Pavel Kravchenko - Project Antichrist

But even though it was barely ten in the morning, today had already swept the awards for the weirdest ever. And it was a Wednesday, of all things.

It started with the Pope on TV, creeping the cakes out of her with the Antichrist talk. If ever there was a good time to start censoring the news, she had said to herself, it was now. Then, as if the Antichrist wasn’t enough for the ratings, Luke Whales went and drove a car full of explosives into some place, with himself still in it. Where the first news caused like a massive depressive murmury gloom over the studio, the part about Whales sent people running back and forth through her waiting room, and James Cornwell rushed out all red and ran up to her and stood there, panting and squeezing her shoulder and shaking his head. She cried a little and eventually he went back to his office, but then, to top it all off, Whales himself walked in an hour later!

Since no one was getting any work done, anyway, she was absorbed by the News Special, on which Jack Moore followed Whales’s progress, as it was masterfully reconstructed from clues, offering commentary in his rumbling voice. The black car marked “LW” just reached the Freedom Corp facility on the map. The fateful spot was the end of the itinerary, which had started at Whales’s downtown condo at around four in the morning, passed through some doctor’s office across the river and took the audience to the scene of a break-in at Whales’s ex-wife’s suburban home, where, thankfully, no one was hurt. Jack Moore watched in silence as the black car on the map reached the imaginary gateway and turned into a ball of orange digital fire. The image spoke for itself. The map zoomed in and the horrific footage of the explosion started to play.

At that moment the door opened, and Whales strolled right in, dressed like a mortuary assistant, or an angel without wings, and carrying a huge pistol.

“Hey, Christie,” he said, despite being repeatedly blown up on the screen. “Is Jimbo in?”

Without waiting for an answer — which wasn’t coming any time soon, anyway — he went into Mr. Cornwell’s office. Christie was so impressed that it never occurred to her to dial police or some other agency that dealt with… that. About two seconds later Whales and Mr. Cornwell both reappeared in the waiting room, Mr. Cornwell, seeing his friend resurrected, even redder than before. Whales pointed a gun at her, inviting her to join them.

“For Christ’s sake, Luke,” Mr. Cornwell was mumbling.

Christie stood up from her chair, straightening, placing one hand on the chair’s back and tossing a curl off her forehead with the other. “Are you going to kill us, Luke? Is that it?” she asked indignantly.

“Of course not,” he replied with a grin. “You know I always liked you, baby.” And Christie began to cry, because he was lying. He had always hated her. He would definitely kill her. Probably on TV.

“For Christ’s sake, old sport.”

The ghost ushered them to the set, where the rest of the staff had already been herded together and seated. Two men with guns watched the crowd from the darkened rear. Instructing Christie to join the others, Whales took Mr. Cornwell to the middle of the room. The murmurs hushed.

“Hi guys!” Whales said cheerfully. “Good to see you. I even missed some of you. As we all know, there’s been a little misunderstanding this morning. I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by and set things straight. For that I’ll need a camera, sound and lighting crews. It won’t take long. The rest of you will just watch from here until we’re done. You can’t get out, because we jammed the elevators and barricaded the stairs. But there’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise. Besides, Jim says it’s OK for you to help me out. Right, Jim?”

Mr. Cornwell gave the slightest nod.

“All right, folks. Let’s get moving.”

No one even thought of resisting. The technicians went to workstations without hesitation. Some of them grinned as they passed beyond Mr. Cornwell’s sight; not a few of those grins dropped when they saw her looking, though. Several staffers openly went to shake Whales’s hand or slap his shoulder, probably to make sure he remembered they were his friends. Tiffany from Make-Up had the audacity to flirt, chirping something about being offended he didn’t need her services.

“I wish I had more time,” he told her and she flittered away like a perfect little butterfly.

Soon, the crew signaled they were ready. Whales climbed in the seat behind the host’s desk. His desk.

“Jim!” he called out. “I want this out there. Live. Right now. Paul! You know how these things work. Would you go with Mr. Cornwell and help him?”

One of the two gunmen came forward and motioned for Mr. Cornwell to lead the way. He was in his early thirties, well-built, blond, but not really attractive. He looked wounded. His right arm hung in a sling.

“Long time no see, Jimmy,” he said, grinning. Mr. Cornwell hurried to the booth, gasping for air.

A voice came over the speakers. “We’re ready.”

“Thirty seconds.”

The seconds blinked away slowly. When the clock wound down to zero, the theme from the show began to play. Whales looked started for a moment, then laughed and began to speak. Christie turned to watch on one of the screens.

“Thanks for that, buddy. “ Whales said, chuckling. “I’m sorry, folks. I thought it was funny that after a morning I had something as simple as a lame musical theme from a lame old show could still startle me. Then I realized how you must feel, when the most interesting news program in years is suddenly cut off, and the same guy who suicide-bombed a lab not two hours ago is having a good laugh right on your TV screen.

“But yes, it’s me, Luke Whales. Before those of you who are especially sharp-minded have an ‘A-ha!’ moment: No, this is not a pre-recorded suicide note. We are broadcasting live, and I mean right now live, from our Chicago studios. Some people got together to help me, but we didn’t have time for a script.

“This show will be short and without commercials, so let’s get down to business. I am not going to tell you the whole story. Just a couple of self-evident truths for you to ponder.

“Truth number one: I did not drive a car full of dynamite into a building. I didn’t blow myself up; didn’t blow anyone up. Never handled explosives in my life. What you saw on the news, what experts said, that footage, that was all fabricated. Fake. First Luke Whales is a murderer, then he’s a suicide bomber. Where it all came from, and how it got out so fast, I’ll leave for the networks to explain. But what you have to understand right now is that all of it would be true, if I didn’t manage to show up at the studio this morning, and there were people out there putting a whole lot of effort to make sure I didn’t.

“Which brings me to the second point. Yes, I did stop taking the pills, but no, I did not go crazy immediately after. Sure, I might look strange to you right now in someone else’s uniform and no make-up, but that is too long of a story for this show. I assure you, though; I never had a clearer head. Recently I learned some things (from an expert, by the way, whom I… who was no able to make this show) about the antidepressants manufactured by Freedom Corp., the pills I have been, and you are taking. Yes, I did say ‘You are.’ Those of you who thought it was just good old Luke Whales in ads and you, once I thought so too. But there are more of us than you can imagine. According to the expert I’ve just mentioned, the number is about three times what you hear on TV. You understand? One in four. You really are not alone. Remember that.

“Anyway, back to the pill. There’s this new chemical that they add now. I don’t know what it’s called, nor do I care. But that new additive is what makes the medicine so effective. What it does is make you react to the world in a different way. Doc’s words for it were: ‘It makes the world a better place.’ But I think that was one thing he was wrong about. Probably because he never tried the pill himself.