Macky Martyr

A Story by Ray Veen

A vision of a future where societal freedoms 'from' religion are protected.

I have to say, the whole affair had a rather surreal quality about it.

Some of the people seated in the darkened amphitheatre were surely feeling a certain sense of sadness, but I suspect that most, like myself, were indifferent. Criminals needed to be punished – that’s simply the way it’s done in decent societies. He’d been well known and well loved for years, and I did what I could to defend him, but ultimately he was guilty. It was a shame, especially for the children, but I couldn’t force the least amount of empathy toward the creature whatsoever. I stopped getting emotional over my clients very early in my career. It’s just not the way one practices law.

We all waited reverently for the procedure to begin, facing the glowing violet rectangle at the front of the amphitheatre. It was the visible side of the hang tank, and soon a body would be plunging into it. I didn’t particularly want to be involved in today’s festivities, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that we’d be out the door in twenty minutes or so, and this whole affair would be nothing more than a distasteful memory. I waited in grim silence, half-wishing things had turned out differently, and half-wishing I was somewhere else. I wondered if a certain lady would be at Mike’s Martini Bar this afternoon. Even though my wife was seated next to me, dressed in her finest, glittering fashions, I let my thoughts drift to several evenings I’d spent at Mike’s, socializing with my dark beauty. Lost in the memory of her intoxicating perfume, I was startled by the sudden computerized voice that blared out over the speakers. It was the automated bailiff, repeating the judgment for the benefit of those that had come to observe.

“Be it known, that on this day, the twenty-first of October, in the year two-thousand and fifty-one, Reginald Oliver McDuff has been scheduled to be executed by hanging for the crime of gross violation of public spiritual liberty. Found guilty by a jury of his peers, and failing appeal, Mr. McDuff now stands ready to fulfill his sentence.”

And then they dropped him in.

A furry, big-headed monkey plunged into the hang-tank, and flailed in slow-motion as the eraser-fields took hold of him. From our perspective, it looked as though the giant cartoon animal had dove into a huge aquarium, but instead of water, the hang-tank actually suspended him on a thick, humming wave of pure, violet energy. Many in amphitheatre gasped, and I had to stifle a chuckle. Despite the non-stop media attention, it seemed that not everybody realized he’d chosen to be executed in his ‘Mickey Monkey’ costume. The ridiculous character floated and spun slowly, turning in every direction for our perusal. The glowing violet field accentuated the bright colors of the monkey’s ridiculous costume, giving them a slight luminescence, as if under a black light. My amusement faded when the big head turned to face us for the first time. I felt a twinge of abstract discomfort. It wore a huge plastic grin beneath its two oversized, shining eyes, as if Mickey Monkey was unaware that the man inside was slowly beginning to die. The palms of his furry hands were facing us, drifting lazily from side-to-side the way they did when he sang his famous closing song at the end of his show.

It was rather sick. But I got over it.

Hanging, after all, was said to be a wholly pleasant experience for the condemned; the most humane style of execution ever devised. The eraser-fields did an efficient job of destabilizing molecular cohesion, starting at the body’s core, and basically melting the person from the inside out. The developers had discovered that a surprising thing happened when neurons frayed. Instead of neurotransmitters that caused pain, massive doses of endorphins were passed along the synaptic pathways, causing a state of deep relaxation and euphoria. A few minutes from now, when the effects of the eraser-field reached his heart, he’d die rather quickly, but no pain or discomfort was thought to be experienced at any point in the process. Reginald McDuff, or ‘Mickey’ as his friends called him, would simply lose consciousness amid a haze of gentle comfort.

A new voice spoke over the loudspeaker. Not many of the two-hundred-odd souls in the amphitheatre were likely to recognize it, but I’d heard it many times during the lengthy trial. It was Dr. Galdeen, the psychologist who’d evaluated Mickey, worked with him, and then given his expert testimony in court.

“Mickey, how do you feel?”

The colorfully dressed monkey didn’t respond. Instead, he looked at his hands the way a drug-addict does during a particularly potent ‘trip’. The eraser-field hung him sideways at the moment, with the backs of his striped pants and red, gilded vest facing us.

“Mickey, do you know who I am? We spoke a few minutes ago. I encouraged you to describe what you were feeling and you said that you would. I realize you’re probably very relaxed at the moment, but we’re very interested in knowing how you feel. Would you mind sharing with us?”

