"He really is a beautiful runner." Alex Roth is sure he's just thinking this, but as it turns out he's saying it out loud as Strongbow strides away down the concourse - his taut hamstrings straining against the white spandex of his Denver Broncos game pants. This is where he would normally expect Kate to look at him with an eyebrow cocked. Instead her eyes are affixed to Strongbow's hamstrings as well as the rest of Strongbow. She sighs, audibly which (sighing audibly) is something she almost never does.
"We've gotta hurry," she says, finally. "Misty will be here in a minute."
**
For James Wiles, being "outed" as a dispensational fundamentalist is akin to career suicide. He's sweating as he maneuvers the vintage BMW (read: upscale English professor) off the highway and into the gridlock surrounding Dynex/LifewayExcellenceInChristianPublishing Stadium. He pops the Indigo Girls "Live At Budokan" cd out of his car's audio system and tunes into a sports talk station, which is something he would absolutely never do in real life. But this isn't real life. This, he thinks, is Rapture Day and he needs to get a feel for what he's up against.
He should be back in his office, sipping a glass of red wine, facebooking about how much he doesn't care about this afternoon's football game (subtext: he's too good/smart for sports), and preparing a white paper entitled "Phallic Imagery In Children's Public Television Programming: Fact or Fiction" - a paper he was excited to give at the Ingham/Eaton County Publicly-Funded-Arts-Initiative's First Annual Symposium on Issues Regarding Children in Literature. It goes without saying that all of that hangs in the balance now.
On the radio, a personality who called himself Mad Dog is interviewing Duke Morrison. Morrison's voice is predictably low and raspy, even as he talks about the Duke Morrison/Budweiser Annual Golf Outing to Benefit Unfortunate Ethnic Children in Greater Denver. "I'm just happy to be able to make a positive impact on ethnic children in greater Denver," he says. Wiles knows that he doesn't mean a word of it. Wiles happens to know that there are only two consuming passions in Duke Morrison's life: Football, Dewar's Single-Malt Scotch, and The Rapture. Okay, three.
Morrison used to sit in Wiles's office for hours, florid faced, his meaty forearms brushing aside volumes of angry-girl poetry in order to spread out his collection of rapture-related ephemera. The two men would talk eschatology for hours into the night. Wiles grew out of it. He had assumed Morrison had done the same. Today he'll find out. He will wheel into a parking lot, secure the gun in his waistband, overpay massively for a scalped ticket, and then find a way to get to Denver Broncos legend Duke Morrison.
**
As Timothy Strongbow strides through the lower concourse of Dynex/LifewayExcellenceInChristianPublishing Stadium he draws a few strange looks from security personnel, but for the most part they just think he's warming up. As he jogs, he is confronted with a thought that has been recurring lately - namely, what if I, Timmy Strongbow, AM the messiah? What if all of those newspaper editorials are true and I really am, like, the second coming? Strongbow is about 60/40 in terms of the odds of him actually being the Messiah...the "40" being based on the fact that if he were actually the messiah he'd probably completing more than 48% of his passes, worst in the NFL. He would never share the Messiah fantasy with anyone out loud, besides, maybe, the guy he's running to meet - Zach Van Shrimpy.
Strongbow has almost reached the rendezvous point, a custodial closet in Sub-Basement C. He signs a few autographs for Morrison's Budweiser Ethnic Children's Coalition (he's a board member), and poses for a few smiley photographs just to deflect attention.
The rest of the team is out for warmups. He can hear the stadium's testosterone-laden classic rock mix over the loudspeaker. He presses the security code into his contractually-mandated awesome locker and enters his also contractually-mandated private bathroom. The duffel is still there. Then he scuttles down a dark, abandoned stairwell and into Sub-Basement C. Van Shrimpy, he suspects, is probably already there.
**
Actually, Van Shrimpy isn't there because he's holding a 9MM pistol to the temple of Duke Morrison. While belly-crawling through the stadium HVAC system, Van Shrimpy ended up directly above a shaken Morrison, who was taking a moment to change is blood-spattered officially-licensed team polo in a deserted equipment room. Van Shrimpy jimmied open the air vent and descended, literally, onto Morrison. He cocked the gun and chambered a round, cinematically, as he fell. The lapels of his soiled suitjacket billowed as he fell from the sky.
"How'd you get out of the athletic tape Zach?" Morrison growls. Van Shrimpy thinks he should be more worried, given the gun at his temple. But Morrison is halfway into a bottle of Dewars and he also has absolute faith in his own physical abilities and general awesomeness.
"It's Doctor Van Shrimpy to you," says Dr. Van Shrimpy, doing his best to sound dangerous. Shirtless, here in the bowels of the stadium, Morrison's physique still intimidates him. "You do one thing for me, Morrison, and I'll let you live."
"What is it?" Morrison asks, newly aware of the cold steel at his temple. His life - all the trophies, golf tournaments, spokesmodels, gameplans, and comped Cadillacs - flashes before his bloodshot eyes.
"Strongbow starts today's game," Van Shrimpy whispers into his florid ear. He jerks the pistol into the side of Morrison's head, snapping it over. And with one smooth motion he is back up and into the HVAC system.
"But Strongbow sucks," Morrison says, to nobody in particular.
**
Strongbow grabbed his shoulder pads, helmet and shoes on the way out of the locker room, just in case. He is now dressed like an NFL player, and his Reebok shoes (he's got a multi-year endorsement contract) clack-clack on the concrete floor. Even though it may be the rapture, he still stopped to check out his tailored number 15 jersey in the mirror for a few minutes.
Strongbow fumbles through the duffel to find an old key taped to the inside of the bag. He uses it to open the door to the janitor's closet in Sub-Basement C - now, he knows, transformed into the Rapture Command Center. He knows because he helped Van Shrimpy transform it - being the only member of the rapture society with access to the stadium and its elaborate technology, including state of the art satellite hookups and armaments.
He swings the door open, slowly, to reveal an entire wall full of computer monitors, flashing lights, and buttons. Van Shrimpy wheels around in an office chair, a pistol in his right hand. Their eyes meet.
"Congratulations Timmy. You're starting today."
The once-serialized End Times satire is now available as an e-book from Gut Check Press. Click below to head over to the Amazon page.
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