The Mid-Length, Mostly Unhappy Life of Franklynn Carmichael

[_Doctor CamNC4Me]

Seriously?

Why isn't Mr. Bobberson writing a novel? This stuff would sell faster than a stack of pancakes being devoured at the Peterson household!

V/R
Doc

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part IX: "You knew what I was when you picked me up..."

Click. He shut the door and locked it and looked up. It was just the two of them, and they took a moment to adjust to the low light cast by the stained-glass First Vision installment at the other end of the room.

"Is everything in place?"

"Yes. All the arrangements have been made. We only needed the final go-ahead from you."

"Then do what needs to be done."

He took his phone out from the inner pocket of his sports coat and used it to send a text message. "That'll do it then," he said. The other man, who was a good deal older, leaned on his cane and moved to sit in one of the chairs.

"It's unfortunate that it came to this."

"It is."

"No weak links in the chain, though. An apostasy in our ranks would have been unacceptable."

"I agree."

"The Lord shall forgive us. And our covenants are such that we needn't dwell on this any further."

"Of course."

"Very well. Lead us in a closing prayer, and we'll be out of here."

He wanted to point out that they'd forgotten to say an opening prayer, but decided better of it.




It had taken Franklynn 20 minutes to find the "brewpub" called The Iron Rod. He pulled into the parking lot, and discretely examined his gun, making sure it was loaded, and then he put it into the glove compartment. But what if things got nasty inside? He opened the glovebox again, but then shut it, and sat there thinking. Why am I doing this? He checked his phone: it was 7:00, which meant that he had an hour to kill. He was till angry, and a bit frightened, but he was proud of himself for taking a stand. All his life, it seemed, he'd been asked to turn the other cheek when dealing with the most toxic and vicious anti-Mormons imaginable. He'd been spat on half a dozen times during his mission, and some of his articles in the Journal of HIDM had earned him death threats. Enough was enough. He climbed out of the car and went inside.

The place was pleasant enough: dimly lit, with leather banquettes and a long, copper-topped bar at one end. There were TVs hung all around the room, all tuned to the Jazz game. There was a slight, beery stink though of alcohol. There were maybe 25 or 30 people total, sitting around, eating and drinking and talking and watching the game. Frank surveyed the room, watching to see if anyone caught his eye: if anyone seemed to recognize him. For a moment, he almost thought he saw an apparition: someone who was nearly a dead ringer for the vision of C.S. Lewis that had appeared to him in his dream. It wasn't him, though. It was just some guy with glasses, drinking something from a cocktail glass.

Franklynn realized how tired he was, how stressed out. He walked over and took a seat at the bar, and after a moment or two, the bartender came over. She was in her mid-twenties and blond, with a small diamond stud in her nose, and her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. The tag on her shirt said her name was Renee, and Frank had a hard time keeping his eyes away from her chest: her shirt was unbuttoned halfway down and he could see the soft curves of her cleavage.

"How's it going?" she said. "Can I get you something?"

He was about to say, "Sprite," but he suddenly felt very self-conscious. "Uh, just water for now," he said.

She shrugged: "Okay," and she left to go get it. He felt as if he was letting her down somehow. He shifted on the barstool and looked around again. Maybe "Korihor Smith" was just bluffing. Getting a rise out of having tricked Frank into coming out here, into a bar, no less. Frank took out his phone and navigated to the 'Recent Calls' area, and he tapped on the number with the Wyoming area code, and let it ring. It rang, and rang, and then the voicemail picked up:

Hi, you've reached Ron. I can't take your call right now, but if you leave me a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

BEEP!

"Oh, hi, Ron. Nice to get an actual name for once. This is Dr. Carmichael. I'm sitting here in this place you recommended: The Iron Rod. It's a pretty nice place. A good place to sit and watch the game. And the service is excellent. I hope you haven't chickened out on coming to meet up with me. See you soon?"

Just then Renee came back with his water. "Can I get you anything else?" she said.

"No, no, I'm good, thanks."

"Just let me know if you need anything else," she said, and she sauntered off.

There was something about her attitude that Frank didn't like. He knew that she was probably judging him for just ordering water. He wouldn't have been surprised if she was an apostate, or an anti-Mormon. If he was weak, like everyone else in here: like everyone else who needed chemicals just to get through the day, then she wouldn't have the slightest problem with him!

He could feel himself getting worked up again and he knew he needed to stay relaxed in case "Ron" turned up. He sipped the ice water and looked up at the TV and waited.

Ten minutes went by and Peyson called. He wanted to lecture her about leaving so suddenly, but she sounded so cheerful, and the truth was that he just wanted to be left alone. Her call was a distraction from the job at hand.

"Sure, honey, that sounds great," he said, absentmindedly.

"Okay then! Love you! I'll call again tomorrow morning."

"Okay. Love you too."

He hung up and felt a pang of guilt that he hadn't paid closer attention to her. It must have showed on his face, too, because Renee came back to him and set a mug of beer in front of him.

