Stephen King - Needful Things

“Would it appall you if I said I wanted you to blow this shitty little burg right off the face of the map while you wait for the Sheriff to come back?”

“I… I don’t know what that word means,” Ace said nervously.

“I’m not surprised. But I think you understand what I mean, Ace.

Don’t you?”

Ace thought back. He thought back all the way to a time, many years ago, when four snotnosed kids had cheated him and his friends (Ace had had friends back in those days, or at least a reasonable approximation thereof) out of something Ace had wanted. They had caught one of the snotnoses-Gordie LaChance-later on and had beaten the living shit out of him, but it hadn’t mattered. These days LaChance was a bigshot writer living in another part of the state, and he probably wiped his ass with ten-dollar bills. Somehow the snotnoses had won, and things had never been the same for Ace after that. That was when his luck had turned bad. Doors that had been open to him had begun to close, one by one. Little by little he had begun to realize that he was not a king and Castle Rock was not his kingdom. If that had ever been true, those days had begun to pass that Labor Day weekend when he was sixteen, when the snots had cheated him and his friends out of what was rightfully theirs. By the time Ace was old enough to drink legally in The Mellow Tiger, he had gone from being a king to being a soldier without a uniform, skulking through enemy territory.

“I hate this fucking toilet,” he said to Leland Gaunt.

“Good,” Mr. Gaunt said. “Very good. I have a friend-he’s parked just up the street-who is going to help you do something about that, Ace. You’ll have the Sheriff… and you’ll have the whole town, too. Does that sound good?” He had captured Ace’s eyes with his own.

Ace stood before him in the tattered rags of his tee-shirt and began to grin. His head no longer ached.

“Yeah,” he said. “It sounds absolutely t-fine.”

Mr. Gaunt reached into his coat pocket and brought out a plastic sandwich bag filled with white powder. He held it out to Ace.

“There’s work to do, Ace,” he said.

Ace took the sandwich bag, but it was still Mr. Gaunt’s eyes he looked at, and into.

“Good,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Buster watched as the last man he had seen enter the service alley came back out again. The guy’s tee-shirt hung in ragged strips now, and he was carrying a crate. Tucked into the waistband of his bluejeans were the butts of two automatic pistols.

Buster drew back in sudden alarm as the man, whom he now recognized as John “Ace” Merrill, walked directly to the van and set the crate down.

Ace tapped on the glass. “Open up the back, Daddy-O,” he said.

“We got work to do.”

Buster unrolled his window. “Get out of here,” he said. “Get out, you ruffian! Or I’ll call the police!”

“Good fucking luck,” Ace grunted.

He drew one of the pistols from the waistband of his pants.

Buster stiffened, and then Ace thrust it through the window at him, butt first. Buster blinked at it.

“Take it,” Ace said impatiently, “and then open the back. If you don’t know who sent me, you’re even dumber than you look.” He reached out with his other hand and felt the wig. “Love your hair,” he said with a small smile. “Simply marvelous.”

“Stop that,” Buster said, but the anger and outrage had gone out of his voice. Three good men can do a lot of damage, Mr. Gaunt had said. I will send someone to you.

But Ace? Ace Merrill? He was a criminal!

“Look,” Ace said, “if you want to discuss the arrangements with Mr. Gaunt, I think he might still be in there. But as you can see"he fluttered his hands through the long strips of tee-shirt hanging over his chest and belly-"his mood is a little touchy.”

“You’re supposed to help me get rid of Them?” Buster asked.

“That’s right,” Ace said. “We’re gonna turn this whole town into a Flame-Broiled Whopper.” He picked up the crate. “Although I don’t know how we’re supposed to do any real damage with just a box of blasting caps. He said you’d know the answer to that one.”

Buster had begun to grin. He got up, crawled into the back of the van, and slid the door open on its track. “I believe I do,” he said.

“Climb in, Mr. Merrill. We’ve got an errand to run.”

“Where?”

“The town motor pool, to start with,” Buster said. He was still grinning.

The Rev. William Rose, who had first stepped into the pulpit of The United Baptist Church of Castle Rock in May of 1983, was a bigot of the first water; no question about it. Unfortunately, he was also energetic, sometimes witty in a n odd, cruel way, and extremely popular with his congregation. His first sermon as leader of the Baptist flock had been a sign of things to come. It was called “Why the Catholics are Hellbound.” He had kept up in this vein, which was extremely popular with his congregation, ever since. The Catholics, he informed them, were blasphemous, misguided creatures who worshipped not Jesus but the woman who had been chosen to bear Him. Was it any wonder they were so prone to error on other subjects as well?

He explained to his flock that the Catholics had perfected the science of torture during the Inquisition; that the Inquisitors had burned the true faithful at what he called The Smoking-uh Stake right up until the end of the nineteenth century, when heroic Protestants (Baptists, mostly) had made them stop; that forty different Popes through history had known their own mothers and sisters, and even their illegitimate daughters, in-uh unholy sexual congressuh; that the Vatican was built on the gold of Protestant martyrs and plundered nations.

This sort of ignorant twaddle was hardly news to the Catholic Church, which had had to put up with similar heresies for hundreds of years. Many priests would have taken it in stride, perhaps even making gentle fun of it. Father John Brigham, however, was not the sort to take things in his stride. Quite the contrary. A badtempered, bandy-legged Irishman, Brigham was one of those humorless men who cannot suffer fools, especially strutting fools of Rev. Rose’s stripe.

He had borne Rose’s strident Catholic-baiting in silence for almost a year before finally cutting loose from his own pulpit. His homily, which pulled no punches at all, was called “The Sins of Reverend Willie.” In it he characterized the Baptist minister as “a psalm-singin ’ackass of a man who thinks Billy Graham walks on water and Billy Sunday sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty.”

Later that Sunday, Rev. Rose and four of his largest deacons had paid a visit on Father Brigham. They were shocked and angered, they said, by the slanderous things Father Brigham had said.

“You’ve got your nerve tellin me to tone down,” Father Brigham said, “after a hard mornin of tellin the faithful that I serve the Whore of Babylon.”

Color rose quickly in Rev. Rose’s normally pale cheeks and overspread his mostly bald pate. He had never said anything about the Whore of Babylon, he told Father Brigham, although he had mentioned the Whore of Rome several times, and if the shoe fit, why, Father Brigham had)just better slip his heel in and wear it.

Father Brigham had stepped out of the rectory’s front door with his fists bunched. “If you want to discuss this on the front walk, my friend,” he said, “Just ask your little Gestapo unit there to stand aside and we’ll discuss it all you want.”

Rev. Rose, who was three inches taller than Father Brighambut perhaps twenty pounds lighter-stepped back with a sneer. “I would not soil-uh my hands,” he said.