Yeah, I know it's long, give me a break.
QUOTE
Red dust swirled around the tires as the bus slowed to a stop. Twenty-one year old Jonathan Thomas stared out the window as the desolate landscape and the small tumble down shack that served as a bus station. How cliché, he thought, watching a lone tumbleweed bounce across his field of vision.
“Hey, buddy, you need to get off here,” the rough voice of the bus driver sounded over the intercom. Jon turned his attention to the front of the bus, noticing the man’s bushy eyebrows, wrinkled in a menacing glare. “You hear me kid? I said you need to get off, your ticket’s no good.”
Jon sighed and rose from the poorly cushioned seat; it seemed everything in this part of the state was shoddily put together. The young man moved to the door where the driver stood, still glaring.
“You got any luggage kid?” He grumbled, moving to the storage space at the bottom of the bus.
Jon had nothing, and he told the man as much, he had left all of his belongings at The Red Cactus, his uncle’s hotel, when he had left three months ago, leaving a distraught Claire behind him. Jon knew it wasn’t his fault though; he wasn’t ready for a relationship like that, not now, maybe not ever. Claire had been a distraction, he knew it and he knew that as long as he was there with her, he would never be able to overcome his parent’s death. He knew that now he could never go back, he could never face Claire or Uncle James again. Not after having left without a word all that time ago, not after having spent three months without contacting them.
Jon stopped, and looked up, sitting before him was the most pathetic dust hole of a town that the man had ever seen. Every building was painted the same shade of brown, the dust and wind lending their color to the paint job. Directly in front of him sat a wooden board that once upon a time held the town’s words of welcome. The wind and sand had worn the letters away, leaving only the blank face that stared back at Jon.
“Boy, come here,” a high-pitched wheeze sounded from a misshapen lump at the foot of the sign. The lump unfolded to reveal an older man, his leathery skin contrasting sharply with his bright white hair. He lifted a small flask to his lips and a line of amber fluid fell from the corner of his mouth. The man coughed and looked up, “damn it boy, I said come here.”
Jon sighed and trudged towards the man, kicking up dust as he walked.
“Boy, tell me, is you a Catolic?” The man’s raspy voice was much like the desert wind rustling through the tumbleweeds.
“What’s a Catolic?” Jon asked, edging slightly away from the crazy person.
“Boy, how do you not know Catolics?” The seniors voice raised in pitch, becoming a shriek as he finished his question. “Them Christine fellows done follow the Pope.”
“Oh! You mean am I a Catholic?” Jon said. “No, I’m not a Catholic.”
“Then you’re going to have a hell of a time here.” The man laughed. “I’m Louis, welcome to Templar.”
Jon took the senior’s offered hand and shook it gratefully. Louis brought the man into the town, dodging through back alleys where dirty children stared back at them, their dark eyes showing the harsh life they were forced to endure, until they came to a worn down apartment building.
“You got any money kid?” Louis asked him as they entered the building.
“No, I used it up just getting here,”
Louis laughed, “You’re crazier than I thought.” He walked to a door marked “Martinez” and pounded on it. “Hey Kerri, I brought you another one!”
Jon heard a crash come from inside the room followed by a series of curses.
The door flew open and snapped short, caught by the chain. Jon could see a dark brown eye and a lock of black hair in the crack the door revealed. “What the hell Louis?” Kerri yelled. “I don’t want another one of those damn anarchist kids.”
Louis turned to Jon, frowning, “forgot to ask, you ain’t a ‘damn anarchist’ are you?”
Jon stared, but finally managed to stammer, “No, I’m not.”
“See? He says he ain’t an anarchist,” Louis said with a laugh, “Now open the door and talk to your uncle like a good girl.”
The door slammed shut and reopened, Kerri stood in the doorframe. The girl wore a dark green shirt and khaki pants
that were splattered with white paint. Her dark eyes held a light that showed through her angry glare. “Well of course he says he ain’t an anarchist, who is gonna say that out loud?”