It took several long seconds, but a slurred voice finally drifted over the sound-system. It was the same high pitch that any child under eight years old would recognize as belonging to the beloved monkey. “Hey Doc… rockin’ doc choppin wood, choppin wood on the choppin block.”

Mickey giggled a little, almost girlishly. It was a line from one of his songs, and I could tell by the audience’s reaction that they thought he was already losing his faculties. I wasn’t so sure. I’d spent a lot of time with my client over the last eighteen months, and I knew that he was a simple sort of fellow. Not stupid, but gentle and silly, he was probably greatly enjoying this experience. Dr. Galdeen obviously needed a more precise evaluation.

“Mickey, do you know where you are.”

“Yup,” the slurred voice answered, “I’m in the hang-tank, having my insides made into ice cream.”

“Are you having any pain?”

“No Doc, it kinda feels good. Just like everybody said.”

“Good, Mickey, we’re glad to hear it. Would you like to share your thoughts with us?”

I smirked, waiting for the skillful psychologist to uproot what everybody wanted to hear. There was only one reason they encouraged the condemned to talk during their hanging. The euphoric state caused most of them to confess, express remorse over their crime, even admit that their punishment is just and forgive the judge, jury, and executioner. Because hangings occasionally came under attack from different liberal political groups, the Corporeal Punishment Board liked to hear that sort of thing to justify their program. The confessions, remorse, and forgiveness of the condemned did a nice job of making everybody feel better about hangings, and the CPB seriously wanted to acquire as many as possible. Galdeen would obviously try to oblige them.

After a long, sleepy pause, Mickey’s high voice slurred, “Whudja say, Doc?”

“It’s a good idea to share what you’re experiencing, Mickey. A lot of important people came to see you off today, and we’d all like to know what your thoughts are at the moment.”

“Oh, not much on my mind, really, just… getting’ ready to ‘meet my maker’, as they say.”

I winced. More of the religious talk that started this whole mess. I hoped that he wouldn’t go on in that vein, and start making little spiritual suggestions to the audience. That’s where one crossed a firm, legal line. ‘Expression of faith’ was a misdemeanor, but encouraging others to consider your beliefs was where one started to get in really hot water. Unless it took place in a ‘pre-approved religious setting’, like a church, where people were expecting to be exposed to it, it was a clear infringement on one’s constitutional freedom from religion.

Galdeen understood. He paused, shaping his next question to illicit a more desirable response. “Uh, Mickey, I was wondering. Are there any stories you’d like to share with us? Anything you might remember as you look back over your life? We’d love to hear some of your final memories.”

The monkey was facing us now, still grinning. When his voice floated out over the sound-system, it occurred to me that they must equip the condemned with microphones before they dropped them into the hang-tank. I didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

“I’m thinking a lot about my boys,” Mickey whispered, “I started this whole thing when they were just starting to walk, with this monkey puppet, doing the same voice. They loved it… it… it made ‘em smile. Cute little chubby cheeks, baby teeth poking through. They’d hug the monkey an give it big, open-mouthed kisses. It’d get wet with drool. I dunno… then… I… I remember building the Magic Mall. That’s when it all became real. Seeing my ‘magination turned into reality on a big scale – it felt good. I was… happy. Didn’t feel good like this but, you know, a different kind of good.”

“Yes, you accomplished a lot in your career. You’ll be missed by millions of children.”

“Nah, they got Jimmy Weathers to take over. He’s not a bad guy, and he does my voice pretty good. Course, he don’ care if the kids go to heaven or not. I love ‘em. I don’t want none of them to go to hell, that’s why I said the things I said.”

Another strained hush. The grinning idiot spun slowly, oblivious to the further scandal he was causing by suggesting that people’s children would burn in some fictional pit of fire. Incredibly, Mickey didn’t appear to feel even a shred of remorse for his remarks, not to mention the greater crime of misusing his influence over the children.

‘Come on, Mickey’, I thought, ‘you’re a showman for God’s sake, give the people what they want and lets end this sick thing.’

Dr. Galdeen quickly formed another question but Mickey went on, not hearing him. The psychologist stopped what he was saying and let the floating monkey speak. After all, it was quite bad form to interrupt the condemned during their final reverie.

