle in the rack, shouldered his pack, gazed happily up through three stories of encircling balconies to where Hazel’s parting gift, a potted cactus in full flower caught a ray of sunlight, then ran swiftly up the stairs, fitted his key in the lock and breezed into the flat. The place smelled unusually sweaty and stuffy, so he opened the sliders onto the balcony to create a draught, returned to the kitchen, and was bending to look for a pot in the cupboard under the sink when a light cough made him straighten up and swing round.

‘Tidy house you keep,’ Lance sneered. ‘Quite the little housewife, aren't you?’

Robert’s eyes popped, his mouth dropped open and he stared in gormless surprise at four men dressed in army fatigues, preventing his retreat.

‘Lance,’ he managed to whisper, wishing he felt braver. ‘You’ve changed.’

‘How?’

‘You look stronger, healthier, much more…’

‘Attractive? Is that what you were going to say? Don’t tell me the queer black boy fancies me. I always knew you were a whore.’

Robert decided it would be sensible to ignore that and pretend unconcern. But all he could come up with was a nervous, ‘Why are you here?’

‘I owe you something.’

Robert remained silent. It was midday so all the other flats would be empty. Hazel had been the last of the permanent residents. Now she was in a retirement home the entire block was rented to students or young couples working several jobs to make ends meet.

‘Want to know what it is?’

Not trusting himself to speak, Robert shook his head.

Lance nodded and his three companions grabbed their prey, slammed him into a dining chair and lashed his arms and ankles to the back and legs with Velcro ties while their leader pulled a polished skinning knife from a sheath on his belt. ‘I went to prison because you murdered that old fuckwit Nikelseer.’

‘No, you went to prison because you murdered Murray Corso, tried to murder me by setting fire to a shed after locking me in, tried to murder Bart by tossing him over the rails outside this door, and tried to murder us both by interfering with the brakes on his car. Nikelseer’s death had nothing to do with me.’

‘You lying black turd-pusher. I know bloody well you're the killer, and the cops reckon you set me up at Nikelseer’s. Corso suicided, everyone agrees on that. But this time your lies will get you nowhere. Justice is at hand.’ He stopped and adopted what he imagined was a statesmanlike pose. ‘Remember when we studied Merchant of Venice? Well I'm Shylock, come to claim my pound of flesh. For every lie, for every little thing I suffered in prison, you are going to lose a piece of that black meat.’

He laughed unpleasantly as Robert gave an involuntary squirm. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t kill you—I'm not a murderer despite your accusations, but you won’t be able to walk, or talk, or see, or hear afterwards, so no one will ever find out how it happened. But I'm not totally without pity; I will leave you your sense of touch. You will feel everything. You will feel pain forever until you wish I had killed you. But it’s probably best if people out on the street don’t hear you.’

A gag was thrust into Robert’s mouth and tied behind. He watched in utter, paralysing fear as Lance tested the knife on the hairs on one of Robert’s arms. They shaved off easily, taking with them a sliver of skin, leaving a small gash that began to weep blood.

‘Now, where will I start?’ He stood back and smiled. ‘At the bottom, I think.’ Bending, he separated his victim’s little toe on the left foot, inserted the blade between that and the next, grasped the toe and suddenly sliced. He must have been lucky because the blade found the joint and he stood in surprise, holding aloft a twitching thing, which he dangled in front of Robert’s face.

The action had been so swift Robert had felt nothing, but when he saw his toe and a few drops of blood, a red-hot wave of pain engulfed his foot and he arched in agony.

His persecutors were laughing.

‘Fuck, if he reacts like that to a little toe, imagine what he’ll be like when his nose and lips come off. Who’s got the plasters?’

That set off another round of laughter as a pot of liquid tar was produced. ‘This stuff stops bleeding, so they reckon. Might sting a bit, but what's a bit of pain among friends?’

A few minutes earlier, Bart had drifted silently down into the car park on his bike, but instead of parking it, something made him look up. A shadowy figure was lounging against the handrail on the second floor. Silently, Bart walked the bike back out and stopped the others when they arrived.

‘There's a stranger who seems to be waiting halfway up. I don’t like it so we’ll take the fire escape.’

Quietly placing their cycles against a wall, they went round the back where a locked door guarded a rear staircase.

‘Luckily, Robert made a secret catch.’ He reached into a hole, pressed something, the door opened, they ran softly up the stairs and a minute later were creeping towards the open door of Bart’s apartment. At the sound of voices Bart signalled to the others to wait, then peered into the opening. Backing away, he explained the situation.

‘It’ll be four against four. I’ll take the guy with the knife and leave the others to you. Last one in, slam the door to keep the guard out in case he comes up.’

‘What'll we do with them? We've nothing to tie them up with.’

‘Drop them over there,’ Bart pointed to the railing. ‘That's where Lance tried to throw me over.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! There’s no one around to see. Ready? Go!’

