Judges

by Alex P. Kimball

"Then the Lord raised up judges, who delivered them out of the power of those who plundered them." - Judges 2:16

First Investigator Richard Currins nursed his drink slowly, taking in the sights of the bar around him. The music was loud, even as the sounds of the banned Village People wafted through the cool night air outside. Clove and marijuana smoke reeked in the large room, as well as the bitter-tasting clouds of O burning from the addicts' pipes. The First Investigator could have most of the bar's patrons written up on drug charges easily. He might even be able to nab a few dealers or manufacturers in the process. O, or Orgasm as it was often also called, was the hottest drug to come out of the societal underbelly since Ecstasy had been all the rage a hundred years ago, or cocaine another century before that. But Richard Currins wasn't a drug investigator. No, he had a far more sacred purpose. He worked for the Crimes Against God bureau of the New Israel state police department. He was sworn to save souls.

He slipped off his stool. Two men had been chatting and laughing in a corner of the smoke-filled bar. Then, with a few hand gestures and shakes of the head, they had risen and made their way towards the restroom. Richard followed them, fingering the small camera in his jean pocket. Slipping carefully, quietly, into the restroom he walked across the expanse of cheap green tile flooring to the set of stalls running against one wall. A door was shut, and he entered the stall next to it. He slid the micro-camera from his pocket, and held it against the wall, clicking it on. Silently, a small drill bored a hole into the stall's wall, then the camera lens came out to photograph. The small hand unit Richard had displayed the pictures- the two men kissing, caressing, eventually fucking in the stall next to him, oblivious to everything around them as they lost themselves in the rawness of the moment. When they calmed in each other's embrace, Richard took that as his cue to leave, quietly leaving the bathroom to return to his stool at the bar. Signaling the bartender, Richard bought another scotch and slowly drank the liquor, glad of it burning down his throat.

He stared off into space for a long while, the images he'd surreptitiously recorded flashing unwanted over and over again in his mind. He ordered another drink, and then another until the images were something he could block out. Mind buzzing, he barely noticed the handsome middle-aged fag that had sat down on the seat next to him.

"My name is Greg," said the fag, holding out his hand to Richard.

The First Investigator turned and smiled a little. "Rick," he supplied, words slurring a little as he shook the fag's hand.

"Come here often?" Before Richard could reply, the fag laughed lightly and held up his hand, saying, "I know, what a lame pick up. But it's been a while since I've been in the bar scene... God, you must think I'm suck a fuck to admit that." He lightly touched Richard's shoulder, then his faced softened and his eyes turned troubled. "My lover of twenty years was executed in a Raid. I was lucky they didn't get me too," he said, almost to himself, before shaking his head and smiling again. "Oh, well, that was almost a year ago. You lose any friends in a Raid recently?"

Richard shook his head. "I don't know a lot of men from this bar," he said. Something urged him to talk to this man. Greg's eyes reminded Richard of something familiar, something he couldn't quite place.

"Well, I don't know the bar queers either. My lover, Matt, was a public prosecutor. They caught him in a Purge Raid. We didn't really associate with this crowd much," he replied, waving a hand at their surroundings. "I'm not much interested in random sex anyway. After twenty years with one guy you get used to having a little more substance in a relationship." He laughed softly, then cocked his head at Richard, obviously expecting to hear his companion's story.

"I'm married," blurted the First Investigator, who then took a deep draught of his third scotch.

"Ouch," winced Greg, patting Richard's back in sympathy. He glanced at his watch. "Damn, it's getting late. I've got to get home. But it was nice meeting you, Rick. Will I see you here again?"

Richard laughed, with little humor in his voice. "Probably," he shrugged, turning to his companion, and offhandedly smiling.

The other man smiled, and seemed to debate within himself for a moment before leaning forward to softly kiss Richard. The First Investigator froze, for a second, then hesitantly returned the kiss with an alcohol-induced courage. Greg broke away, and smiled. Patting Richard's back, he slipped off his stool and left.

