“So my people went to see Professor Banyan,” Rex went on. “And at first, he refused to help them. But then, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“What, break his legs?” Nick Amato asked.
“No, not that,” Rex said, flashing a mirthless smile. “I offered him a chance to confirm the existence of the first-known living descendent of Jesus Christ—our very own Master Cristos Pantera.” He waved a hand and bowed toward Pantera, then straightened and continued, “That made him see the light. See the profit in it. The professor arranged for a test to compare the DNA from Cristos to the DNA of Abdes Pantera and Jesus. And presto,” he went on, snapping his fingers, “an exact match. Something like two billion to one that our very own Cristos Pantera is a descendent of the son of God.”
Rex sighed and looked around the room at Pantera’s inner circle.
“So, now, what the professor’s been doing is polishing off an article on what he’s found,” he went on. “It’s getting published tomorrow in something called The Journal of Early Christianity.” He laughed. “I already got in touch with my contacts at the major news services, AP, Reuters, reporters at the New York Times, Washington Post. They are foaming at the mouth to get that story out. Timing couldn’t be better. Ticket sales gonna soar.”
Rex turned to Pantera, who was still standing next to him, and slapped him on the back.
“Now, whenever you give one of your sermons,” he said, “half the audience gonna see Jesus on your shoulder. You won’t even have to mention it. You got the pedigree to make mass pronunciations of what’s right, and what ain’t. It’s like your father played in the major leagues, and now your time has come.”
“Yes, Mister Rex,” Pantera said with a smile, “something like that.”
An hour later, Constantine stepped outside and walked into the woods, wondering how the Supremacy would choose to handle the news. Once he was out of sight of the farmhouse, he called Chief Bradley.
After hearing Rex’s news, Bradley said, “This’ll certainly cause a stir. The star of Cristos Pantera will rise even faster now. He’ll soon become a household name, as famous as his famous ancestor.”
The chief fell silent for a time, mulling over something. Then, he said, “I wonder how this is going to affect the statistical algorithms. This is certainly one of those unforeseeable variables that gives the director, and yours truly, gray hair and sleepless nights.”
“Rex now wants to call it the ‘Second Coming Tour,’” Constantine told him as if pouring salt in fresh wound.
Bradley thought about that a moment and said, “That he very well may become—the second coming. If we let him.”
Constantine sighed inwardly. That last part had an ominous ring to it.
“Well,” Bradley said, “better go fill the director in on the latest bad news.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Ralph
It was raining the morning of Pantera’s opening sermon of the Enlightenment Tour, scheduled for eight that night in mid-June at New Era Cap Stadium just south of Buffalo. Formerly called Ralph Wilson Stadium, it was home to the Buffalo Bills and known by the locals as “the Ralph.”
Spartacus Rex and his staff with degrees in marketing and hotel and entertainment management worked tirelessly to book the supporting acts and give the event the aura of something genuinely hip and uplifting, new and not to be missed. But, they had never done or seen anything like this. They were used to promoting concerts, not sermons by an evangelical preacher who wanted to change the world and save mankind.
On the days leading up to the sermon, a series of local TV and radio spots were broadcast using snippets of Pantera’s inspirational second appearance on The Opal Show! An announcer with a low, booming voice ended each of these commercials with the phrase, “For the sake of your soul!” In another commercial, a local actor sat on a stool on a bare stage and gave a testimonial regarding how “the Master” had changed his life. “I was dead,” the actor told the audience, his eyes intense, “but he resurrected me.” In yet another commercial, a guitar riff by one of the rock bands slated to appear before Pantera’s sermon was interrupted by a black screen, followed by what sounded like the voice of God booming, “SAVE YOUR SOUL!”
A few days before the show, billboard ads were placed along the Thruway and other major roads in and around the Buffalo area, all depicting the white-robbed Pantera with his arms raised up to the heavens. Behind this mesmerizing portrait was a velvet-textured scene filled with billions of glimmering stars set against the cold dark of deep space.
In the days leading up to the show, Rex also ran full page ads in The Buffalo News, depicting the by now-iconic white-robed Pantera pose—hands uplifted and his intense blue eyes peering upward into Heaven. Red letters across the photograph declared, “First There Was Jesus…” Rex called it “the Second Coming” ad.
The campaign paid off in sales. The show was a sell-out. Nearly one hundred thousand tickets had sold, ranging in price from $25 to $250, depending on proximity to the stage. And of course, the scalpers would be asking for more.
“Fucking rain,” Amato blurted from the living room of one of three spacious suites in the Hyatt Hotel in downtown Buffalo that Rex had booked for Pantera and his inner circle.
“Well, at least it’s not fucking snow,” joked Luke Morgan.
“The language,” Renata scolded, glaring at Amato, then at Morgan. “That’s all we need. Some reporter overhearing his closest disciples using the “F” word. Cause a scandal that might scuttle everything.”
Amato nodded sheepishly, but then snapped, “Yeah, okay. I should have said, goddamn rain. But I getcha. You’ll have no more gutter talk from this fucking asshole.”
