The Divine Radio (standard:humor, 1789 words)
Author: mr shaw	Added: Mar 12 2002	Views/Reads: 2985/2115	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
On a windswept hillside in Wales, a man unveils his remarkable invention.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Half the country wanted to believe, and did so straight away; the other
half were either disbelievers or agnostic about it. As usual, the 
Government could not decide which side they should butter their bread, 
and held an emergency session of Parliament. After much deliberating, 
the great and good of the mother parliament decided to invoke a long 
forgotten law concerning heresy, which they gerrymandered into allowing 
them to seek a demonstration of the machine. 

Mr Jones took legal advice on the matter, but was told he had no choice
to comply. (The fact that Mr Cecil Barnes-Williamson QC was a member of 
the Church of England Special Religious Advisory Committee and had 
chosen Law over the Clergy had somehow escaped Mr Jones.) 

Which leads us to this windswept hillside in Gwent. A balding, slightly
stooped gentleman whom I can hardly see, selected members of our press 
and other media, some law enforcement, representatives of all the 
Churches and Registered Religious bodies of our country, Ms Barker, a 
few MPs and me. 

The radio is set on a table, and Mr Jones is stood next to it. Flash
bulbs are popping irregularly, and the whirr of camera motors are  the 
only noises in the strange calm. I can see that Ann is stood next to 
him, and I get an occasional glimpse of her beatific smile. It's 
radiant, all her life she's waited for this justification. 

Mr Jones sits down, and reaches for a button... 

"Infidel" A lone voice shouts from my right, a hundred heads turn at
once. "This is an abomination. Don't you know you are being used by 
Satan for his own foul means. Stop this travesty now before we all 
suffer. Damn you to hell if you don't." 

The dissent is coming from a bearded man The crowd babbles as one, some
people shout their opinions. Just next to me, right in my ear, one man 
shouts, "Shut it moron. If Satan is using him, it just proves God 
exists." 

Neat argument, but keep it to yourself next time, and leave my eardrums
alone. A high-ranking police officer, neat and trim, moves along the 
line of people, gesturing them to sit. They do reluctantly, but it does 
the trick. Gradually the din rolls away, leaving that eerie silence 
once more. I can see Mr Jones now the placard bearer and his brethren 
have sat on the floor. Being at the back, I'm allowed to kneel, which I 
find strange, supplication not being something I'm used to. 

The radio is on now, and Mr Jones is pulling and twiddling. Ann sits
back on her chair, looking at the machine, enraptured by what she knows 
will happen. 

The zealot suddenly jumps up and rushes the table, heaving one MP out of
the way, and standing on the thigh of a well known Bishop. As he makes 
a grab for the radio, Ms Barker gets in his way. 

"Stop, now!" she says with some authority. "Allow this man to show what
miracle he has found. I assure you this is no ploy of the devil, nor is 
it a sideshow amusement, as some of you have intimated." 

The last comment is directed at the media, some of whom turn red at her
attentions. The zealot meanwhile stands in front of her, his momentum 
lost by this. He doesn't know what to do. Should he rush the table once 
more, but risk hurting her, or should he stand his ground and argue the 
point in front of all these people. He does neither, but stands rocking 
forward and backwards slightly, blinking, raising one arm and lowering 
it, as if to speak. 

"Hang on, hang on." Oh no, an MP is joining in now. It's Bernard
Middlewick MP, renowned for his straight talking and the pithiness of 
his weekly political column in a down-market newspaper. "Why do we have 
to go through with this at all? He's just a crackpot, and silly season 
in the media has blown this out of all proportion. Let him sit on his 
mountain and play with his gizmo. He's just like all these madmen, 
screwed wrongly in the head. Get to church you loon." 

The zealot takes exception to this, mainly as an excuse to solve his
dilemma about storming the podium and destroying the instrument of 
Lucifer. 

"What? Who are you to call us madmen? Haven't you just sent hundreds of
young men to die in the concrete dust of a destroyed city thousands of 
miles from here? Don't you allow old women to die in wheelchairs? 
Aren't you all riddled with sin, buggering small boys or being 
whipped..." 

Bang! The MP swings a beautiful right that cracks the zealot right in
the middle of his bushy beard. He falls backwards. This startles the 
crowd momentarily. Then at least ten people leap to their feet. One, a 
minor but well built cleric from Walsall, grabs Middlewick around his 
shoulders in a bear hug, trying to be a peacemaker. Unfortunately, a 
man dressed smartly in a gabardine mac takes this the wrong way and 
punches the surly MP on the nose. I could be wrong, but I'm sure the 
man in the mac was the author of a rival column in a red top tabloid. 

A melee ensues. A high ranking member of HM Government wades in to pull
the people apart, but is caught on the side of the head by swinging 
rosary beads intended for the Rabbi Moshe Berne. He staggers away, a 
small trickle of blood showing below his hair. This prompts his shadowy 
bodyguards to pull out their pistols and start to wave them about like 
seven year olds. 

This is enough, I think. Black clouds form above us, and a single crack
of lightening breaks through and hits the table. Shards of wood and 
plastic fly into the crowd. They stop and stare at the debris, unsure 
what to do next. The radio lies smouldering, electricity crackling 
quietly. 

I was wrong again wasn't I? This time I was sure you would listen. But I
suppose that's the trouble with giving people freewill - you lose some 
of your hard won omnipotence. Oh well, perhaps I'll stick to burning 
bushes or making statues weep from now on. 

The crowd are starting to argue again. I turn and walk away, unnoticed
as usual. 


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