truth. Why, most Americans don't even know that the pope in Rome has given instructions to the Irish and the Jews and the Mexicans and all the rest of them, ordering them to breed hard and fast. Multiply! And do you wonder if they're out there multiplying? They're multiplying. Pretty soon they'll outnumber us, and they'll vote one of their own kind to become president of these United States! Think of that! White Protestant Americans will find themselves in the minority because we're being outfucked!'
Bobby-My-Boy and Tiny exchanged appreciative nudges. They loved it when Lieder was in a preaching frenzy like this, the words just gushing from him like music.
B. J. Stone controlled his impulse to walk away from this rancorous blend of hatred and ignorance, but it was his task to hold Lieder's attention while Coots got into town, so he continued to argue, 'But everyone in America is an immigrant, even the Indians, if you go back far enough.'
'Oh, that old song! 'We're all immigrants! We're all immigrants!' That's what The Conspiracy wants us to believe, but it ain't true. Our forefathers were colonists, not immigrants! And there's a world of difference between a colonist and an immigrant. The Warrior explains how colonists came to clear the forests and seed the wide prairies. They mingled their blood and sweat with the rich earth to create the greatest nation on earth. But the immigrants? They come to reap what we have planted. To prey on hard-working men! To steal our jobs by working for nigger wages. To drive us out of business by conniving amongst themselves and underbidding us. They attach themselves like leeches to the breast of our country and suck all the goodness out of her. The Warrior gives the example of the Jews. You listen up, boy,' he said, glancing sharply at Matthew, who was making himself small beside the kitchen door. 'You listen up, because you got to know about these things if you're going to be my apostle. ' He turned back to B. J. 'Tell me something, schoolmaster. How many Jew farmers have you met? How many Jew miners? Or Jew fishermen? Or Jew lumberjacks? None, that's how many! And why? Because miners and farmers and fishermen and lumberjacks, they create the wealth of the nation. But the Jews are here to feed on that wealth! Now I have to admit that before reading The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth I had lived man and boy without ever noticing that simple fact.'
'Simple?' B. J. said. 'Simple-minded, you mean. All this 'international conspiracy' is nonsense! It's a fiction created by the envious and the lazy to justify their failures. It would be laughable if it weren't so pitiably ignorant. And dangerous.'
'You better believe it's dangerous!' Lieder snarled, rising to stand face to face with B. J. 'Dangerous to all enemies of my country!' He drew back his fist, and B. J. raised his elbow to protect himself.
Lieder laughed. 'Still all mouth and no balls, eh? But we know that, don't we? Otherwise, you would have shot me when you had the chance. ' He winked at Matthew and sat down again, chuckling. 'Actually, you couldn't have shot me, no matter how hard you'd tried. And you know why? Because I can't be killed. Not until I've accomplished my mission. The Warrior prophesied that a leader would rise and free the common people from the threat of the foreigners and the oppression of the government Washington D. C. And as I read those words I suddenly… knew that I was that leader! Suddenly I saw everything. I looked about me and I could see what was right and what was wrong, what was true and what was false. All was revealed to me. Everything was illuminated.'
'By that blue light in your head?'
Lieder's mouth closed and his lips compressed. He stared at B. J. for a long moment before saying very slowly, very clearly, 'You really shouldn't take that tone with me, schoolmaster, because there is nothing-nothing! — on God's green earth more dangerous than ridiculing me.'
B. J. unflinchingly held Lieder's eyes with his own, although his mouth was dry with fear.
'Oh, I know what you're saying inside your head, schoolteacher! You're saying, this man is insane.' He sniffed. 'The Warrior warned us that the unenlightened and the cowardly would call us patriots insane. All right, maybe I am a little bit insane. I'm what they call an enthusiast! Do you know what that word really means, schoolteacher? Ever look it up in the dictionary? An enthusiast is somebody who has God inside him.'
'And you think God's inside you?'
'Well, there's sure as hell something inside me, old man. Something gnawing at my guts!' His eyes flicked from B. J. to Matthew and back again. He smiled. 'Maybe it's just something spicy I ate.' He winked at Matthew. 'You think maybe that's it, boy?' He laughed. 'Come on! Can't anyone take a joke?'