Renata could not help but smile and shake her head.
By eight o’clock, over one hundred thousand men and women of various ages, but mostly in the twenty to forty range, together with several thousand children, had trudged their way from the expansive parking lots around the stadium into the Ralph. Some of them showed signs of having tailgate parties, as if they were attending a Bills game.
Once in the stadium, depending on their ticket, they either found a spot on the football field emanating outward from a large stage constructed at the twenty-yard line at the north side of the stadium or had taken their respective seats up in the stands. The stage was empty and dark as the audience shuffled in, all except for a narrow band of bright white light focused on a mark at the approximate center where Pantera would stand and give his sermons. Helicopters and drones buzzed above the stadium like giant angry insects looking down at this assembling throng of humanity.
No one seemed quite sure how to behave for the event—whether to act celebratory, as if it was a rock concert or football game, or contemplative, as if they were attending a Sunday mass. A healthy number had decided that the former characterization was more appropriate, starting with tailgating before the stadium had opened for admission at 6:00 p.m., drinking beer, wine, or other alcoholic beverages, eating cheese and crackers while sitting on lawn chairs. The scent of charred meat swirled from those who’d been grilling hot dogs and sausages and brats, and hamburgers, steaks, chicken, or kabobs. The food smells wafted through the accumulating crowd like an aphrodisiac. The distant smell of marijuana also drifted through the air.
A smattering of those attending that evening had seen Pantera before. Some had driven a long way for the privilege of seeing him again. This time, perhaps, they might throw caution to the wind and join his merry band of followers, living a new existence free of their old, boring, oppressive lives in one of the dorms being built on his Carolinian commune.
By mid-afternoon, the rain had stopped and the low, oppressive steel-gray clouds that had dominated the sky all day began to break apart, allowing glimpses of a crisp blue sky. At various times after the advertised starting time of 8:00 p.m., whole sections of those who had already arrived and taken their ticketed spots began clapping together, while some smaller groups sta
rted some mostly inaudible chants calling for the event to finally start. Several times, “the wave” rumbled through the assembled mass of people. But soon, the clapping and chants dissolved into general static and impatient murmur. The start time had come and gone. Where was he? When was this going to start?
Finally, at 8:47 p.m., Spartacus Rex strode out across the stage from a curtained section to the right. There was polite applause as he turned center stage and brought up his arms. Rex was a well-known figure, the modern-day P. T. Barnum.
“Are you ready for salvation!” he shouted into the portable microphone at his mouth. His voice boomed through the bank of massive loudspeakers arranged around the stage, echoing and shaking across the Ralph.
Everyone stood, clapping and shouting—the show was going to begin. Long curtains in front of another section of the stage behind Rex started rising, revealing the rock band Twister. With the crowd of over one hundred thousand now ripped into a frenzy, they launched into a raw guitar rant with their anti-authoritarian mega-hit, “Go to Heaven!” But after five minutes of raucous guitars rifts and screaming vocals, the band switched chords and the song somehow morphed into something softer, something more in tune with the evening’s purpose and intent.
Twister had broken into a cover of “Stairway to Heaven.”
Two more acts followed, then the stage went dark. It was already nine-thirty, and the audience was grumbling. Rex didn’t care. He wanted the audience to reach a frenzied pitch of impatience and need. It would magnify their pleasure when Pantera finally took the stage. After that, Rex had no doubt the preacher would not disappoint.
And then, finally, to the sound of a long series of bass drumbeats—boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, like the Olympic Games were starting—a tall, white-robed figure, the one and only Cristos Pantera, emerged from behind the same curtained section to the right that Spartacus Rex had emerged from an hour and a half before. Pantera strode triumphantly across the stage, brushing back his long, gleaming brown, Jesus-like hair along the way. People nearest the stage started clapping and calling out his name. Then, more of the crowd cheered as they recognized that the man they had come know from video clips and commercials and billboard ads was finally before them, on stage, ready to fill their minds with wisdom and hope and love.
It was truly “Him,” “Cristos Pantera,” the one called the “Master” or “Teacher,” the same cool-looking dude who promised to change their lives for the better, to make them happy. To save them. To save the world.
As Pantera took his spot roughly mid-stage and turned to face the sea of people filling every space in the stadium, a guttural unison roar rose from the crowd. As he raised his arms to Heaven, the roar became so deafening that Constantine, who was in the entourage standing behind the curtain where moments earlier, Pantera had emerged, had to cover his ears.
And then, a bright, narrow ray of pristine white light beamed down from a silver canister on the front stage railing, focusing upon Pantera’s tall frame with his arms raised up to Heaven. By design of one of Rex’s stage crew members, the light seemed like a beacon from Heaven that had deposited Pantera among the living. With him in the light, the audience continued its incoherent, thumping, adoring roar.
Many of those in the audience that night were not entirely sure why they had been whipped into such a frenzy by Pantera’s appearance before them. Was it merely the product of some vague hope that he might provide a real “way” to alleviate their suffering, their pain, the nagging anxiety that bubbled under the surface of their daily lives? All the pre-show advertisements must surely have something to do with what they were feeling now.
