by Robert G. Archer
If I hadn’t come down with the flu I would have never found out I was the Antichrist.
But off to the free clinic I’d gone, with my diarrhea and puking and fever, seeking out the cheapest medical help I could find, due to being in between radio DJ jobs – a rather frequent occurrence.
The bored, overworked doctor apparently found something in the lab work, saw something on my scalp, and immediately sent me to the hospital where more tests were run, and then strange, unidentified but obviously important government officials had come to collect me.
I was whisked away to some secret government installation that seemed to be populated by as many priests as doctors and other important-looking business-suited individuals. And then finally I was given the news.
“We’ve done every possible test, examined every possible angle,” one of them said, sitting in the middle of a long table with a lot of people all staring at me, like I was a witness at a congressional hearing. “We’ve examined your family history and the biblical prophecies. We’ve run medical experiments. We have discovered that you have the Mark of the Beast — the telltale sign foretold long ago. We have no choice but to conclude that you are, in fact, the Antichrist, the Beast, the Son of Satan himself.”
I was never one for Bible stuff, but I knew enough to know this wasn’t good news, and worse, I’d have huge hospital bills from all the testing they’d done. What I knew of the Antichrist was that while he was destined to rule the world, he was also destined to be defeated, and not nicely either – God himself would come to roast me alive.
I didn’t want to be the Antichrist. All I wanted to do was find another radio gig so I could get my cable turned back on. Now I had to go raise an army of demons and take over the world or something. It just sounded like much more than I was qualified to do.
I had been under the impression that being identified as the Antichrist would mark me for institutionalization or maybe even death, as people were surely aware the Antichrist was evil – an enemy of God – and they’d count themselves lucky to have found me and be able to stop me.
But it wasn’t like that at all. It seemed as if they were happy, as if their long-simmering plans were finally coming to fruition. That’s when I realized these people had been working for, you know, the other side all along.
From then on I was surrounded by an entourage of complete strangers whose only purpose was to serve my every whim. Every whim except let someone else be the Antichrist. I offered the job to one of them and he turned white as a sheet.
About that time I met Mr. Fanroy, who seemed to be their leader. He was always inquiring after my state of mind – and refusing to let me leave.
He made sure I had lots of reading material, stuff like Nietzsche, the Satanic Bible, and more than a few self-improvement books. They made me watch lots of movies and TV too: Michael Bay films, Pat Robertson, VH1 Classic and so on. They loved practically everything on the Hallmark Channel for some reason.
This went on for about six years. Six freaking years. Finally, I called Fanroy and demanded to talk with the theologians, doctors, whoever they were. I wanted to talk some sense into them, convince them they were wrong about me, that they’d made a mistake and couldn’t they please get someone else to be the Antichrist, someone more fitted to the role, someone like Jack Nicholson. He would make a perfect Antichrist.
“I’m afraid it won’t be possible to speak to them,” he told me.
“And why not?” I asked.
He laughed a little and said, “Well, for one thing, they’re all dead, except for the media consultants. We still need them. But the rest were a nasty bunch. They were helpful in finding you, but couldn’t be counted on to toe the party line.”
“You mean, you killed them?”
He laughed louder. “Oh no, they all died naturally, of course. But don’t be impatient, because everything’s almost ready.”
And then one night they handed me a script, hustled me off to a makeup chair, dressed me in the most expensive suit I’d ever seen in my life. I was told that it was finally time to go on radio, TV and streaming to announce the launch of my political campaign which, they assured me, I would win because that’s what the prophesies foretold. “The presidency is only the first step,” they said.
“What the hell do I say? I’ve never been a dictator before.”
“We’re not paying you to think, just to read your script,” Mr. Fanroy said.
I mouthed words about how I was giving up my important work in radio to help humanity learn to work together, to solve all our petty problems and to unite everyone on earth. I flubbed the hell out of my lines, probably one of the reasons I was out of work so much, but they insisted that they had a crack team of editors who would make me sound perfect.
That was about the time I figured out the Fanroy wasn’t quite human, and most of his close associates were, as they used to say in the old horror-movie business, demons. Of the fallen angel sort.
After that I spent most of my time in a big conference room, surrounded as always by Fanroy and his demonic hangers-on. Usually they read reports to each other about stuff I couldn’t begin to fathom – fear-based psychopolitics, corporate socioeconomic demographics and TV ratings methodology. Frankly, I had a hard time just keeping up… or staying awake.
So one day, it came to a head. I finally said, “I’m out. I quit. As a radio DJ, I’m not used to quitting, but this time I’m doing it. I never wanted this in the first place. I’m not going to do another goddamn thing and there’s nothing you can do about it. No more speeches, no more meetings, no more nothing.”
There was pandemonium. There was nothing in the prophecies about the Beast quitting. Fanroy was quite beside himself. “This will not do!” he shrieked.
