The Good Slave

by Sellers, Franklin

  Contents

  Front Matter

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: The New Master

  Chapter 2: In the Courtroom

  Chapter 3: The Party of God

  Chapter 4: Behold the Attestant

  Chapter 5: A Hostile Witness

  Chapter 6: The Verdict

  Chapter 7: The Compassion Visit

  Chapter 8: Back Home

  Chapter 9: Showtime!

  Chapter 10: A Good Slave

  THE GOOD SLAVE

  by

  Franklin Sellers

  Also by Franklin Sellers

  SUPERHERO

  This novella is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are either

  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Franklin Sellers

  All rights reserved. This novella or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For permission requests or other information,

  email the author with “THE GOOD SLAVE” in the subject line at:

  franklinsellerswriter@gmail.com

  ASIN: B014OM53N8

  Cover Art Copyright © 2015 by Simon Randell

  bysimonrandell@gmail.com

  THE GOOD SLAVE

  BY

  FRANKLIN SELLERS

  This novella is dedicated to my friends

  SKG

  &

  SIMES

  for their undying support

  In memory of

  AYAZ MARHONI

  &

  MAHMOUD ASGARI

  Chapter One

  The New Master

  The naked little slave’s knees were beginning to ache against the hard, cold floor. He was soaking wet from head to toe. And freezing. He’d wrapped his thin arms around his skinny body in a futile attempt to keep from shivering, but it was pointless.

  Blood still seeped very slowly down from his nose, parting the piss and spit on his upper lip before it dripped into his mouth, acrid and metallic and sickening. But the boy didn’t swallow the foul mixture; he couldn’t if ordered to. Instead he let it pool on his tongue until it flowed out over his swollen lip and dribbled down his chin before spilling onto the white marble tiles below. There it mixed with urine and turned a pale umber that grew darker with each new drop.

  The soft and heavenly lyrics of Nearer, My God, to Thee bounced gently off the gray marble walls from speakers near the ceiling.

  A half hour earlier, the burly guards now standing motionless in the corners of the room had ordered the little slave to strip before they proceeded to slap him, laugh at him, piss on his head and in his face, spit on him, and angrily scream that he was a worthless piece of shit. After draining their bladders they’d ordered him to drop to his knees, open his mouth, and stay put like that until their master—for they were also slaves—arrived.

  Phoebus (that was the little slave’s name) wondered if the guards were glowering at him right now. He didn’t dare look up to see. A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound, he repeated to himself over and over in his head as he had been taught to do as far back as he could remember.

  There was a short squeak from the doorknob and suddenly a wave of cold air hit him from behind. A frigid tingle wormed its way up his back. When it reached the nape of his neck he cringed, involuntarily recoiling his shoulders and head to squash the sensation. His scrotum contracted and his tiny testicles slunk up inside his body. The little slave never felt more mortified than when his new master stared at his nakedness with that hellish cold fire in his eyes—and he could feel that icy hot gaze lapping at his flesh at this very moment.

  The bathroom door had a heavy wooden frame and a loose pane of frosted glass that ran its length and rattled with an unsettling loudness whenever it was closed.

  His new master’s fat bare feet slapped against the wet floor as he approached. The little slave grimaced as the old lubbard walked past him so close that the plush white towel wrapped around the old man’s fat gut brushed against his arm. Master sat down in a white wicker chair a few feet in front of Phoebus, the wickerwork straining audibly under the weight.

  A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.

  The old man took a cigarette from a pack sitting on top of a small round table next to the chair. The table had three spindly metal legs that came together midway on their journey to the floor before splaying back out again. It reminded Phoebus of a little white-sand hourglass that sat on a windowsill in the kitchen of his old master’s house.

  Master lit the cigarette with an expensive-looking metal lighter that produced a miniature blowtorch instead of the usual flickering flame. A few puffs to stoke the tobacco before inhaling deeply, then satisfaction spreading across his face. He closed his eyes and smiled for a moment before exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling and sinking into a comfortable slouch, his legs crossed at his fat pink ankles just under the little slave’s nose. He let his doughy arms fall lazily over the sides of the chair, the cigarette clutched between the tips of his thumb and middle finger. The smoke leisurely drifted up and around his meaty hand and wrist without a care in the world.

  The little slave didn’t want to see the old man’s fat, sagging breasts resting on top of his round belly, all of it covered in a thick mat of graying hair.

  “Phoebus,” Master said before spitting out a speck of tobacco stuck between his teeth. His voice was clear and direct, noncommittal—neither friendly nor hostile. “Do you know the difference between a good slave and a bad slave?”

