A Pagan's Nightmare Read Free

has grown
     into a meeting place for those with extremist views, stupid views, boring views, and no views at all.
    Known affectionately to listeners as DJ Ned Neutral, he leaned into his mic, glanced through Plexiglass at his producer, and
     cleared his throat.
    The producer readied himself behind a soundboard and counted down the seconds on his fingers:
    Three… two… one.
    “Hurricane Gretchen is still a category three, traveling east with winds at one-hundred-twenty miles per hour. At its current
     pace it will make landfall along our coast in approximately four days.” Ned’s voice boomed friendly and deep, an intelligent
     voice that he’d parlayed into one of the nation’s most popular call-in shows. “Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM radio, where
     I, DJ Ned Neutral, serve not only as arbiter of American argument, but this week go far beyond the call of duty…. I’m doubling
     as your weather man.”
    Ned paused, checked the time, rubbed his beard. He glanced at the row of red lights on his phone, lights that signaled incoming
     calls. All five were lit. Before taking a call, however, he addressed his audience again.
    “Good morning to the fruited plain. This is DJ Ned coming at you live from wind-whipped Orlando. Tropical Storm Felix missed
     us by forty miles, and still I have limbs down all over my yard. And now,
now
we’ve got a bigger storm on the way. So before we get into which special-interest group hates which and for what reasons,
     does anyone care to share how they’re preparing for a third August hurricane?” Ned pressed line 1.
    “Yo, Nute. This is Crackhead.”
    Ned smiled above his mic. “Yo, Crackhead. Didn’t you call in last week?”
    “Yeah. I’m the guy who—”
    “I remember. You got your name from cracking your head after falling off your skateboard.”
    “You got it, Nute. I never done no drugs.”
    “Honest?”
    “I swear, Nute. I’m a health guy.”
    “Right. So, what do you have to say to America today, Crackhead?”
    “First I want to say that all these hurricanes could be God’s judgment on Florida.”
    “No kidding?”
    “Some pastor said so.”
    Neutral rubbed his chin and winked through the glass at his producer. “Okay, Crackhead, and just what denomination are you
     a part of?”
    “Some kind of Redeemer Fellowship thing…. I’ve only been twice.”
    “And you’re absolutely sure about this judgment from God?”
    “That pastor said so. Said too much drinking and fornication goin’ on in Florida.”
    Ned struggled for words. “Okay, Crackhead, since you’ve got theSunshine State covered, now tell us what kind of natural disaster is going to crush the drunks and fornicators in land-locked
     states like Kansas and Iowa.”
    “Um… I dunno, man. . . Maybe all their peas and corn will shrivel and die.”
    Ned hit the red
End Call
button on his desk. “Thanks for the call, Crackhead.”
    He restrained a grin and leaned once more into the microphone. “One warning from last week, folks. Although we give voice
     to most anyone, I’ll not tolerate any more Nazi Skinhead versus Lutheran Senior Ladies Book Club. You all wore me out last
     week. Now, who’s my next caller?”
    Ned pressed line 2.
    “Neutral?”
    “Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM.”
    “Hi, Neutral, this is Nancy from Wichita. That last caller was right about the judgment, but wrong about the reasons. It’s
     the materialism that will cause our destruction. Everyone wants the big house on the golf course.”
    “Well, Nancy, I happen to live in a big house on a golf course. And I bought it by working hard for fifteen years to give
     America an outlet to speak their mind.”
    “Is your house over six-thousand square feet?”
    Ned rolled his eyes and gripped the mic. “Is six thousand the cutoff size for God’s wrath?”
    “I think so. How big is your house, Ned?”
    “Five-thousand, two-hundred square feet.”
    “You see, Ned… those limbs that fell in your yard were a warning not