A long time later he left the bar. Arriving home he shucked his reeking clothes. They smelled of smoke so he threw them in the washing machine. He turned on his computer terminal and quickly sent his recorded files from the bar restroom to his work terminal. Closing down the session and the machine, he decided on a nice shower to wash the smoke-smell from his body.

At almost midnight, he slipped into bed with his wife. Mary was a light sleeper, and woke as he pulled up the blankets around his nude form. "Late night?" she asked sleepily, turning to face him.

"Yeah," he replied, moving closer to her and kissing her hard. He ran his hands up and down her body, and unbuttoned her nightgown as he kept kissing her lips, her neck, her shoulders. Soon she was naked, and he roughly massaged her breasts, running his hands over her abdomen, pulling her hips close. He was hard already, and quickly pushed himself into her, silencing a surprised protest with a vicious conquering kiss. Each long thrust into his wife's body was an affirmation, no matter that the images in his mind that had made his body harden were of Greg's smiling-sad eyes and the two men in the restroom stall. Richard Currins was a man, not a fag, and he proved it to himself with each push into Mary Currin's aching sore body that night.

The next morning Captain Abraham Watts called the First Investigator into his office. He offered Richard coffee, and motioned for him to sit.

"Excellent job, Currins," said Watts approvingly. "We'll catch those fags no problem and with such good evidence they'll be sentenced in no time." He pulled a credit slip from his pocket and handed it to Richard. "Those two will put you over the Thousandth Social Pervert mark. Here's your bonus."

"Thank you sir," replied Richard, eyes widening as he read the worth of the credit slip in his hand.

"You're a good Investigator. Some day you'll make Captain, no doubt," Watts said off handedly. "With men like you at the helm, it won't take long before we purge this great country of the moral deviants that seek to destroy us." He smiled grimly, "Dismissed, Investigator."

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir," he responded, rising from his seat. Saluting his commanding officer, Richard quickly turned and left the captain's office. Only back in his own office later did he let a troubled expression cross his face.

Three days later, off duty, his workday ended early, Richard's feet led the acclaimed First Investigator back to the bar. He slid onto his stool and ordered a watered-down scotch as he'd done before. Sipping the near-unpalatable drink, he scanned the room with sharp eyes for Greg. Sure enough, the other man noticed him, and smiled from across the room. In a minute, the tall, gray haired man was sitting next to Richard, and signaling the bartender for a drink.

"Hey," he said kindly, smiling.

"Hey yourself," said Richard nervously, unsure as to why he was even in the bar that smelt of clove and pot smoke and was filled with fags.

Conversation sputtered for a few minutes, before Greg laughed at a young couple on the dance floor, making fools of themselves as they tripped in each other's arms. "Young love," he said fondly, glancing at his companion next to him leaning against the bar counter.

Richard looked at him curiously for a second, then studied the young men. One was tall, dark, and firmly built, handsome enough to turn heads. His dancing partner was shorter, with sandy blond hair and a surfer's look to him, had any of the men in the bar known about surfing. New Israel was in the middle of the continent, far from any ocean. The two young men were dancing close, totally enthralled with each other, lost in the moment and the soft strains of the banned Elton John song "Daniel." Of course, all Elton John songs were banned, but it didn't stop the entire bar from knowing the words and singing along.

"Looking at them, it's almost hard to remember what it's like Outside," said Greg softly.

"Outside?" Richard couldn't help himself; he didn't understand the term and something said he should.

Greg laughed, "You're that out of it, huh? Married man? Outside this bar, Outside this world of young love and sweat and drugs and casual sex and hiding. Outside the fag world."

"You aren't high," stated Richard stupidly.

"Nah," said Greg. "I don't go for that or the casual sex, I guess. It's too easy to lose yourself in that stuff. I want to stay awake, even if it means living with the pain." His voice was low, and soft, a quality of old hurt in it that made Richard want to hold this stranger-friend. "Rick, it's a sad scary world we all live in. I mean, even back before Stonewall the worst they could do to you legally was fry your brain, beat you up, or gang rape you. Now they can just shoot you dead on the street."

"It's not that bad," argued Richard for some reason.