"On the house," she said. "Just looks like you could use it."

He was about to say, "No, thanks," but instead he just stared at the glass. What did it taste like? What would it feel like to drink it? Not knowing the answer bothered him, but he knew that this was just the Adversary's way of testing him. He reached out and dipped a finger in and put it in his mouth. It tasted like sour bread, and he couldn't imagine drinking an entire glass of the stuff. He glanced down the bar at Renee, who was talking to a man with a goatee, and then the two of them looked over in his direction. The goateed man smiled and nodded.

Judging me, Frank thought. He took a drink of his water and turned his attention to the game.

The minutes ticked by, and soon it was 8:25. Renee came by to ask if he wanted anything to eat.

"I'm waiting for someone," he said. "If they don't show up soon," I'll order something.

He thought about calling "Ron" again, and then got to thinking about what was likely to happen. What if Ron really did show up? What kind of a person would do that? What kind of a person who do the various things Ron had done: calling him names, calling him at his work phone number in order to heckle and harass him. What if he was a nut job? Some years back, Merlyn Young had been harassed repeatedly by a mentally ill anti-Mormon, and he eventually had to get law enforcement involved. "The perils of defending the Kingdom," Howell had said.

Just then, Franklynn felt something, like someone was staring at him, and he turned and looked. Standing near the door was a balding, slightly overweight, middle-aged man with a comb-over and steel-frame, aviator-style glasses. He was wearing a tan windbreaker and he had his hands in his pockets, and he was smiling, and when he saw Frank looking back at him, his smile got bigger. He made his way over.

"Hello Professor Carbuncle." He held out his hand, and though he winced at the name-calling, Frank reached out and shook it, almost as a reflex. "I wondered if you'd show," said the man.

"Ron, isn't it? I wondered the same thing about you." So this is the guy. Frank leaned back slightly and folded his arms across his chest.

Ron laughed. "I bet you did. But you can relax." He reached out and slapped Frank on the shoulder. "I'm a nice guy. I just wanted to prove it to you. I hope you can take a joke, and..." His eyes widened: "Hey, now! What's this? Drinking a brew, eh, Brother Carmichael?" He made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Wow. I guess you apologists really do make up your own rules."

Frank sneered: "It's not mine. I didn't have a single drop of it. The waitress just brought it over as a complimentary something or other."

Ron laughed even harder. "A real pity party in here. Well, if you're not going to drink it, may I?" He reached over and grabbed it and tilted back the glass. The entire contents went down in one drink. "Ah. Tasty." He said.

"I'm real glad to hear that you liked it," Frank said. "But let's cut to the chase here." He stuck his finger into Ron's face. "All right? Let's cut the crap."

Ron calmly reached up and grabbed Frank's finger and moved it out of the way. "Calm down," he said. "There's no need to get all bent out of shape. This is about the truth, remember?"

Frank had begun to sweat, and he was almost panting he was so angry. The nerve of this guy. "What 'truth'? You're only goal has ever been to harass me. To try and shut me up."

Ron help up his hands: "No, no! You've got it all wrong. The truth matters, of course, but you've got to realize that I'm just the messenger here. This? This is bigger than you or I. No one really understands the full reach and influence of the Church."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?" Ron smiled again. "I know you're a liar. I know about your bogus dissertation. Who else knows about it, and who is it likely to bother more: ex-Mormons, or the Brethren? Who cares more about your reputation? Think about it. And when you're good and ready, we can step outside and pay a visit to Mr. B."

"Mr. B.? Who's that?"

"Seeing is believing, Brother Carbuncle."

"Don't call me that again," he spat.

"Come on. I know you can take a joke."

"I'm serious."

"All right, then. Let's go see Mr. B."

Ron turned and began to walk away, and Frank hastily left a five on the bar and hustled after him. Outside, it was dark and chilly. Ron was up ahead, moving quickly through the parking lot, and then he stopped next to a white, rust-spotted van.

"Hold up," said Frank, chasing after him. He near the van, and he was about to tell Ron that he had no right to act this way, and how wrong he was, and how he wouldn't be lectured or talked down to or threatened, but the rear doors of the van burst open, and suddenly two men had grabbed him and they dragged him into the van and yanked a dark hood over his head.

"Stop! Stop!" he screamed.

"Shut up now," said a voice, and when he didn't, he felt a hard, sharp blow across his face. "I said for you to shut up now. I know you know how to follow directions. It's the Mormon way. So you shut up when I tell you to shut up or I'll split your lying head open. Do you understand me?"

Breathing hard, Frank nodded. He hadn't heard the van's engine start, but now he was aware that they were moving.

"Search him," someone said. "See if he's got a phone."

He felt hands groping at him, at his pockets, and someone roughly shoved him to the ground and emptied his pockets.

"It's right here. What do you want me to do with it?"

"Give it to me. We'll ditch it."

"Should we put one of these on him?"

"Not if he's going to be a good boy. Are you going to be a good boy, Dr. Carbuncle?"

