The Good Slave Read Free

“Amen!”
    The Rev. Messinjure always wore a black suit back then, which matched his still natural black hair, his favorite maroon silk tie, and a lapel pin in the shape of the simple Christian fish, which the POG had coopted as its party logo:

    “Think about it,” he’d told his coast-to-coast congregation.   “The Party of God.   Of God .   I am profoundly humbled to be a member of the one true party blessed by our Creator.   For how could the Almighty not bestow his grace upon those who serve Him with such humility?   There is no democracy or republic in Heaven, and there should be none on Earth.   God decides all, and as God’s messengers it is our sacred duty to ensure that His will be done.   We must eradicate deviants and nonbelievers, and return the descendants of Ham to their rightful place of subservience, for that is the will of God!”
    He would always pause dramatically long to build anticipation for whatever came out of his mouth next.
    He smiled and said, “Just you wait, my fellow Christians.   When peace and prosperity reign throughout the land, we will welcome our rebellious brethren back into the fold with open arms, and love them and forgive them, for God is nothing if not merciful.   Our Lord’s warm embrace await all who repent.”
    He was speaking of the anti-POG protestors, of course, but cruel punishment was the only thing that awaited such heretics.   Repentance didn’t matter.   Nor conversion nor supplication.   Many were beaten into submission before being sold into slavery.   Their leaders were they first to be publicly executed to serve as an example of what happens to those who dare defy the laws of God and the laws of the POG—officially one and the same.
    Even for the humblest, kindest, most subservient free citizens, however, the United Christian States of America had never come close to the Heaven on Earth the Church-State had promised.   Most people were poor now, and totally controlled, their every move under the constant surveillance of security cameras everywhere.
    Josef Messinjure, his son and his slaves had it pretty good, though.   He was a celebrity highly valued by—and useful to—the POG.   They lived in the lovely gated community of Nine Verges amongst beautifully landscaped lawns and colorful flowerbeds.   Tall cypress trees camouflaged a twenty-foot high, three-foot thick cinderblock muraille bulwarking the entire community.   The wall was topped with alternate long and short metal spikes—black, electrified, and each sprouting hundreds of vicious, needle-sharp thorns.   The structure was attractively stuccoed on the interior but the exterior was left ugly and bare to discourage would-be miscreants.
    Although Josef Messinjure still lived in his lovely mansion, the halcyon days of playing public prophet were over for the televangelist.   These days he wasn’t praised, but daily mocked and ridiculed.   The Church-State media, which is to say all media, made sure of it.
    The young Rev. Messinjure had lobbied for the first public executions since Rainey Bethea had swung in Kentucky a century before.   But the older, though not necessarily wiser, Josef Messinjure couldn’t bear the thought of his own only son—his only child —swinging at the end of a rope.
    Or worse.
    So the old man had recanted, but too late.   Not that there is ever an “in time” for turncoats.   His fate was sealed as soon as he spoke out for the first time.   His and his son’s and his slaves’ and countless others whose lives would be inalterably affective both negatively and positively (for nature hates a vacuum, especially in the world of televangelism) by the veteran preacher’s epiphanic political change of heart.
    What a fool he had been.   He was an old man now, not a young revolutionary.   He had always known he was nothing more than a useful party puppet, not a decision-maker.   He was a political follower, not a leader.   Despite his celebrity, in