when Emil was selling grass along with well-used cars in Tennessee.
“Be bop a lula,” Emil said.
One of his flock gave him a curious glance, shook her head and hurried out. She had to prepare her twelve-year-old daughter for Emil’s attentions that afternoon. And that was quite an honor. She wondered if she had really heard what she thought she heard the Master say.
No matter, she decided. Gods sometimes meant one thing while saying quite another. Maybe it was the pot. Or the speed. Or the coke. But regardless, everyone knew Emil the Master was a god. There could be no doubt about that.
And there was no doubt Emil had probably saved a few of the men, women and kids that had drifted into and were now residing in his camp. They had straggled in, half-starved, some of them beaten and sick. And Emil had cared for them.
But early on another thought had come to Emiclass="underline" What was he getting out of all this good will on his part? The answer was: nothing. The next day he had discarded all manner of conventional dress and had appeared in a robe. Actually, it was a wool army blanket that itched like hell, but it had slits for his arms and head and looked pretty damn good.
He had held out his arms and announced to the few hundred or so men and women that he had just had a vision while praying, and he wanted to share it with them.
Emil had not prayed since he was a child in a local Holy Roller church (actually it was a tent) back in rural Tennessee. But he remembered vividly how that
lay preacher could work the folks into a wild frenzy, with many of the churchgoers jumping up and down and staggering around the pews, babbling in the unknown tongue.
And Emil had watched more than one so-called preacher squeezing a goodly number of tits and asses while spreading the word, folks. And Emil figured that ol’ boy was probably getting more than his share of pussy, too.
So Emil thought he’d give that act a whirl here, see if it worked with these folks.
It did.
He told them God had spoken to him. He told them God had ordered Emil to look after the survivors and to take care of them, to open his arms and give him succor. (and lots of stiff cock, but Emil kept that thought to himself.) He told them God said if they were to survive, they must band together and live in a commune and follow Emil’s orders.
Emil prayed long and hard, with that fucking wool blanket about to drive him nuts. He whipped the people verbally, causing many of them to weep uncontrollably. Emil went to each member and laid on hands, and really poured on the B.s. He hadn’t been named the best damned used-car salesman in Chattanooga for nothing. All that morning and well into the afternoon, Emil prayed and preached and led the people in songs. Then he began waving his arms and shouting, babbling, inventing a language he would later tell them only he and God knew how to interpret.
Actually, what he was doing was speaking in carny. Many carnival and circus workers of years back used to converse in pig Latin when they did not wish the
townies to know what they were saying. But too many citizens could understand pig Latin. So someone-it is not known who-invented carny talk. It was not that difficult to learn. Take the sound of “ease” and put it behind the first letter of each syllable. Thus Bill comes out sounding Beaseill. Number would be neaseum-beaser. One can become surprisingly fluent in carny in only a short time. And to someone who has never heard the language, it sounds like a snake attempting to talk.
After a time, one can vary the position of syllables and still be understood by those who speak the language.
lease ceasean seasepeak ceasearneasey.
Most of the people in the camp were, by this time, ready to believe and accept anything. They had survived a nuclear and germ attack; they had seen subhuman mutants and rats as big as dogs. They had been starved, beaten, many of them tortured and robbed and chased, many of the women sexually assaulted (and some of the men) and brutalized. Only a very few walked out when Emil began his pitch. The rest stayed and became believers. Soon the word went out and every nut and goofball and wacko and banana cream pie in a three-state area was drifting in, eager to join.
And Emil had it made.
He had been a corpsman in the navy, and knew something about medicine. He began visiting deserted towns nearby, grabbing up every book he could find on the subject of doctoring. He studied herbal medicine, and really became pretty good at healing-as long as it wasn’t anything too serious. If the medical problem was beyond his rather limited realm of
knowledge, Emil would pray, babbling in his personal unknown tongue. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t work, and the patient died, Emil would simply say it was God’s will.
And anyone who was dumb enough to join a cult in the first place would believe it.
But, Emil mused on this day, all that was secondary to this communist thing that was shaping up in a rather nasty fashion up north. Emil did not want the communists in this area. Ben Raines was bad enough. Emil was scared to death of Ben Raines. But the communists would really frown on his little scam. They would take away his robes and sandals and steady pussy.
And he would have to go to work. Just the thought of that was appalling.
What to do?
Emil didn’t know what to do. But one thing was certain: His little kingdom of wackos would come crashing down around his ankles if the commies ever took over.
Emil thought and pondered and schemed and connived and finally decided he might have to take the problem to his followers and place it at their feet. But that was risky, for Emil was supposed to be the head Pooh Bah, Lord of the Beasts, direct communicator with the Almighty, Master of the Multitudes, and all that happy shit.
Emil sighed and scratched his head. He just didn’t know what the hell to do.
“What we have to do,” Peggy Jones said, “is get it
together and fight.”
“Child-was Lois looked at her-“we gonna fight.” She shook her head. “But we need guns and bullets and training. We don’t none of us know nothin’ much about that sort of thing. We got a few shotguns and rifles and pistols-and that’s all. I know General Striganov has spies among us, but I don’t know who they are. What you’re sayin’ is all well and good, honey, but we got to keep our wits about us, too.”
“You just told me General Ben Raines is sending people in here to help us, right?”
“That’s the word I get, yes.”
“When and how?”
“That, child,” Lois said with a smile, “is something you beside’ not know-not at this date. Believe me, it’s for the good of everybody you not know.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“With all my heart, honey-you know that. But Sam Hartline is an expert at torture. He gets his hands on you, Peggy, you’ll tell everything you know and even make up stuff, just to get the pain to stop.”
Peggy started to protest, but the older woman waved her still. “Peggy … listen to me. You wouldn’t want to tell, but you would. Ever’body has their breaking point, you, me ever’body. Sam Hartline would get it out of you or me or anybody.”
Peggy nodded her head in agreement. She was very frightened of Hartline. “When will the people from General Raines’s camp be here?”
“Soon. I don’t know just when, and that’s the truth. For now, you stay in this basement and don’t you stick your head out for nothin’. Sam Hartline has said when he finds you, girl, he’s going to torture you for days
until you’re beggin’ him to let you die. And he means it, honey.” She smiled. was “Cause you shore did a number on that white man’s cock. You didn’t bite it off, but you shore skin it up good.”