One of Peter's few joys was the
television in his single bed "apartment". Only the most politically
correct of terms in this not prison for those deemed mentally unfit by the
beautiful people of normal society. Peter thought the term crazy as a
shit-house rat needed to come back into style. He had never been politically
correct, by any stretch of the imagination. Probably why he was going to
survive while most of the planet burned.
That was not something Nicole or her now
defunct husband told him. No, this information came from a different source.
Saturday mornings he sat down to the different religious programming on his
television, which sat unused for most of the week. Saturday's were reserved for
getting right with God though. The rest of the week, Peter spread His word.
Even a dutiful servant needed his faith replenished on occasion though.
It was a Saturday, much like this one,
when one of the televised prophets first spoke to Peter. Telling him that he
would survive this coming storm if only his faith was strong enough. Since then
the preachers looked directly at him and imparted personal messages more and
more often. Even that couldn't keep him tuned in though.
The Word was too big for one man to
spread. Unless that man was Peter. He did not know if it was the medication
they insisted he take, the power of the message, or just the onset of adult
ADD, but the talking heads would speak, in cryptic messages, of the prophecy
for a moment and then move on to the boring pleas for money. When that
happened, Peter changed the channel.
He sat, waiting for his pizza. On
Saturdays the orderlies (guards, his mind insisted) allowed him to eat in his
room. He always asked for pizza, and they always brought him the shoe shaped
instant variety that chewed like leather and tasted like old shoes.
He reached down and took a sip of the
soda on the table in front of him, as he changed the channel again. His didn't
remember obtaining it, normally cans were forbidden. He also wasn't a fan of
cherry-lemon-lime. It wasn't in a box though, and beggars couldn't be choosers.
He was setting the can back down when the knock came at the door.
Peter kept himself from singing,
"Pizza, pizza, pizza" as he rushed to the door. He flung it open with
a smile. Then he croaked instead of speaking.
Nicole stood on the other side, smiling
and holding his street clothes. He was sure she must be a delusion. Then the
smell of her perfume hit him, and her voice a moment later. She held the
clothes out to him.
"Special dispensation to let you
live with the daughter of a holy man. I need your help, so it's time to go
home. Your ministry work will continue when you attend group sessions."
Peter croaked again. He wanted to dance
but a little, happy hop was all he could manage. A few minutes, a change of
clothes, and an electronic ankle-bracelet later and he was on his way back into
the war.
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