"Yeah, it is. You're out of touch with the fag's lot, Rick, living in your semblance of marriage. I've lost so many friends who just never came home, and then later we'd hear about them on the broadcasts, the newest dead perverts. That's how I heard about Matt." Greg laughed grimly, his jaw clenching. "Here I am in a bar, trying to get to know this handsome looking married guy, and I'm talking politics and about my dead lover. God, I need to get a grip."

Richard shrugged, and signaled for another drink. "You're more with it than those guys," he said, pointing at the addicts in a corner of the room, eyes glazed over and tongues lolling.

"You got a point," chuckled Greg. He stared into his glass for a second, swishing the liquid around before asking softly, "No strings attached to this offer, but would you like to go back to my place? I'd like to get to know you better, but I don't think a bar is the place to hold meaningful conversations."

Richard was silent for a second, and was about to say no. He was quite surprised when a soft yes was his reply. Greg nodded at him, eyes shining a little, and led him outside. They walked down the street together, a foot or so apart, heads bent against the cool night breeze.

Soon they started turning down streets, weaving their way through the city to a small brick house on the corner of two small roads. Greg smiled and went up the sidewalk to the door, unlocking it and motioning Richard inside.

The First Investigator wasn't sure what he was expecting to be inside a fag's house, but he surely didn't expect it to mirror what his own house had. They were in a small entryway, with a few pegs on the walls. Greg took off his coat and hung it up, then did the same for Richard's. There was a long woven throw rug on the floor, and pictures lining the walls. Pictures of family and friends, relatives that Richard couldn't name and friends he couldn't tell if they were fags or not. Just people, nameless faces lining the walls, looking out at him from behind their glass frames.

Greg gave him a second to look at some of the pictures, then led him down the hallway into an immaculate kitchen. He pulled open the food cooler and took out a fine bottle of wine. "I'd offer you something to eat, but I can't cook," Greg said sheepishly, pouring the wine into two plastic cups with dinosaurs dancing across them in all the cartoon glory possible. "I hope this is okay," he added, offering one of the cups to Richard.

"Of course," demurred Richard, caught up in looking all around him. The kitchen was tidy from little use, a few dishes in the drainer, cheerfully painted cabinets, a refrigerator covered in magnets, cartoons, and pictures, a small crucifix hanging over the sink. Through one door he could glimpse a living room, through another door he caught sight of an office. He was surprised, and a little disconcerted, that the house was so normal.

His companion noticed Richard's wandering eyes, and smiled. "It's a nice house. I've been here for about forty years now. I grew up here," he offered, smile broadening.

"It's beautiful," Richard said softly. "And it fits you."

"Yes, it does. It's my home. My parents left it to me when they died. I was just out of college then too. It was a stroke of good luck, ironically."

"Did your parents know, I mean, about you?" Richard asked curiously.

Greg laughed uproariously for a long minute. "No, of course not. They were very faithful. My father was a deacon and my mother head of the Ladies Auxiliary. They would have died of shock. My sister knows, and God bless her, she's as forward thinking as I am."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah, she's wonderful. Though she can't honestly say much about it where she is. My parents had her marry a guy who is part of the Crimes Against God. He was quite up and coming the last time I heard from her. It was really a shame too, she's such a wonderful girl."

"Your kid sister?

"Two years younger," he said proudly.

"It's a shame you can't be closer to her, though," he mused, slightly shocked that this man was related to someone married into his bureau.

Greg's eyes clouded over. "Yeah," he said softly, taking a long sip of his wine. "How about you, anyone know about you?" he changed the subject deftly.

Richard tensed, then shook his head. "Just you, pretty much." He was still confused, still reeling from the reality of being in this man's home, still unsure of why he was there, and not home, but he couldn't stop playing the game. Playing the game where he got a fag's name or picture and sent it to the right people, who'd dispose of the problem. Except that even though he knew where Greg lived, that information wouldn't be passed along. He didn't know why and couldn't figure it out for the life of him.

"Just me?" Greg said, slightly shocked. "You're really a late bloomer. Not even any experimenting in high school or college?"

He laughed, and shook his head again. "I went to a military prep school and a Faith-funded college," he said, explaining away with facts his lack of experience.