But as he stood there now, they found more to it than that—a visceral yearning that was scratched by this eccentric prophet, this preacher who had the power to soothe their fears. The power emanated out from the blaze of his deep blue eyes, his serene good looks, his long, glistening brown hair, his slender strength, heightened by that long, white robe and his amazing connection to Jesus.
Pantera’s magical sway over the crowd reminded Constantine of the sermon given by Pope John Paul II on July 31, 2002 in Mexico City during a mass celebrating the canonization of Saint Juan Diego. He had been dispatched to attend and monitor the event while serving as a rookie agent for the Network. Yet, the fervent adoration that the pontiff received from the crowd on that occasion did not come close to matching what he was observing now—one hundred thousand human souls lifted into a state of anticipation and pure ecstasy.
Pantera stood still within the blazing light for a time as if immersed in his audience’s adoration. Finally, he lowered his arms and peered out at the throng.
The gigantic speakers lined up to the right and left of the stage began booming the second half of the old 1960s song, “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In”:
Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sunshine in
Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sunshine in
As the song played on, Pantera began to sway and clap with the tune and the crowd joined in and began singing along with the repeating the verse like a hundred-thousand-member chorus.
Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sunshine in
Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sunshine in
At last, the music faded, and the crowd quieted and watched while Pantera remained standing at the front of the stage, still bathed in that intense white light seemingly pouring down from the sky. He stared out at them with a benign expression and kindly grin. But then, his serene countenance faded into a scowl as he looked out at the crowd. A mic had been attached to the front of his robe that would wirelessly deliver his words to the giant speakers lined up like unpleasant, stout sentinels along each side of the stage.
After a time, Pantera drew in a breath and shouted, “Liars!”
His voice boomed through the speakers across the full expanse of the football field and up through the stands. He drew in another deep breath and stared out at the now-quieted multitude before him. In a barely audible whisper, he told them, “Each of you is living a lie. A lie perpetuated by a secret ruling order who benefits from it.”
Constantine had not expected that message. This was different than Pantera’s call for personal change through the adoption of the Word of God. The preacher had never directly referred to the “secret ruling order”—what Constantine and others knew as the Supremacy.
Pantera paused for a time as he gazed out at the crowd, looking left, then right, then forward again. The massive audience had grown cold. The accusation had silenced them.
“Yes, your lives are run by these puppeteers, with each of you serving as their puppets.”
Again, Pantera stopped and waited. The crowd had become completely still, as if he had used a magic spell and frozen them in place. Constantine thought of the phrase, you could hear a pin drop.
And then Pantera spoke again, but louder now, as if to drive home the point: “To gain salvation, to live, you must admit and renounce the lie perpetuated by your puppet-masters that has been burned into your mind and soul. You must admit and renounce that lie. That, my friends, is Lesson Number One.”
Pantera raised his arms skyward again. In the blaring light, Constantine thought of Jesus standing there, preaching to the multitudes. After a time, he looked across the stadium again and told them, “Only by accepting this truth, can you become a Son or Daughter of Man and enter the Kingdom of God. I have come to deliver you from the lie. I have come to show you the Way. I have come to baptize you into truth.” Then, he shouted at them, “I have come to save you!”
There was a moment’s pause, a hush, and then the crowd let out a roar that felt to Constantine like an earthquake. When the roar subsided, Pantera’s kindly smile had returned as he looked out at them for a time. Then, in a soft voice, he whispered, “I am your servant.” He hesitated a moment, th
en added with utter certainty, “I am your Messiah!”
After that, there was silence for a time, then the audience all at once erupted into an all-consuming roar that seemed to fill the skies above Buffalo and around the world.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Magical, Mysterious,
Miraculous Tour
Over the next three months, Pantera’s show at the Ralph was replicated at twenty-three other venues—open-air and domed stadiums, arenas, and playhouses—across the entire US of A, from sea to shining sea.
The Enlightenment Tour culminated on a chilly, rainy weekend in mid-September on a patch of farmland near Watkins Glen, a small village in central New York. Two hundred thousand people showed up and huddled under tents and umbrellas and stood by smoldering campfires, mesmerized by Pantera’s still-inspiring spiel.
In total, Pantera’s twenty-three “performances” drew 1.3 million spectators and grossed nearly $35 million. In addition to money from the gate, Rex sold DVDs and CDs from each tour stop, all filmed as part of a documentary sold to HBO for airing as a three-part series just in time for Christmas. Thus, with the help of Spartacus Rex’s promotional magic, Cristos Pantera had become a household name—a celebrity. In the process, both he, and his movement, had become quite wealthy.
Pantera’s rise to stardom was clearly demarked when the now-iconic depiction, from a photograph taken at the Ralph back in June, of him in his stark white cotton robe—his arms upraised to Heaven and his deep blue eyes and intense dramatic gaze locked onto something up—graced the covers of the August editions of Time, People, Rolling Stone, and GQ.
The Messiah Page 11