  Phoebus didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He was too afraid to speak or even nod his head. His old master, Josef Messinjure—the master whose last name he’d had as far back as he could remember until his new master had bought him—had always told him he was a good slave, very well behaved. Yet here he always seemed to be in trouble; the obvious answers to his new master’s questions always escaped him. Master Josef would chuckle at the little slave’s naïveté and then patiently explain the correct answers. But this new master was mean. His usual response was a stinging slap across the face, sometimes so hard it knocked the Phoebus to the floor. “Stupid fucking slave,” he’d mutter as he yanked the boy back up by a fistful of curly blond hair.

  Phoebus’ stomach tensed as the hymnal echoed around him. He was beginning to feel sick. Taking too long to answer, or not answering at all, could be worse than a wrong answer, so it was best to guess. But nothing was coming to him. And then—

  “A good slave accepts his bondage as his destiny and fate as ordained by God,” Master said, not a hint of anger in his tone.

  The little slave closed his eyes with relief.

  “A bad slave, on the other hand,” the old man continued, “rebels against his natural condition. Rebellion always leads to misery and unhappiness, Phoebus, as your former master learned.”

  The old man snorted out a derisive chuckle, took another drag on the cigarette and lazily blew out another cloud of fluffy white smoke.

  Chapter Two

  In the Courtroom

  Phoebus was bored. Bored, bored, bored.

  Ever since the beginning of the trial he had mindlessly swung his legs back and forth with ease, but today the tips of his black leather shoes were scraping against the shiny hardwood floor and throwing off his rhythm in disrupting his daydream about the last time he and Stephen playe
d hide-and-seek. Stephen, Master Josef’s young son and only child, had found the little slave squeezed between the stone wall that was the back of the house and the vine-entwined latticework inches from it.

  Phoebus took off out the other end of the lattice, screaming and laughing at the same time. He leapt over the wide flowerbed bordering the edge of the patio and took off across the expansive lawn. But Stephen was several years older than the little slave, with longer legs that needed only half a minute of zigzag sprinting to catch up with the smaller boy, grab him around the waist and spin him to the ground. Phoebus squealed as his master’s son rolled him onto his back and pinned him to the ground, sitting on his belly and locking his thin wrists together over his head with a single hand.

  Both boys were panting. Stephen leaned over and his six-inch-long blond bangs swept across the little slave’s face. Phoebus let loose screams and giggles of delight.

  “Stop!” he begged.

  “Stop what?” Stephen asked. He sat up straight, all phony dumbfoundment. “This?!” He bowed back down and brushed his hair back and forth, brushing the little slave’s face.

  “Stop!” Phoebus was laughing uncontrollably.

  “What?” Stephen feigned ignorance, though his tone dripped with sarcasm. “That doesn’t tickle, does it, Phoebus?”

  “No!” Phoebus screamed defiantly. “It doesn’t tickle at all!”

  “Liar!” Stephen declared. “Thy ticklishness has revealed itself!” Now he was mocking his minister father.

  “No it hasn’t!”

  “Yes it has!”

  “No! I said no! You must be hearing things! You’re getting old, you old woman!”

  “What?!?” Stephen shouted with bug-eyed surprise. “You dare insult my manhood?!?”

  “I take it back!” Phoebus yelled in return. “You’re not an old woman! You’re an ugly old woman!”

  “WHAT?!?” Stephen screamed and Phoebus squealed in triumph. “How dare you insult me, you insolent little worm!”

  Without letting go of the little slave’s wrists, he pulled up Phoebus’ shirt to expose his skinny pale belly.

  “Get off of me!” Phoebus arched his back in a pathetic effort to buck off his master’s much larger son. “You fat old ugly woman!”

  “I think it’s time,” Stephen said in a low, menacing tone as he splayed the fingers of his free hand and began wriggling them about, “for a ticklefest!”

  “NO!” Phoebus screamed, frantically writhing to break free. But it was no use—Stephen was just too heavy and strong. “Please! Please! I’m sorry, Stephen! I’m sorry! You’re not an old woman! You’re not a fat pig! And you’re really not that ugly!”

  “Oh my God! Will you never learn!” Phoebus was used to his master’s son taking the Lord’s name in vain, something the little slave would never dare do. In his head he begged the Lord to forgive Stephen and prayed Master Josef hadn’t heard him from inside the house. “Now you deserve an extra-long, extra-excruciating tickle-a-thon!”

  “NO!” The little slave screamed hysterically as the wriggling claw slowly descended toward his belly. He begged, “Stop! Don’t! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I’m sorry you’re such an ugly old woman pig!”

  “That does it!”

  Phoebus let out a high-pitched scream as the hand lowered toward his belly.

  Now Stephen started laughing, too.

  “I’m not even touching you yet!”

  “It tickles anyway!”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “No!” the little slave screamed as the wriggling fingertips slowly descended lower and lower and lower. “Stop, Stephen! STOP!”

  Phoebus smiled as the tips of his shoes scraped across the floor.