"Shit," swore the other man softly, shaking his head. "C'mon," he said, suddenly rising, "if you're that out of it, you need to get re-educated, Rick."

Confused, Richard followed his new friend into the house's basement, where a small, old, antique color television was set up, with a small power generator that would provide the correct kind of current for the ancient machine, and a shelf full of books and movies that Richard dazedly recognized from half a dozen banned lists.

Greg motioned for Richard to sit, and went about powering up the old machine, then popping in a video. For much of the rest of the night, they watched late 20th century and early 21st century pre-Reformation documentaries and movies. At first Richard was shocked, and a little bit disgusted, but as time passed he became more comfortable, and avidly watched as his world turned upside down with new information and new ideas.

As they stood in the doorway saying their farewells, Richard looked around him again, with new eyes, at the pictures on the wall. About to leave, he stopped, and turned to his friend. "Just one question. What are het-er-o-sex-u-als?"

Greg's eyes widened, and he looked up at the ceiling for a second before replying. "Heterosexual is another word for Normals, Rick. Just like gay, lesbian, and bisexual are other words for fag and queer."

He nodded, a little, and seemed fascinated by his shoes. "I don't claim to understand much of this, you know."

"I know," Greg smiled. "You're still unlearning all the shit they taught us. Don't worry," he slapped Richard on the back, "you'll understand someday." He moved closer, and gently kissed Richard again, a little less hesitantly, then stepped back to open the door. "Good night, Rick."

"Good night, Greg."

Richard let himself wander for much of the night. When he finally arrived home at five in the morning, his wife was just getting up, and she was more than a little surprised to see him stagger in, exhausted.

The next day, and the next, passed without Richard really noticing. He went to the office, did paperwork, and no one noticed that his eyes had hardened. Finally, a week had passed, and with it came new orders from Richard's superiors. Captain Watts called a general staff meeting of the bureau.

"President Helms wants us to move quickly, since Reformation Day is approaching. He's ordered a full-scale Purge. Tonight, we're to raid every fag club in this city. There are to be no survivors." Watts glanced around at his staff, as they smiled, grim and blood-thirsty. "So there will be no going home tonight. All of you, arm up. We'll rid this country of perverts before dawn!"

Richard quietly sat through the meeting. A feeling of dread coalesced in his bowels. When Captain Watts dismissed them, he rose from his seat, went to his office, and prepared for the Purge. Methodically, robotically, he took out his holster and weapon. Richard strapped the holster beneath his armpit, then shrugged on his sportcoat. With a hand barely controlled of its trembling, he loaded his gun, and holstered it. He took out his department-issued bible, and began to read.

When it came time for the Agents of the Crimes Against God Bureau to move out on their holy crusade, Richard closed his bible, double-checked that his weapon was properly holstered, and followed his fellow Soldiers out into the city. The very first target Watts had outlined was the bar where he knew Greg would be waiting for him. And it was there that Richard had been assigned to recite to the fags their sentence, given by God and President Helms.

They killed the bouncers with silenced rounds to the forehead. Richard entered first, alone, and stood watching. Some of the men tensed as he entered, and then relaxed when they recognized their compatriot Rick. Greg moved toward him, smiling. Richard smiled back, grimly, tears running down his face. Taking out his weapon, Richard fired once at the ceiling. Silence descended on the bar. Everyone turned to Richard in fear, knowing what was about to happen. Greg shook his head, and tears mirroring Richard's began to travel down his cheek. The Soldiers of God, officers of the Crimes Against God Bureau, silently filtered in, weapons drawn and pointed at the bar's patrons. They all waited for Richard to begin reciting the condemnation.

Richard swallowed, deeply, and spoke, "Judas, is it with a kiss that you are betraying the Son of Man?" His fellow agents looked at him, confused, stock-still, as he bridged the gap between himself and Greg. Gently, ever so gently, he kissed the other man, then raised the gun to his own head and fired. With that one shot, the other agents began to fire. In the first volley Greg died, a dozen bullets filling his body with lead as he cradled Richard's body.

The End

Note: Richard's final words are from the Book of Luke.