It should have been easy, but although none of Lance’s henchmen would ever be considered the sharpest knife in the drawer, their reflexes were good. They’d all learned to fight and didn’t care if they hurt. But neither did Bart. His mind emptied of all thoughts except the desire to destroy the person who was hurting his lover. Nothing else mattered; certainly not his own safety. He raced into the room screaming like a banshee, grabbed the knife from Lance and slashed wildly at his hands, arms, face and chest when he tried to regain it, soon backing him into a corner, drawing blood at every swipe until Lance collapsed, whimpering, begging for mercy. Bart slammed his shoe into the side of his head then picked the pathetic creature up, carried him out and draped him over the rail above the three-storey drop to the concrete floor of the garages beneath, head well out over the gap, his waist pressed against the rail to prevent him breathing properly.

Lance coughed, gasped and whimpered when Bart tossed the knife into space where it spun lazily before clanging onto the concrete below.

‘You're next.’

‘No! No! Please don’t let me fall. Please….’

‘You tried to push me over once, but I was saved by an old woman. If I spare you, you’ll only come after us again, so it’s good bye and good riddance.’ Grasping Lance’s belt, Bart lifted him slightly and sent him on his way to fall soundlessly before landing with a squishy thud that Bart didn’t hear because he was back inside assisting Hylas, who was on the point of having his neck broken by a large hairy brute. A powerful set of sharply bent knuckles smashing into the brute’s tattooed temple triggered a high-pitched scream. He dropped, groaning slightly. Before he could recover Hylas’s boot stomped several times on his face, crushing nose, lips and eyes. Together, he and Bart dragged him out and rolled him, still moaning, under the rails to join his leader.

There was no sign of the lookout, who had apparently decided not to get involved after seeing his boss so casually tossed overboard. Inside, Arnold was enduring a battering from another hefty hulk who was too engrossed to notice Hylas’s solid kick to the testicles and Bart’s sharp knuckles between the eyes. Weeping, kicking and screaming foul abuse he was kicked, dragged and squeezed under the bottom rail to join his mates.

Fidel’s target had decided discretion was the better part of valour, and was standing in the open window that led onto the balcony, nervously watching the solid brass lamp stand Fidel was wielding.

Suddenly he drew something from his pocket, brandished it aloft and shouted, ‘This is a grenade! If you come any closer I’ll use it!’

‘Then you’ll die too.’

He laughed wildly, backed out onto the balcony and drew the pin, but held the lever closed. ‘I might survive a leap from here, but you won’t have time to escape.’

‘You won’t survive a three storey drop,’ Fidel said urgently, ‘but we don’t want to die, nor do you. We stopped Lance, so we’re finished. Let’s call a truce.’ He turned to his friends. ‘You guys go. He’s not going to kill himself,’

Arnold and Hylas backed away, watching carefully while Bart released Robert from his bindings, then all except Hylas left the flat.

‘We’re going, Ok?’ Fidel retreated a couple of steps towards his brother who was beginning to panic.

‘Come on, Fidel. Leave him!’

The guy with the grenade risked a quick look back and down to the ground below, then shuddered and moved back into the doorway, distracting himself for exactly the time it took Fidel to race forward and shove him backwards. His foot caught on a heavy metal doorstop causing him to tumble backwards, head slamming against the concrete balustrade. He dropped the grenade, slumped to the floor on top of it and lay still, eyes flickering, mouth opening and closing as if in silent speech.

In the few remaining seconds before the explosion, Fidel and Hylas raced out to join the others who were already halfway down the stairs. With one flight still to go they felt rather than heard a boom that seemed to shake the entire structure. Stucco fell off walls and broken windows sent tinkling shards of glass to join the three bodies.

Robert insisted he was Ok and they shouldn’t fuss as they half carried him down and out to the open air. While Hylas bandaged the bleeding foot with his handkerchief, the others went round the outside to see the damage. Bits of human were draped over what was left of a balcony hanging by reinforcing rods.

As it seemed safe enough, Bart and Arnold ran back upstairs, returning with a fireproof case containing every important document they owned—kept ready in case of emergencies, and two paintings.

‘What’ll we do with the bodies?’ Hylas asked, indicating the heap of dead flesh in the centre of the well.

‘It’s not our day to take out the trash,’ Robert quipped sourly.

Twelve and a half minutes after the blast they were cycling through Spring Hill on the way to Arnold’s apartment, discussing whether to buy fish and chips, or scratch up a meal from whatever was in the cupboards.

That afternoon, after having installed themselves in Arnold’s luxurious spare room, where he insisted they were to remain permanently as he was sick of living alone, Bart and Robert were visited at the gymnasium by two policemen who informed them that their flat had been bombed. They expressed suitably horrified surprise and asked if anyone had been hurt. When told the names of the victims, Robert appeared devastated.

‘But that's terrible. I had a call from Lance saying he was coming to see me to see if we could forget the past and I’d help him adjust to life on the outside. But I wasn’t expecting him till tomorrow.’

Bart asked who could have done the bombing, and was told, in confidence, that they feared JECHIS was again on the move, and as Bart and Robert were gay, they'd been targeted.

His conjecture proved prophetic.