  The courtroom was abuzz with hushed conversations about the forthcoming verdict. Laughter erupted somewhere behind him when someone said acquittal. Phoebus didn’t understand exactly what that was, but Master Josef had instructed all his slaves to pray for one because it would set Stephen free. And so Phoebus prayed for an acquittal, good slave that he was.

  The little slave hated those wretched people behind him laughing at his family’s misfortune. He clenched his eyes shut, clasped his hands tight and prayed to God and the Lord Jesus with all his might for the miracle of an acquittal that would bring an end to this nightmare and make them all happy again.

  “Amen,” he whispered so faintly that his lips would have had to have been pressed against someone’s ears for them to hear him.

  It had been more than two hours since Master Josef’s lawyer phoned that the jury was about to return its verdict. They were just about to order lunch, but it skipped instead and now Phoebus was starving. He forgot himself and turned around to look at the giant golden clock above the doors at the back of the courtroom: one-thirty.

  An elderly couple sitting behind him stared in wide-eyed disbelief when he made eye contact with them. The little slave whipped himself back around and slouched deep into the pew.

  “Impertinent little imp,” the elderly man snapped.

  “Needs a good whipping,” the elderly woman sniffed.

  Master Josef sitting next to him hadn’t even noticed. Phoebus was used to people being mean to him, especially in this courthouse, and was already thinking about Stephen again. A guilty verdict would mean death, an unbearable thought for the little slave.

  He cautiously raised his head to sneak a peek at the front of the courtroom. The jury box was still empty, of course. Stephen sat at the defense table directly in front of them, wearing the standard prison-issued pink jumpsuit. The state had shorn his long blond hair down to a sun-starved, mousy brown stubble on his pale scalp. He was so much thinner now than on the night of his arrest months before, even thinner than at the beginning of the trial. The little slave couldn’t see the bruises on Stephen’s face, but he knew they were there. His master’s son hung his head low and his spine stretched the thin skin at the mergence of his neck and back.

  Criminals in America, convicts and suspects, were legally obligated to follow the same rules and laws that governed slaves: look down at all times—A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound—to display humbleness and humility; do not speak unless spoken to; never protest or complain; always walk behind one’s betters, namely anyone who was not a slave or slaves of higher rank. And most importantly—obey, obey, obey. Stephen, who had been born and raised in the privileged world of parasites, the socioeconomic elite who infested every nook and edict of the Church-State like God’s own avenging locusts—gated communities, mountains of money, world travel, expensive private schools, hobbing with the most exclusive of knobs—had never learned humility or submission despite (as a result of?) being the son of a famous televangelist.

  Phoebus’ heart broke. His master’s son was so pale. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his feet shackled to the table leg. Sometimes he limped when he entered courtroom and shuffled across the floor like an old man, not even stretching the shackles to their limit. (A prisoner’s suffering, it was said, is good for society’s soul.) He no longer stood upright, a posture the media—all tabloids—had described as arrogant false modesty. Daily they wrote tripe such as The rampageous hubris of Josef Messinjure’s only begotten son, the abhorrent Stephen Messinjure, led the once mighty and powerful Man of God’s downfall of Biblical proportions. Master Josef said the articles were rubbish and stopped reading them long ago.

  “Phoebus!” Master Josef snapped under his breath when he caught his little slave staring at the front of the room. The boy immediately dropped his gaze back to the floor. He had’t sat still for fifteen seconds before started swinging his legs again, but Master gently pressed his large, soft hand on Phoebus’ thigh to make him stop.

  My poor, poor master, thought the little slave.

  Chapter Three

  The Party of God

  Josef Messinjure had once been a mighty and powerful Man of God. The most famous televan
gelist in America, in fact, and decades-long host of Walking With Jesus. Compared to his thirty-year rise to fame, his star had crashed faster than the speed of light soon after he began promoting the idea of a second political party.

  He’d been wrong thirty years before, he said, about the Party of God—the POG (pee-oh-gee)—being the one and only true party. He stood behind his brass-trimmed, cheery wood pulpit on a darkened stage, bathed in a single pool of light, a large but simple, unpolished cross made of cypress and cedar appeared to be magically suspended in midair (thanks to instant CGI erasure of the wires holding it) high above and slightly behind him. “A second, thoroughly Christian political party would offer alternate, and perhaps even better, solutions to America’s struggles with sin and crime and corruption.” Many believe the corruption part was an attack, as direct or indirect as you cared to interpret it, on the POG itself.

  In a former life, however, the preacher had sung a far different tune.

  Three decades before a brash, young Rev. Messinjure had stood on a brightly lit stage and prophesied from behind a simple pine podium, “Only through a single political party can we hope to come together in peace and end all suffering in this great land we call America!”

  Some of the chorus members behind him punctuated his point with a mighty “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: