20.

Legion

Wednesday, March 20 - 8:00p.m.

When Mike took the stage for the band’s normal Wednesday night performance, he noticed more sick people in the crowd than the last gig, and that made him nervous. They weren’t here to listen to his singing. They wanted miracles. They had expectations: they wanted him to jump through their hoops, to heal them, to be someone he was not.

He gritted his teeth. He knew about expectations. It was just like his days in highschool, when his mother expected him to get A’s in all his classes. He remembered one time when she once threw a report card at him and said, “I know you can do better than that. If you’d just focus on your homework instead of listening to that . . . ” There had been an uncomfortable pause in which he heard Megadeth–whose CDs always listed God first in their acknowledgments–playing in his room. Then she’d said, “. . . noise.”

She’d gone on, “If your father was still alive he’d . . . ,” but after that, he had tuned her out. It seemed to him that his parents hadn’t cared about him as a person. They hadn’t loved him like they should have. They only cared about his goddam grades. He had wanted to scream back at her then, “Leave me the fuck alone. School is a waste of time. In the grand scheme of life, who cares if Kennedy was shot in 1963 or 1964?” Good thing he’d kept his mouth shut, he thought. Good thing he didn’t have to put up with that crap anymore. But the crowd he now faced had expectations of him, just like his mother.

It was Jennifer’s fault and he felt a flash of anger at her. She had written another newspaper article that focused mainly on Sarah’s recovery from leukemia. She had called it “Mike Tomson, Rogue Messiah.” He didn’t like the word she had chosen: messiah. Not only was it shameless sensationalism–and Jennifer should have known better–but it was also nonsense. Sure, he had been Jesus Christ in his past life, and Joe had opened up all the memories from that life, but as much as Jesus had been a zealot, a fanatic, and a rogue crusader in that life, he wasn’t Jesus anymore. He was no more than a rock and roll singer in this one, certainly nobody’s messiah. He had chided her for the article, but quickly let it go too, focusing instead on the memory of her soft lips pressed against his. At least Jennifer’s articles were drawing more attention to the band, he thought, and that means I get to keep eating, this week at least.

She had talked him into doing another healing after the show. He had decided he would do another healing after the show, but the crowd would just have to wait until it ended. He wondered how he should approach the whole thing. At the last gig, Sarah’s mother had approached him and he acted spontaneously. Now, he thought, he should offer some kind of preamble, an introductory speech that would clear the air and set the record straight.

Throughout the show, he thought about what he was going to tell the crowd. But how do you tell an audience that you’re the reincarnation of Jesus Christ? Are you supposed to do it with a straight face? Do you look to your right and your left for the men in the white coats first? It was going to be tough. He wished he had more confidence. He wished he had better people skills. Meanwhile, he immersed himself in the part he had to play: Rock Star.

Wednesday, March 20 - 11:00p.m.

The show ended and the band went offstage. Jennifer was waiting for him. “Well?” she said.

He looked at her and slumped his head. “I’ve decided not to do a healing, Jen. I’m exhausted.”

She saw he was drenched in sweat but knew that wasn’t his problem. “What are you afraid of, Mike? Afraid of judgment? Afraid of embarrassment? Afraid of not being able to perform? What is it?”

The word “afraid” bit into him like a nail, each time she said it. He had wanted to scream at his mother, all right, and now he wanted to scream at Jennifer. Instead, in a resigned voice he said, “I don’t need this, Jen.”

She didn’t back down. “I faced my demon, Mike. Go face yours.”

He didn’t argue. With Jennifer prodding him, he nervously walked back on stage. When the audience saw him, they cheered wildly, still hyped up on rock and roll. The crowd had thinned a bit, but not by much. Now that the house lights were on, he could see that there were people of all ages and all kinds. He shyly picked the microphone up out of its stand and switched it on. He was no longer wearing the mask of Rock Star and felt vulnerable. He blew into it a couple times and the audience hushed. Jennifer stood by the side of the stage, videotaping him with a small camcorder. He cast a glance toward her, looking for reassurance. She gave him a thumbs up and went back to videotaping.