“We advertised lots of stuff in the Magic Mall; gaming platforms, action-figures, robot-buddies, clothes and makeup, hover-bikes and hover-skates, music – everything kids wanted. We sold so much stuff… plastic, shiny, noisy stuff… The Magic Mall started out just being for fun, but then it became this big, fat, selling machine. I just thought maybe I could sell the kids something more important. Was that so wrong, Doc?”

Actually it was. Apparently everybody knew it but this poor fool. He had a hot commodity with his unfettered ability to target ‘emerging markets’. Because it took place in the ‘Magic Mall’, ads and merchandise were a natural, organic part of the background for each and every scene. A lot of companies made a lot of money in the eight years he was on, and Mickey threw it all away when he ‘got religion’. It would have been totally fine with everybody involved if he’d just prayed to his Jesus and shut up about it. He should have stuck with using his influential character to sell toys – selling religion was his undoing.

I’m not sure why Dr. Galdeen didn’t press on, but the dark amphitheatre grew quiet once more. He didn’t ask any more questions for a while. My wife, next to me grew a little restless. She’d been scanning the room since first being seated, picking out politicians, nobleman, big-name media-types, and even some other celebrities, all dressed in black tuxedos and luxurious evening gowns. Her eyes shone brighter and she sat straighter with each one she noticed, but thankfully, she didn’t make a big deal out of it. I sighed deeply. I’d known she was a social-climber when I married her, but this was a hanging, not some trendy, shmooze-fest. She leaned towards me and I could tell that she was going to whisper something. Please don’t suggest who we should have over for cocktails afterwards.

“Isn’t that Judge Marconi?”

“Yes, dear.” I whispered, implying with my tone that we should be quiet.

“But doesn’t he hear violent cases?”

“Yes, dear.” I used the tone more emphatically.

Her eyes flashed irritation. “But I thought you said your client didn’t do anything violent?”

“He wasn’t our judge.”

“Oh.” She blinked stupidly at me, then her eyes went back to scanning the room.

I felt a little disgusted. I’d been making headlines for eighteen months representing this guy, and she didn’t even know what he’d been guilty of. Maybe if she spent more time in the newslines instead of blathering frivolous absurdities with her shallow friends, she’d know that Mickey’s crime wasn’t violent. It was equally harmful to society, but not violent. The judgment had been ‘gross violation of public spiritual liberty’. He’d been using random, religiously-charged phrases on international airwaves, saying things like, “That’s great, Tyler, praise God”, “Whoopsy, little sneeze there, Meghan, God bless you”, “Merry Christmas” as opposed to ‘happy holidays, and “Uh-oh, Jamal, guess we’re gonna have to pray about that.”

I could have argued these down to a series of misdemeanors, but he was such a popular, visible figure – an icon really. Parents around the world felt deeply betrayed and were mad as hornets. That last night was what really did Mickey in. He’d had the audacity to pray for the little children, live, on screen, “that they might come to know Jesus in their hearts”. It was a clear felony, the clearest ‘gross violation of public spiritual liberty’ I’d ever seen. Valuable, big-name advertisers immediately pulled their merchandise from the Magic Mall, and Mickey was dragged into court.

I defended him, but his crime still bothered me. I take comfort in the fact that we live in a totally liberated society. I considered myself to be a successful product of our near-utopia, and I’ve always been fiercely proud of that. Harmony can only exist when everybody is free to believe whatever they want to believe, and if one chooses not to believe in some archaic, mythological creator, that is their constitutional right. Nobody should ever be forced to listen to hostile religious rhetoric – especially children, what with their fertile, impressionable souls. I thought of my young great-nephews and I cringed. Mickey was indeed guilty as sin, so there was really nothing I could do to shield him from the public outcry.

At one point, early on, when the media frenzy first whipped up, a political cartoon showed the monkey swinging from an archaic noose. The caption read ‘Mickey Martyr’, and the name stuck. It was meant to be sarcastically cute, but it perfectly captured the whole scenario. In the newslines, he was public enemy number one, and his execution was a foregone conclusion.

And now it was being carried out, right before my reluctant eyes. Thankfully, there was no outward sign that he was dying. He simply hung in the violet rectangle, spinning and swaying softly, melting only on the inside.

