Neal Barrett - Judge Dredd

“Pa’s got it all,” Link-Link said. “The whole B-B-Blessed Mutilation of God! Ears and eyes and nose sewed up, and his m-mouth, too. He’s the only Angel’s got that.”

Link-Link rolled his eyes, thrust out his arms and turned a circle twice.

“Lo, he hast s-sewed up his every wicked ori-fuss against the evil of the world. He h-has shut out sin and cast Satan aside. He hast b-b-become a pure abomy-nation of the Lord!”

Oh, shit, I am out of here…

“Look, I got some private hygiene stuff, and you fellas have plenty to do. If you can just point me outside—”

Link-Link kicked Fergie solidly in the rear. Fergie grabbed air and bit a mouthful of floor.

“Hey, hold on there! What the hell, guys?”

Link-Link straddled Fergie’s back, crushing all the air out of his lungs. Junior wound a piece of rusty wire around his hands, then looped the other end about his feet. Link took one shoulder and Junior took the other. Together, they dragged Fergie on his belly down the hall.

“Wait a minute,” Fergie said, “I’m a Believer. I’m a—I’m a Maggot of God, just like you!”

“That’s why we l-love you, brother,” Link-Link said.

“You got a weird way of showing it, brother.”

“Like you better’n him,” Link said. “Lot’s better’n that one… Don’t we, Junior?”

“Snuk!”

“Who? Who are we talking about here? Dredd? Is that who, Dredd?”

Link made a face. “He’s a agg-nasty or something. Ch-chock fulla sin!”

Link and Junior let go. Link flipped him over on his back. Fergie looked straight at a bed of hot coals. He looked at the heavy iron spit, and he looked at the thing that was crackling there, crackling red and black, juices hissing down into the fire. It took him a second, a second and a half, then the image took a clear and very definite shape in his head. It kept kicking out then kicking back in and it wouldn’t let go. It wouldn’t let go no matter what he did.

Fergie threw up. He didn’t have a thing in his stomach but his stomach didn’t care.

“Them Unbelievers,” Link said, “just d-don’t taste right, you know? It’s impure f-f-f-flesh is what it is.”

“Snuk-snuk!”

Fergie closed his eyes. “Now this is a gag, right? What I want you to do is tell me this is a gag. Dredd said that you guys—what you—I know he didn’t mean that you were—”

Junior kicked Fergie in the mouth. He grabbed his hair and pulled him closer to the fire. He drooled on Fergie’s head.

Link found a knife somewhere in his rags, reached out and sliced off something from the spit.

“Lo, the Unbeliever’s f-f-flesh is unclean, Lord, but a p-p-person’s got to eat.”

“I was lying,” Fergie yelled, “I don’t believe in any thing, I mean, I don’t even believe enough to be an Un believer, what do you think of that? I mean, that is something you don’t want to mess with, man. I also got a skin condition. I got athlete’s foot, guys!”

“Glory!” Link said.

“Snuk!” Junior Head-Dead said.

“… biled ob be, troppin’ chu vrom duh skie endo by hans…”

“Pa says the Lord’s sure been good, says it’s a sign is what it is. Says the Lord has smiled on him, droppin’ you from the sky into his hands.”

“Why don’t you tell Pa to get the mush out of his mouth?” Dredd said. “You think God understands that crap? Even if He’s listening, He is sure as hell not listening to Daddy Dust-Bunny there.”

“Waaaaaaka-waaaaka!” Mean Machine’s eyes turned black with rage. His knife-arm swept out in a wicked arc. Dredd felt something like a breath of Arctic air across his chest. He forced himself not to look down. He knew he would see a line of red, a cut no deeper than Mean Machine wanted it to be. He did what he liked with that thing, and he did it with surgical skill.

“You bringin’ wrath and retry-bution down on yourself, Dredd.” Mean Machine shook his head as if he wished there were some way he could help. Pa Angel didn’t move. He was a scarecrow with darkness as a face.

“The Lord is fearsome in His gaze,” Mean Machine said. “He will smite you down and grind you under His heels. Your flesh will tremble with the terror of His ways…”

“You ever been in a rumble in Red Quad, pal? You don’t know shit about the terror of his ways.”

“ Eeee-nuph!”

The Reverend Billy Joe Angel raised one filthy hand above his head, then lowered it slowly until it stabbed at Dredd.

“Vinits hib, sud. Vinits hib dow!”

Mean Machine glowed. “I’ll finish him, Pa. I surely will.”

“Dree, poi. You kun coe ub to dree.”

“Three? I can go up to… You mean it, Pa? Oh, Glory, I’m gonna do a Three!”

Mean Machine tapped the top of his mechanical head. His mouth fell open. His eyes turned to glass. His whole body shook; his arms and his legs jerked straight out like a droid on happy-oil. The copper squares on his face turned blue then red. He squealed like tires on a white-hot road, lowered his head and came straight at Dredd.

Dredd tried to twist aside but the crazy was moving too fast. His head hit Dredd in the gut. Dredd bellowed and gasped for air. The pain nearly took him. He shook his head to keep from passing out. The cords around his wrists had snapped tight at Mean Machine’s blow, tearing at the muscles in his shoulders and his chest.

Dredd knew that was it. He couldn’t take it again. The freako would break something vital and he’d bleed to death inside.

Dredd forced his head up off his chest. He made himself smile through the pain.

“That’s it? That’s the whole bit? This is what you do?”

Mean Machine blinked. He stared at Dredd and then showed him a sly little grin. He was dumb, but he wasn’t as dense as Dredd had hoped. He knew the damage he’d done, knew what would happen when he came at Dredd again.

“That was my practice run,” Mean Machine said. “I got you sighted in good now.”

“Quit talking and do it, then,” Dredd said. “You’re starting to piss me off.”

It is not unusual that the facts concerning an historical event are often overshadowed by a more lurid, wholly distorted account. One could cite a number of cases where—at least temporarily—truth gave way to a more colorful version of a particular occurrence.

A good example is the true cause of the world-wide chaos of the middle- and late-twentieth century. War, famine, disease, and racial unrest were attributed by historians of the time to the clash of political movements such as democracy, communism, and the like. As every schoolchild knows today, the fact of the matter-dismissed as folly at the time—is that every event of any importance between the years 1908-1998 was carefully planned and executed by members of a single, tightly-knit family in the former European nation of Luxembourg.

While the name of this family has remained secret to this day, the name of their cabal is well known. It was called Der Zischen, which can be roughly translated as The Fizz. The reason behind the name becomes clear when it is understood that Der Zischen controlled the leaders of all nations, began and ended international conflicts at their will, and controlled the earth’s natural resources—all the while hiding behind the corporate structure of the world’s two leading carbonated beverages.

Only a handful of people were aware of this conspiracy at the time. Yet The Fizz managed to keep the entire world under its thumb for ninety years.

Closer to our own time are the myths that have sprung up about the inhabitants of the Cursed Earth. In the years of the famous Judge Dredd (circa 2139), videos produced and distributed through illegal channels often pictured the people of Cursed Earth as political dissidents, victims of “injustice,” or even “mental defectives” turned away from the Mega-Cities. Those scattered bands of people such as Culls, Boaters, Krazies, Dusteaters, Cutters, Zippers, and other groups mistakenly labeled as Outcasters, were in fact never victims of Society, but the very people who sought to bring about the destruction of the Mega-Cities themselves.