“Hi. My name is Mike Tomson. Maybe some of you were here at last Sunday’s gig. After the show, a little girl named Sarah came to me with leukemia. Her mom asked me to try to heal her. I don’t exactly know how it happened. I prayed for God to heal her and somehow it worked. You may have read about it in the newspaper.” He paused and the audience was a mixture of hushed whispers and hands raised in approval. “I’m here to tell you that I’m not anybody’s messiah,” He shot a dirty look at Jennifer then turned back to the crowd, “I’m just an ordinary guy.”

The crowd started making lots of noise, talking amongst themselves. “However.” The crowd was too noisy to hear him, but when they calmed down, he began again. “However, the newspaper got one thing right. I do have a past-life connection with Jesus Christ.” He tried to say that with as much self-confidence as he could muster. The crowd cheered and that gave him more confidence. “In fact, I remember my past life as Jesus and I hope some day to set the record straight about that life.” After some more noisy talking, the crowd became quiet and Mike continued. “Now, I can’t promise you anything about being healed tonight because I believe there’s a reason for every affliction. But there are also good reasons to be healed too.” They clapped their approval. He gave them a warm smile, a young smile. The smile of a rogue messiah. “God’s will be done.” This sent the audience into a loud cheer.

He went to the edge of the stage, sat down and lowered himself to the ground level. He walked through the crowd. Mostly, he took their hands in his and said, “Peace be with you.”

Toward the back of the crowd, he spotted a man with black hair and haggard face pushing a wheelchair. The rest of the crowd had been smiling, exhilarated from the show, but the haggard man wasn’t and his heart went out to him. He pushed his way through the crowd to where the man was standing. In the wheelchair was a teenage boy who seemed to be asleep. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in months. He said, “Mr. Tomson? I was wondering if you could help my boy Zak.”

Mike could feel a gnawing emotional pain inside the man and was flooded with pity. “I can’t make any promises, but I’m willing to try.”

As Mike bent over to look at the boy, he noticed that the boy wasn’t just sitting in the wheelchair. He was strapped in. His legs and wrists were tied firmly to the chair with strapping tape and his head hung to one side as if drugged. Mike asked, “What’s wrong with him?”

“The doctors think he’s psychotic . . . but this is not my boy. This is not Zak . . . ” He paused, then blurted out, “I believe he is possessed.”

Mike came closer to get a better look at the boy. Suddenly, the boy’s head jerked upright and he flashed savage yellow teeth at him. The pupils of his eyes seemed to turn red, turned up at him in an insane look of violence and he made a growling sound. The shock sent Mike reeling back.

The boy looked about thirteen years old–too young for his voice to have lowered–yet when he spoke, it was a deep, guttural growl, more like Lemmy Kilmister from the group Motorhead. For a brief flash, he remembered Lemmy’s voice from a song called “Bad Religion.” Thou who wouldst make us devils, thou shalt not poison me. The world hath been persuaded to believe thy heresy. I spit in the eye of Satan, and I will spit in thine. The devils that surround thee, are only in thy mind.

The boy said, “So. We meet again, Nazarene. But this time, I am two thousand years stronger. You. . . ” He laughed. “You are two thousand years weaker and more pathetic. What happened to the Christ who believed in himself and his cause? Now you’ve become politically correct and filled with self-doubt. What’s this world coming to?” His lower jaw stuck out with each inflection. With flashing teeth and hollow yellow eyes, the boy growled, “Remember me?”

He did. “Legion.”

The boy’s face twisted and contorted as he spoke. “Correct, and I know all your secrets. Do you want to know why your father killed himself? Because you drove him to it. It was your fault. And do you know why you don’t have a girlfriend? Because you’re loathsome. You don’t deserve their love. Do you want to know why your rock and roll career hasn’t gone anywhere? Because your message isn’t worth listening to and people don’t care anymore.”