Whether or not a hanging was justified was beyond me. Greater and more important men than I were responsible for today’s exhibition. The shaping of this particular set of laws had been decades in the making, being tossed about in the highest halls of lawmaking and justice. Only twenty years ago, execution was reserved only for crimes of the most depraved nature. Then the eraser-field was developed, and dying suddenly became a pleasant experience. Society quickly decided that it was better to dispose of career criminals in a civilized, humane fashion, rather than let them continue to be a drain on the economy. I’ve never had strong feelings either way, but in this case, the smallest of voices nagged at me. Perhaps this is all a little extreme.

Again I got over it.

After all, I didn’t cause this. In fact, I tried to prevent it, in court, for eighteen valuable months in the prime of my career. Ultimately, because of his religious convictions, Mickey’s crime put him in a category of criminal that is unlikely to be rehabilitated, so that made him eligible for execution. The public cried out for it in every possible forum, and lawmakers listened. Mickey did what he did, and I couldn’t change that.

So there he was, hanging on the eraser-field, paying his debt to society, and there I was, completing my task as his defender by witnessing the unpleasant spectacle of his execution. There were so many other places I’d have rather been at the moment, like Mike’s – with a certain dark-skinned vixen.

I really wished Mickey would recant so we could get this unpleasant business over with. As soon as Galdeen got him to say what the BCP wanted to hear, he’d stop questioning Mickey and just let him float into oblivion. Then we could all be on our merry way. I, for one, was becoming a little queasy watching the gaily-colored, big-headed monkey spinning slowly around, and up and down and upside down and back – I wanted to get out of there and get a drink in the worst way. In my mind, I pushed Galdeen’s face into his microphone to get him to ask another question.

A moment later, a shred of a whisper slid out of the sound system. It was muffled, so the words were unintelligible, but they had an unmistakable tone of uncertainty. I got the impression that Galdeen was conversing privately with somebody else in the control room. I assumed this accounted for the good doctor’s extended silence.

Finally he spoke into his microphone once more. “So… Mickey… I’m sure you realize that this is your last opportunity to speak to the world. Is there something you’d like to leave us with? Perhaps some final remarks regarding your conviction?”

How subtle of you, Doctor.

The monkey’s response came slowly – he sounded even more drugged than before. “Whu…? No. Not off the top of my head. Cuz I’m ready to go, you know. I know where I’m headed, so I’m not scared or angry or anything. I just wish I coulda’ taken more people with me. Pretty soon, it’s gonna be like: you’ll still be sittin’ here watching me swim, and I’ll be gone. One minute I’ll be here, then all of the sudden I’ll be in paradise going ‘Hey Jesus, I’m home’. You know? It’ll be good. Really good.”

A sob ruptured the silence of the stunned audience and I realized that Mickey’s wife was here. Probably in the front row with a good view. I wondered if their teenage twins were seated next to her, watching their father’s body dissolve within his gaily-colored costume. I’d spent several sessions with Mickey and his wife together, and I knew that she’d had the same sort of religious conversion that he’d had. It wasn’t too hard to reconstruct her reaction to what her dying husband had just said. According to Christian mythology, one day they’d be reunited on the golden streets of heaven, falling into one another’s arms with tears of joy and gratitude. This sappy sentiment, or another like it, would account for her brief, awkward outburst of sorrow. They both made their goofy faith way too obvious. It was a terrible shame, given what a handsome woman Mrs. McDuff was.

“Course… I’m gonna miss the people down here,” Mickey continued, “my sweet wife Trudy, our wonderful boys, our wunnerful church family. And I’m gonna miss my friend, with the thing… the one that…. The one that first shared Christ with me.”

The audience collectively stiffened. Every ear perked up, and people strained to hear any clues as to who this person was. Throughout the whole drama, this had been the biggest mystery; who caused Mickey’s conversion? He’d admitted that he hadn’t heard what he called ‘the Gospel of Grace’ in a pre-approved religious setting, so this meant that someone else had committed a very serious crime. This mystery person had pressured him by not sharing their faith by legal means, in a church, with the freedom to leave or stop listening at his discretion. In the eyes of the law, Mickey had been converted against his will, and this person indirectly caused his death. Their identity had never been revealed, and we all held our breath, wondering if Mickey, in his euphoric state of consciousness, would let the name slip.