All of a sudden there was a great blinding flash of light. When the smoke cleared, I saw that everyone except Fanroy had fled the room.
Only there was somebody new in there with us.
“Mr. Fanroy, old friend!” the new arrival said. He was eight feet tall with horns coming out of his forehead and a pointy tail coming out of his ass. He was impeccably dressed and had a container of Vicks in his right hand.
His face was the oddest thing. As he would turn, the light would catch his head from a different angle, and when it did, the face would change. Turned this way, he looked like Bill O’Reilly. Turned that way, he looked like Bill Clinton. Turned again this way, it was Bill Shatner.
It was only much later I realized the pattern.
“You seem to be having some trouble here,” he said in a remarkably good-natured voice, full of mirth and merriment.
“No, no, everything’s fine, fine,” Mr. Fanroy stammered.
I interrupted. “Excuse me, but who the hell are you?”
“Oh I like that, ‘who the hell,’ hee hee hee,” he said. “Pleased to meet me, hope you guess my name.” Satan, a.k.a. the Devil, the Foul One, the Damned of the Damned, smiled with every word, and he was so full of laughter and good cheer I had to wonder at his bad reputation. He turned back to Mr. Fanroy, who was now visibly shaking. “So, Fanroy my boy, you found the Antichrist, put him in power and accomplished everything I set out for you to do?”
Fanroy was sweating. “Um, almost everything…”
“Yes, you do seem to be having some difficulty here. I feel your pain. Our Beast seems hesitant to cooperate, doesn’t he? Which is odd because we all know that he’s supposed to be all too happy to help us in our cause, yes? He’s supposed to be just like me, yes? So if we’re having some trouble, whose fault do you think that is, hmm?”
“I, I don’t know…” Fanroy said, looking as if he’d shrink into the floor if he could.
The Devil’s face smiled so broadly the teeth went practically behind his neck. “I mean, you were responsible for finding him, yes?”
Fanroy could see where this was going and it was not a pleasant realization at all. “But… He’s got the Mark on his scalp and everything!”
“Oh, the Mark on the scalp,” he said, still all mirth and merriment, smacking himself in the head like he’d forgotten something. “Three sixes, yes? That would settle it, eh? Well let’s have a look!” He pointed a finger at me and all my hair fell out. As each strand of hair took a dive off my skull, they tickled. “Take a look again,” he said as all the joviality left his voice.
Fanroy could barely lift his head, but he did. “Yes, right there, 666!” he said, like a whiny child who thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might get away with it.
And then Satan exploded. He became taller somehow, and his face began to melt from what at first looked human into a grotesquerie of a monster parade. All the gaiety was gone, and he shouted, “That’s not three sixes! IT’S… THREE… NINES!”
Before Fanroy could say another word, he was enveloped in flames, and I heard the Devil laughing maniacally although I could no longer see him in all the smoke. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself…” I heard him saying. And then he said to me, “By the way, you’re fired.”
Then everything went black and I was suddenly in a deep, dark hole, feeling as if I no longer existed in the world of reality at all.
****** ****** ******
Next thing I knew, I was back where I started. Back in my old apartment and still unemployed. The cable wasn’t working and my headphones were busted. It was like it had all been a bad dream. It was like none of it had ever happened.
It had all been a bad dream. That’s what it was. A feverish dream caused by the flu.
There was nothing else for me to do but to hit the streets and look for a job. I was determined to do anything but work in radio again.
So I applied for a sales job at one of those big box electronics stores. As I was leaving the interview, I noticed a lot of people gathered over by the curved Super-HD displays, so I went over to see what everybody was watching.
A guy in a nice business suit was speaking at what appeared to be a political campaign launch event. He had the weirdest face that looked like Bill O’Reilly, Bill Clinton and Bill Shatner all at the same time. Behind him, a mysterious man was standing in the shadows. “Ladies and gentlemen, there is only one person that can save us from our time of troubles. He is a man who is a voice to his generation. He is a man you can believe in, have faith in, and put your trust in. A man everyone can love. A man who does not offend anyone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next president of the United States!”
Then the mystery man walked up to the podium.
He looked remarkably like Ryan Seacrest, he had an accent so Midwestern it was unearthly, and he said was giving up his work in the media to do something worthwhile for humanity, something that would matter, something that would be important. He was going to help us all to put our silly differences aside and work together in peace and brotherhood, not just here in America but all over the world, and in all major and medium-sized markets.
And everyone cheered.
****** ****** ******
And because evil never sleeps, I gave up on retail and went back into radio. I got the hell out of Los Angeles and found a small station in an unrated market that played soft, easy favorites twenty-four hours a day. I slept through all my shifts and waited for Ryan Seacrest to take over the world.
Robert G. Archer, Miami 1997 & Los Angeles 2006 & 2014