Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

A cult might think to place guards, but that was only in the minority; most cults were disorganized and led by morons with more charm than brains.

This cult was obviously in the majority.

The ESU had set up with rapid precision, keeping the noise to an absolute minimum. They had checked the security guards that lay sprawled in their own blood, but they were long dead.

Now, twelve ESU officers stood in front of all three entrances to the theatre. Within the group of four by each door, two men held assault rifles, while the other two held a small but powerful battering ram. Their orders were relayed through earphones by the commanding officer who, outside, held a portable television.

With guns poised and battering rams ready, the officers inside the building waited for that one final order.

From behind the doors, the leader of the cult shouted: “It’s time for us to prove our worth to the Lord. Let’s burn this motherfucking theatre down!”

Immediately afterwards, the officers received the order.

Sam gazed out at the sea of terrified faces. His thoughts were on how masterful his plan was. On how brilliant he was.

He knew there would be mass hysteria when he first set fire to the theatre, but his people would be standing by the doors, firing bullets into anyone trying to escape. He felt no guilt about killing his followers, after all, they were nobodies, runaways with no ability to think for themselves.

Fucking morons , he thought. They’d believe I was black if I told them so .

But he did love the power. He was a god to these people. That aspect he would miss.

Never know, I could get another group together after I’m far away from here , he thought. Change my look, go to another country…

At once, all three sets of doors were smashed open and officers came barging into the theatre.

Sam watched, stunned, as a dozen or so armed police swarmed the room.

“Put the weapons down and place your hands on your heads!”

The audience screamed as Sam fell under the desk.

Watching from his impromptu cubby house, Sam saw that each officer had their rifle pointed at the cult members. Even the ones that had been carrying the battering rams were now armed with rifles.

“Put your weapons down now!” the heavily armed and protected officers screamed.

There was a moment of hesitation, as the members thought about which path to take.

But, just as Sam had preached to them time and again, the disciples of Uncle Sam’s family chose to go down fighting rather than be captured.

All armed members raised their guns. From around the theatre came the thunderous onslaught of gunfire.

The cult members guarding the entrances were pummeled with bullets.

By the end of the battle Sam’s entire cult had been shot. No officer was injured.

“Sam,” one of the officers called. “Come out with your hands on top of your head. If you come out firing, we will be forced to shoot. This is a warning. Come up slowly.”

With the faint cry of ambulances and the audience being led from the theatre, Sam stood up.

“Please, don’t shoot me. I, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t the leader, you see. They forced me to do this. I was a patsy.”

Sam continued to insist on his innocence as two officers handcuffed him and led him out of the theatre.

“Hey, what happened to Flag and Shorty and Bobby?” Sam asked as he was escorted outside.

“They’ve been taken care of,” one of the officers said.

“Good,” Sam said. “I hated those fuckers. Flag, he was the leader, you know. He was the one that set this whole thing up.”

Two men sat under the shady cover of an umbrella, sipping coffee amid the crowded café.

“Okay, Bill, what’s your full name?”

“William Anthony Crivelli. But I prefer Bill.”

“That’s Italian?” The man from the newspaper smiled.

“Yes. My family was originally from Venice.”

The man scribbled on his notepad. “You don’t mind, do you Bill?”

“Of course not. How else are you going to get the story?”

The man smiled and nodded. “Okay. What was your job at the Marty Laffin show?”

“I was the floor manager.”

“How long were you the floor manager?”

Bill inhaled and gnawed on his lower lip. “Geez. A long time. I joined not long after the show started. Took over after Carlo…Carlo, I don’t remember his last name, but anyway, that was, oh, about fifteen years ago.”

“You were good friends with Marty?”

“In a way. Very private man. Didn’t have too many close friends. So I guess you could say I was a friend. I had dinner at his house a couple of times.”

The two men chuckled.

“How are you coping after what happened? I mean, you sound like you’re coping all right, but it’s been, what, only a few days.”

Bill sipped his café latte and shrugged. “I have trouble sleeping; the occasional nightmare. All the usual things. But as you say, it’s only been a few days. My wife has been wonderful, so have the kids.”

“That’s great,” the reporter said. “Family is the best therapy. Now, what do you think when you hear or see the man, Sam Drayton?”

“Hatred.”

“You don’t feel, I don’t know, pity?”

“The man murdered over a hundred innocent people. He was a nobody, a loser who would do anything just to be noticed.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Is that why I think he did what he did? Yes. From what I’ve heard from the police, Sam Drayton was a bum. He didn’t work, he collected money from the government, while he preyed on gullible, destitute people. Kids, some of them.”

“He was an aspiring actor and comedian, did you know that?”

Bill nodded. He took another sip of coffee. “He got rejected from every audition he went for, apparently. Tried for years to become a successful actor or comedian. Never got anywhere. You ever see that movie, The King of Comedy ?”

The man from the newspaper nodded.

“I think he got pissed at the industry. Thought the whole world was against him.”

The reporter looked up. “You sound like a psychologist.”

Bill smiled. “That’s just my opinion.”

“You think he did all that for revenge?”

“Well, I think there’s a little more to it than…” Bill stopped when he noticed a man standing by the table. He had long hair and was incredibly thin.

“Can I help you?” Bill said.

The reporter turned around.

“Are you Bill Crivelli? The Bill Crivelli?”

“Yes,” Bill said.

“Wow. I can’t believe it’s really you. I saw you on T.V. man. I think you’re a hero.” The man held out a small book and a pen. “Co…could you maybe sign this for me?”

Bill nodded and took the notebook from the beaming man. “What’s your name?”

“Ray,” the man said proudly.

Bill wrote:

To Ray. If you believe in yourself you can overcome anything. I did.

He signed and dated the page. He handed the notebook back to Ray.

“Wow,” Ray muttered as he read the inscription. “Thank you so much Mr. Crivelli.”

“Nice to have met you,” Bill said.

As Ray shuffled from the table, the man from the newspaper smiled at Bill.

“Do you get that a lot now?”

“Sure,” Bill said. “I get stopped all the time by people who can’t believe it’s actually me. I’ve signed so many autographs these last few days. It’s strange. I mean, who am I? Last week I was just a floor manger on the Marty Laffin Show. Now, I’m recognised everywhere I go.”

“Do you mind?”

“I like it,” Bill said. “I always wanted to be famous. Just yesterday, I got offered a guest role in a hit T.V. show.” He grinned. “Due to legal matters I can’t name the show yet.”