Stephen Blackmoore: All Bad Things

Each tape they watched was pretty much the same thing, though who King railed against changed from tape to tape. Communists, Washington Elites, Pinkos, Women’s Libbers, Reaganomics, Jimmy Carter, Sesame Street. Samson had never heard of any of these things before, but if James King were to be believed, they were responsible for the destruction of civilization.

“Friends,” James King says on the screen, his blond, moussed hair as still as a helmet as he bobs up and down in his seat, “today we are going to talk about the real end times. Not just what the Good Book says, but real, absolute, no–shit end times.”

This is different from the other tapes Samson has watched. At about this point King would take callers who would ask him about the Rapture, or his assistant Mindy, a woman with hair almost as shiny and blond as King’s, would come on and talk about how the Women’s Libbers were going against “God’s plan for the weaker sex.”

“Friends, there is a reckoning coming. In the waning days of this century, there will be a calamity the likes of which no one has ever seen. Brother will turn against brother, nation against nation. The bombs will come a–crashing down and lay waste to this world like the stinking Sodom that it is.”

“Hey,” Samson says. “You think he—”

“Quiet. I want to hear this.”

“In the darkening days of 1998,” King says, punctuating each point with a fist slapped into an open palm, “the missiles will fly, the bombs will drop, and everything we know, every dark and stinking sinner, every whore and whoremonger, every sodomite, every devil, every sick and perverted nightmare will be wiped clean from the Earth in a storm of fire and radiation that will sweep across the globe!”

“Holy shit,” Cyrus says, grabbing the tape case and rubbing dust off its cover. “This tape’s from 1996.”

Samson sits there slack–jawed. “He called it. He called the Apocalypse.” Everybody knew when the bombs fell, when the missiles flew. Even now, seventy–five years later where there were no schools or lessons or teachers to teach them, people learned that the sky turned dark with ash and fire in 1998.

“And this is how it should be,” King says. “This is how it’s meant to be. The world is sick with sin, and the only cure is fire and blood. You know that I won’t let you be swept up in this plague of fire and ash. Some of you will be called up by the Rapture instead. God will call you home before the flames burn everything to the ground. But some of you, some of you will be left behind to finish God’s work. Not a punishment, but an honor. He will call upon you to bring fire and retribution to those who refuse to be saved. And I, your Shepherd, will show you the way.” King leans forward, spreading his hands. “But we’re going to have to prepare. Bunkers and food and weapons with which to do the Lord’s work, and as you know, those things take money—lots of money. Which is why I want you to call the number on your screen right now. The end times are coming, my children. And only your dollars can save those left behind.”

Samson and Cyrus stare at the screen, dumbfounded, as numbers flash by and the announcer shouts about credit cards and toll–free numbers. Samson had always heard crackpots going on about how God had made the Apocalypse happen, but he never paid attention to them. What did they know? How could they be any more privy to God’s plan than anybody else? After all, wouldn’t they be in the shit, too?

But this was different. This man had predicted the end years before it actually happened.

“Put in another tape,” Samson says, his voice quiet. “I wanna know more.”

They spend the next week watching the tapes. As the episodes go on, King gets more and more specific. Washington, D.C., would fall first, then Moscow, New York, Paris, Leningrad, London, Los Angeles, Miami, Detroit. Cities would topple like dominoes, their streets running red with blood. Riots and looting would destroy the world’s economy, and the righteous—those who have given themselves over to God’s plan—would prevail.

“These will be the people who take up arms as God’s soldiers,” King says,. “They will be the True Chosen who will carry the world back into the light of righteousness. People like you. The Unbelievers will mock you, they will call into question your resolve, but God’s light will show you the way. The bombs will fall and the bodies will stack up, but you will remain unscathed so long as you adhere to God’s plan.”

“I heard that’s exactly what happened,” Cyrus says.

“From who? Crackpot Billy down in Pershing Square?” Though Samson knows there’s a truth here, he’s still doubtful. But he doesn’t know if that’s the doubt of someone who knows better, or the doubt of one of King’s Unbelievers.

“The end is right around the corner, sinners,” King says. “Maybe as soon as tomorrow. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow morning to a world changed by fire and radiation.”

“You mocking me?” Cyrus says, a dangerous edge in his voice. Samson isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or to the television.

“Nah,” Samson says. “Just not sure is all. I mean, he says the whores are all gonna burn. You and me, we been to whores. You even got sweet on one of ’em once. Hollywood’s loaded with whores. And what about them druggies he always talks about? You and me, we done that horse pebbles shit. Everybody does.”

“Will you be worthy of God’s plans?” King says, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “Will you repent and be right with the Lord when the bombs fall tomorrow?”

“You sayin’ we’re not worthy?” Cyrus says.

“I dunno,” Samson says. He watches King as he rails against homosexuals, pounding his desk with a fist.

“Maybe we’re God’s Chosen,” Cyrus says. “Maybe we’re supposed to bring King’s words back to the world. That’s why we found this place. We’re here to spread the gospel. Remember when the power came on?”

Samson chuckles. “Yeah. You were scared.”

“Fuck you, I was not scared. Surprised, maybe. But you remember what you said? You said it was a miracle. I think you were onto something. This whole place is a miracle. God’s plan. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we found this place.”

Samson thinks hard. Did he say it was a miracle? He doesn’t remember. “So what? How does that mean we’re the Chosen Ones? Maybe we’re just here to give it to the Chosen Ones, let them spread the Word.”

“I know you got your doubts, Sammy,” Cyrus says. “But I think this is the real deal. I think this is why we’re here.”

“Put in another tape,” Samson says, as King fades away and the credits roll. He doesn’t want to keep talking about it. He knows Cyrus is right about one thing, at least: Samson does have doubts. Samson has always had doubts. He’s been looking for answers his whole life. And now that one might be staring him in the face, he can’t bring himself to believe in it.

“There isn’t another tape,” Cyrus says. “That was the last one.”

“Can’t be. How many we been through?” Samson counts back, he’s memorized every episode. Knows the answer before Cyrus says it.

“Couple hundred tapes, two, three shows on each. This is the last one. Did you hear what he said about the bombs? How they were gonna fall tomorrow? I think he was right about that. I think they fell the very next day and that’s why there’s no more tapes.”

Samson sits back, stunned. “You really think that?”