Louis licked his thumb and wiped a spot of paint from her cheek. The girl smacked his hand away, “for God’s sake old man, I’m twenty-two, stop treating me like a kid!”
Louis scowled, “I’ll stop treating you like a kid when you stop acting like one.” He shoved Jon forward, “The kid needs a room and a job, why don’t you set him up?”
“Dammit old man,” Kerri yelled, “I can’t be taking in every goddamn stray that walks into Templar!”
Kerri looked at Jon, “So, you got a name kid?”
Jon smiled politely, still not certain he had made the right decision in coming here, “Jonathan Thomas, uhm, nice to meet you.” He offered his hand, and Kerri promptly spat in it.
“You’re going to get yourself killed if you treat everyone like that Jonathan Thomas.” Kerri reached into one of her pockets, pulling out a paint-splattered key. “Room twenty-four, rent’s a hundred fifty a month, but if you help me fix up the rooms it’s free until we’re done.”
Jon took the key nervously and nodded. He headed down the stairs until he stood in front of an aging apartment door. The paint had begun to chip away and the brass numbers lay at Jon’s feet. He squeezed his eyes shut as he turned the key and opened the door.
Kerri’s raspy voice sounded from behind him, “I already finished this room, you can open your eyes.”
Jon opened one eye and looked around, the walls had been given a fresh coat of warm yellow paint. The apartment was larger than he had expected. Three adjoining rooms, with its own kitchen lay before him, with a large bed made up in the bedroom.
‘This is excellent, thank you.” Jon said with a smile, but Kerri had already left.
* * * * *
Jon settled in quickly, his work with Kerri went by and he soon found himself in need of employment. He had looked through the paper several times, but was surprised to find that there were no job listings.
“Kid, nobody reads that, of course nobody’s going to advertise in it,” Louis laughed when Jon asked him about it. “Come on, I’ll take you out and find somewhere for you to work.”
The two went off into the dusty streets of Templar, the wind had kicked up the loose red sand and it swirled around them, making the two men cough violently as it went down their throats and sneeze when it went up their noses.
They had just left a restaurant after having received Jon’s third rejection when they noticed a man standing on top of a building, shouting down to the crowds. He held a cross in his hand and waved it at the crowd as if he were banishing some unholy monster. He wore a set of fine robes, as if he were the Pope, and carried himself with an air of superiority.
“You will all burn in the fiery pits of hell!” He cried as people gathered around him, some jeering at him, some of them listening intently to what he was saying. “The time has come to cast off the shackles of the American government, those who would give heathens and criminals the same respect that they give to God’s sons and daughters!”
“You’re full of shit!” came one shout from the crowd.
“Praise Jesus, cast down the heathens!” shouted an elderly woman who smacked the heckler with her handbag.
“Louis,” Jon grabbed the older man’s shoulder to get his attention. “Who is that?”
Louis shook his head, “I don’t know his real name, but he calls himself Pope John Paul III, he done goes around town and gives this same speech every few days.” He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked around, “looks like he’s attracted some attention too.”
A group of men in trench coats and gas masks had crawled onto fire escapes and the roofs of all the surrounding buildings. They tossed ropes down to others who tied various containers to them and sent them back up.
All of this had not gone unnoticed by Pope John Paul and he shouted to the crowd, “even now the heathens move against the servants of God, I will soon be attacked, and I encourage you all to remember this day.” John Paul raised his hands to the sky, “Remember this day and know that when the time comes it is up to you to decide which side you are on. The side of God, or just another of Satan’s minions.”
A small bottle flew up and crashed at John Paul’s feet, a blue flame spreading from the bottle and catching the hem of his robes. He ignored the flames, instead choosing to shout out to the crowd, “You see? They would silence me to preserve their fascist grip on the country’s people!” The people who had gathered were not listening however, they too had come under attack, more bottles, this time with a different chemical that caught on to their clothing, were being flung into the crowd. The people began to scream as they scattered, waving their arms wildly over their heads.
A rancid stench found it’s way into Jon’s nostrils and he bent over and gagged. “What is that?” He shouted to Louis over the screams of the crowd.