“See… cuz… I couldn’t handle it. It was all good and fun, but it was all too much. Too much good, too much fun, I was so tired all the time, and grouchy… then I’d see my friend and think, ‘how?’… always so peaceful, you know? And I was stressed. I was… that day… I… was throwing stuff, angry about something, nothing really, and I felt this hand on my shoulder. So calm. I was losing it, but they were, just, really peaceful, and I was like, ‘how do you do it?’. Then pretty soon we were praying. I shared my burden, and like, took up that ‘easy yoke’. I didn’t have to worry no more cuz… Jesus… He’s taking care of me. Then my frenn gave me a Bible and I started reading it. Ann it was this fresh, cool, wind – peace, and hope, and comfort. Jesus was teachin. And I learn not to worry… bout what I’d eat, what I wear, and howta turn th’other cheek, and offer my cloak, and walk with ‘em two miles, and everythin fell inna place. He’s my way, and my truth, and my life. Coupla chapters… frumman other book, you know, like… considerin it pure joy, when, many tempshuns… for the testin. Perr-suhh-vere…”

“Mickey.” Galdeen sharply interrupted.

I wanted to stand up and cheer.

The psychologist had done something extremely rude, but the monkey was obviously deteriorating, and we were in treacherous water. He spun helplessly, slowly, out of control like the faith he represented. The Doctor’s tone grew slightly less patient. “Please. You’re describing the time when you first began to break the law. Can you tell us how you feel about that now?”

Again, it took a long time to respond. I was itching to go someplace more comfortable, and I hoped the more direct question would finally get us somewhere. Mickey needed to recant while he still maintained a shred of his senses. Isn’t that what Christians were supposed to do? They call it ‘repenting’, but obviously, it meant the same thing.

His voice had become extremely slurred, many words were hard to make out. “I wus doin it right, wuz I spoz’ta… y’know? So I fushint thinning… the gray kission, graaaay co-missshhhun. Lika weldon… gooden faythvul servenn. For all nayshuns, teashing, annnn… thenny sez, ‘I am with you, always… even unto… the end… of… the… age’.”

I felt a chill, I don’t know what it was, but I wondered if Dr. Galdeen felt it too. He sounded desperate. “Stay with us here, Mickey, okay? Now we want to know, how you feel about what you did.”

The monkey tipped upside down. His jolly face still grinned, but the costume seemed somehow more baggy and shriveled. No answer came.

“Mickey?”

Dr. Galdeen only waited two heartbeats.

“Mickey, can you hear me? It’s Dr. Galdeen. We want to know if you feel any remorse for the crime you were convicted of…. Mickey? Are you sorry for misusing your influence over children? Are you still there? You can answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Do you regret using your position to unfairly spread religious doctrine? Even a nod of your head will do.”

There was no voluntary movement within the eraser field, just the slow spin and twirl of the monkey’s big-headed, cartoonish body. Watching it carefully, I could almost see an imperceptible shrinking, a curling in on himself, like a plastic cup thrown into a fire, only in extreme slow-motion. I decided that I was glad that he’d worn the stupid mask. At this point in the process, it would be quite unpleasant to see what the violet energy was doing to his body.

“Mickey? Can you still hear us?”

There was no answer, nor would there be. It was obvious to me. The floating figure was permanently silenced. His dwindling extremities were gradually curling into a fetal position, and he looked as dead to me now, as any animal I’d ever seen crushed on the road. Those in the control room were obviously realizing the same thing, because the computerized voice of the automated-bailiff came back over the loudspeaker.

“The execution of Reginald Oliver McDuff has now been officially carried out on this date, the twenty-first of October, in the year two-thousand and fifty-one, by authorized officials from the Board of Corporeal Punishment. Feel free to exit the theatre using the aisles to your right and left, or, if you prefer, you may stay until the condemned’s remains have been completely erased. The estimated time for the completion of this process is one-hour, and twenty-five minutes from now. Thank-you, and have a pleasant day.”

Lights came on in the amphitheatre, and a quiet buzz of conversation spread throughout the audience. I was disoriented for a moment, blinking around the room full of fine people in fine clothes. Seeing the best and brightest of our society was comforting – it brought sanity to the whole distasteful event we’d just sat through. I stretched a bit and began to stand.

A final thought occurred to me as I rose, and I chuckled.

“I’ll be damned,” I said to my wife, rising next to me, “Mickey never repented.”