He was trying to pull all of Mike’s heart strings, trying to drive him into despair, but Mike could see right through it. For now, he would ignore the words, regardless of whether or not they were true.

The boy continued. “Answer one question for me, Nazarene. Where was your pathetic God when he left you to die like a dog on the cross? Or was he just powerless to save you?”

Again, Mike saw what the demon was up to, and ignored him.

The boy cackled at him. “I know another secret, Nazarene. About the gate, the gate of mercy. I know how it spells your doom. Aren’t you curious? Do you want to know the secret? The secret is: you’re not the messiah. The gate’s stone blocks are solid to you. It has no mercy. Its secret is your own painful death and when you die, your pathetic little message will be lost in obscurity like it should have been two thousand years ago.” The boy started laughing hysterically.

Mike was confused. What gate?

The boy continued, “I’ve got a better idea, Nazarene. How about this time, I cast you into a pig’s body and drive you over a cliff?” He cackled again.

Mike wasn’t intimidated. Jennifer had told him about the demon who had tried to control her during her out-of-body experience, and he knew better. A calm self-confidence took hold of him, as if all the distractions of his lifetime faded away. He knew his power. He knew how to deal with this abomination. He leaned forward and smiled at the boy. “I know your secret too, Legion.” He knew the demon would vanish with his healing touch. With a sly smile, he extended his arms to the boy and said, “Wanna hold hands?”

When the demon realized Mike had called his bluff and was not afraid, a look of wide-eyed fear filled the boy’s pale face. Mike reached out his right hand to the boy, who recoiled in sudden fear and struggled desperately against the strapping tape that held him to the wheelchair.

As Mike reached down to touch the boy’s forehead, the boy’s wrists strained and the tape dug into his flesh. Blood vessels bulged in his upturned face and his eyes closed. Before he touched the demon, he whispered, “No pig for you this time.” Mike’s hand touched the boy’s head, causing him to go completely limp. Mike closed his eyes and went into a short trance. When he came out of the trance, he hugged the limp boy’s body. The boy’s father was in a panic. “What happened? What have you done to my boy? Is Zak going to be okay?”

Mike stood up again. “Technically speaking, your son Zak had a small defect in his brain. The defect was like an open door for the demon to come in and possess him. God closed the door and healed the defect. Your son’s going to be fine. The demon won’t be back.”

The boy stirred and slowly raised his head. “Daddy?” This time, the voice was that of a small lost child. “Where am I?”

“I’m here, Zak.”

After the father thanked him, Mike pushed his way through the crowd. He needed to get out of there. He needed air. He needed sleep. Still, he wondered what the demon meant about the gate of mercy.

Concerned that she had pushed Mike too far, Jennifer switched off her camcorder and began to shoo away the people, saying, “All right, the show’s over. Mike needs to rest now.” She could see he was exhausted. She went to him and put her arm around to support him. “Are you okay?”

When he saw the camcorder in her other hand, he said, “Please don’t let that tape make it to the media, okay?”

“But . . . ”

He cut her off. “This is happening too fast. I don’t want any more surprise ‘Rogue Messiah’ articles, okay?”

Reluctantly, she agreed, but she still decided to save the tape for later.

After she left and most of the crowd had gone, a man with long blond hair and a mustache came over to him. He was young, probably in his early twenties. At first, Mike thought he was just a fellow rock music lover, but the man looked around the crowd nervously as if he was worried. “Mr. Tomson?” he said.

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Craig. I’ve got some computer files you might be interested in.”

“What kind of files?”

He looked left and right suspiciously. “I can’t talk here. Meet me tomorrow at two o’clock at the MacDonald’s on the strip. Alone. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.” The man walked away, blending into the crowd, using it as camouflage.

Excerpt from The Gospel According to Mike

He said, “When you look into another person’s eyes, it is God staring back at you, for we are all mirrors of Her eternal love. The color we add to the mirror decides which face of God we are showing to others.”