B. J. turned away, and noticed for the first time how stiffly Mr. Delanny was sitting at his cards. He had been so intent on distracting Lieder's attention that he had no more than glanced at the other people in the room. 'You all right, Mr. Delanny?' he asked. The gambler didn't speak. 'Mr. Delanny?' Still the gambler didn't answer. 'What's going on here?'
'Now, now, schoolteacher,' Lieder said, wagging his finger in warning, 'you mustn't tempt our pimp to talk. I've ordered him to keep quiet, and if he disobeys me, I'll have to punish him. And it'll be all your fault. Remember those poor mules? That was your fault, too.'
B. J. crossed to Mr. Delanny, who turned his head aside to hide the blood-froth on his lips. He looked down at the rope that bound Delanny's arms to the chair so tightly that his fingers were plump and the skin taut and shiny. 'His circulation's been cut off. He could get gangrene.'
'Gangrene, eh?' Lieder asked in a tone ripe with concern.
'I'm going to untie him.'
'Whoa, there, schoolteacher, not so fast! Maybe Mr. Tone-of-Voice doesn't want to be set free, because he knows that if he stirs from that chair, I am going to hurt him bad. Now, you can free him if you're willing to take the consequences. But maybe you better ask Mr. Delanny. He isn't permitted to talk to you, but he can nod his head. Go on. Ask him.'
Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy glanced from Lieder to B. J. Stone to Mr. Delanny, mischievous anticipation in their eyes.
B. J. lifted his eyebrows at Mr. Delanny. The gambler's eyes flickered, then he closed them and lowered his head.
'There, you see?' Lieder said. 'Mr. Delanny doesn't want to be free. Freedom imposes certain responsibilities and risks, as The Warrior tells us. Maybe those ropes pain Mr. Delanny and corrupt his flesh, but at least he's alive. Most men will suffer any amount of humiliation just to keep on breathing. Oh, not superior, book-reading men like you and me. We'd rather die than be degraded and humiliated. But pimps and other sorts of bottom-feeders, they cling to life for all they're worth… however little that might be. I can see in your eyes you don't believe me. You think Man is a noble creature, occasionally brought low by misfortune. But the fact is, Man is essentially evil, sniveling, whining, cringing, disgusting, and unworthy of the good Lord's mercy… nor mine either, for that matter.' Lieder rose from his chair with sudden energy. 'You know what? I think it's time the teacher was taught a lesson, for a change. I'm going to show you what a disgusting, cringing thing a man can be. You watch this too, boy. It's your first lesson as my apostle. Listen up, Delanny! I am giving you permission to speak. In fact, I am commanding you to answer the question I'm going to put to you. Watch carefully, schoolteacher. Tiny, take out your gun and put the barrel into Mr. Delanny's ear. Now cock it. Oh, now don't you worry about the noise, Mr. Delanny. You won't hear a thing. The bullet will get to your brain before the sound does. Now! We're going to play a little game. Here's how it goes. You have two choices, Mr. Delanny. If you want to… and only if you really and truly want to… you can ask Bobby-My-Boy to punch you in the face as hard as he can. Chances are he'll break that fine-boned nose of yours, but every game has its penalties and forfeits. Your other choice is this. You can manfully refuse to ask Bobby-My-Boy to punch you as hard as he can. If you do that, then Tiny will shoot you in one ear and out the other. It's your choice. But there's one thing I'd better make very, very clear. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I wouldn't go through with this. I've told the schoolteacher that I'm going to teach him a lesson, and you know I'm not going to accept the humiliation of backing down. All righty, everybody! Lesson time! I'm going to count to twenty inside my head, Mr. Delanny. And when I get to twenty. I'm going to nod, and Tiny will pull the trigger, and you will be instantly dispatched to the great whorehouse up yonder- but… but… you'll have the consolation of knowing that you've proved me wrong and proved that mankind is basically dignified and noble. On the other hand, if you can say 'Mr. Bobby-My-Boy, please hit me in the face as hard as you can.' And if you say those exact words- loud enough for me to hear them over here! — then Bobby-My-Boy will do what you ask, and I'll stop my count, and the lesson will be taught and learned. Is that all clear, Mr. Delanny? Say yes or no.'
Mr. Delanny's voice was hoarse from lack of use for he hadn't uttered a word since he was ordered not to. He made a thin, clogged sound.
'Speak up! Do you understand or don't you?'
'… Yes…'