“It’s riot paint, the Brigade must have stolen some from the Police,” Louis shouted back. He caught hold of Jon’s wrist, “we have to get out of here, if we stay we’re going to be trampled.”
The two of them ran into a back alleyway, Jon slowed down as a man dressed in black came down a fire escape and looked over at them. A blinding pain exploded in the back of Jon’s head and blackness overtook him.
* * * * *
Hours later Jon awoke, back in his bead in the apartment. Standing he went into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. He pulled out a milk carton and began to drink.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to drink from the carton?” came a voice from behind him. Jon spun around to find Kerri sitting on his couch, staring at him. “You okay kid? That’s a nasty lump you have there.”
Jon reached up and felt the back of his head, nearly passing out again because of the pain. There was a massive lump on the back of his head from where he had been hit. “What happened?”
“You tell me, I came downstairs last night and Louis comes in carrying you and smelling like that godawful riot paint,” Kerri replied. “Just what were you two doing yesterday?”
Jon told her the events of the previous day, a dazed expression on his face. He opened the fridge and replaced the milk carton as he talked. When he turned back to the girl she had a wry grin on her face.
“So, they finally went after John Paul did they?” she asked with a laugh. “It’s about time, the asshole’s been clogging up the town for months with that anti-government bullshit.”
“I don’t even know who ‘they’ are,” Jon replied. “You want to tell me what the hell is wrong with this city?”
Kerri sighed an looked at him, “isn’t it obvious? We have a large anti=American population here in Templar, and these guys like John Paul keep popping up to try and incite riots to kill all the non-catholic leaders in the country.” She stood up and walked to the door, “pray they don’t succeed, life under the Catholic Church would be worse than Nazi Germany.”
Jon stood still for a moment considering her words, the church was supposed to follow the word of a kindly god, how could it be worse than the Nazi party? It was then that it struck him, the Crusades, The Spanish Inquisition, both products of this so-called kindly god. The Christian faith professed to be tolerant and peace loving but it had proven time and again that it truly wasn’t. All ideals of tolerance and acceptance flew away the moment the church encountered something that went against their faith.
* * * * *
“Of course they’re intolerant,” Louis chuckled, “I never done known a religion that wasn’t.” The older man took a drink of coffee and leaned back in his chair. “What you kids don’t seem to realize is that for a religion to work it needs followers. Those followers need to have something to believe in and when you get some other belief that contradicts it then the Church loses followers.”
“And so they silence that belief,” Jon murmured.
“Exactly, that’s why the extremists here want to bring down the American government, as long as we have to Constitution they can’t kill off all these other belief systems.” Jon looked curiously at the older man who, in a moment of passion, seemed to have forgotten his accent.
“So what can we do to stop them?”
Louis leaned forward, a wicked grin on his face, “that my boy, is the real question. What can we do against people willing to die for their cause?” He leaped up, nearly spilling his coffee, “What can we do against the fanatics who are so obsessed with their cause?”
It finally dawned on Jon what the man meant, “you can’t stop him, just like America couldn’t stop the Islamic extremists in the Middle East.” He sighed and his shoulders slumped down, “There is nothing a man protects more than his religion, and there’s no way to stop them.”
Louis looked at him, the crazed smile still plastered on his face. “There is one way to stop them.”
“What’s that?”
“Fear, make them fearful to ever look out again,” Louis pointed out the window violently. “The Brigade has been doing it for years, every religious riot for the past decade has been caused by them.” Louis shook his head, “it’s never reported on, the Church is too wound into the media, into the government, into the world.”
“Then why does all the other stuff get reported on?” Jon questioned, “the molestations, the DUIs, all of that?”
“It’s to make examples of people,” Louis replied. “Have you noticed how the Church always manages to come out of those situations unscathed?”
“How do you know all this?”
Louis looked down at his watch, “I need to go to work, I’ll talk to you later Johnny-boy.”
Jon sighed, frustrated, as he watched Louis rush out the door. He had received that response enough times, from enough people to understand that he was never going to get an answer to his question.