He didn't say anything, and the two men laughed, and then they were quiet. After a while he heard a clicking noise, which he realized was a cigarette lighter.

"He's not going to like that," said whoever was driving.

"I'll be done before we get there and we can open up the windows. Air it out."

"If you say so."

It was quiet for several minutes more, and somebody turned on the radio to a talk news station.

"Ugh. Turn that crap off. I can't stand that conservative BS."

"Fine, fine."

They drove on, and then Frank could feel the van slowing down and then stopping.

"Yeah, we're here," someone said.

The sliding door on the side of the van slid open, a new passenger climbed aboard, the door closed again, and the van pulled away.

"Well, how about this?" said the new person. He had a very vague and unidentifiable accent. "You've all done an excellent job. This is going to count for us in all sorts of ways. You can go ahead and take that off of him."

Frank had been sitting motionless, up against the wall, with his hands in his lap. Now he felt the hood being pulled from his head. He blinked and looked around. Sitting at his side was a big, thick-armed man with a heavy beard, and he had a gun in his hand. Up front, Ron was driving the van, and two other men were sitting on the bench seat that faced the rear of the van: Frank recognized the one on the left as one of the men who'd pulled him into the van. The other man was the new one. He was well-dressed, with a sports jacket and matching slacks and a black turtleneck. He had a high, smooth forehead, and dark, wavy hair down to his collar, and he looked ethnic: perhaps Native American, or from Latin America.

"It isn't very often that I get to sit down face to face with one of the LDS Church's top apologists," the man said.

"Where are you taking me?" Franklynn said, half-fearing that the man at his side would strike him again.

"We're taking you exactly where you need to go."

"You're Mr. B.?" Frank asked.

"That's a fair question," he said. "And it's more or less true. Some people call me that, anyways."

"You have no right to hold me like this."

"I wouldn't be making no threats no more," said the bearded man at his side.

"Mr. Flake there has got a point," Mr. B. said. "We'll answer your questions to the best of our ability, but you're really in no position to be making demands of any kind. But first I'm going to ask you a question." He paused and tilted his head to the side. "What do you know about the Strengthening Church Members Committee?"

"It's a small clipping service."

Mr. B. stared at him and then nodded to Mr. Flake who slapped him viciously across the face.

Frank's head snapped back and he reached up and touched his eyebrow: it had split, and he was bleeding. "I...I'm sorry," he said. "I...I really don't know. I don't know anything about it."

"People at the Hinton Institute have worked for the Committee, though, haven't they?"

"Yeah, I don't know. I guess so. I heard something like that."

"I can tell that Mr. Flake is anxious to lay hands on you, Professor."

"I'm telling you the truth. That's all I know."

"Good, good," said Mr. B. "I believe you. So now it's your turn. Ask whatever question you want to ask."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He smiled faintly. "It's not about you. This is about something much, much larger than all of us. It's about things that were set in motion hundreds of years ago. You're merely a pawn in the battle. A chess piece. What I hope you realize, by the end of this evening, is just how much you've been used. You were seen as weak by the people you thought were your friends. And that's why they betrayed you."

"You really think I'm going to believe that? And what, you're here to rescue me from the 'cult'? What are you guys, some low-rent Evangelical hit squad? Did Ed Decker send you?"

Mr. B. shook his head and nodded again to Flake, who punched Franklynn solidly in the ear. There was a slight ringing when he sat back up.

"That predictable brand of humor isn't going to help you, Frank." said Mr. B. "I have another question for you."

"Whatever."

"Have you been inside the Church vaults? The ones at Little Cottonwood Canyon?"

"Yes, I have. Why?"

"Why were you there?"

"I....Look, I can't say."

"Oh, really? It's like the temple, then, is it? Sacred, not secret?"

"I made a covenant. I can't tell you what I did. I'm sorry, I just can't."

"Can you get back in?" Mr. B. leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. He was staring intently at Franklynn, and he had almost lambent green eyes.

After a few moments, Franklynn said, "No. No, I can't. It was just the one time."

Mr. B. sighed, and then he leaned back. "Well, I guess that's that, then. I figured it would come to this, but we have our answer." He turned to Ron: "How far out are we?"

"Twenty miles or so."

Mr. B. turned to the third man: the wiry, dark-haired man who hadn't said anything. "Is that far enough, do you think?"

"I'd say so."

"All right then. Wherever you think is best, Ron." He turned back to Frank. "We all have regrets in life, Brother Carmichael. We all make promises, or rather, promises are made to us, and we don't always see the consequences thereof. So I will ask you a final time. What were you doing in the Church vaults?"

The van came to a stop, and Ron shut off the engine.

"I....I told you. I can't say. Please, I can't tell you. I made a covenant!"

"We completely understand," Mr. B. said, and then he nodded, and the two men in the back were on him, opening up the back doors and escorting him out into the night.

"Please," Frank said. "What are you doing? Where are we? What...what're you doing?"

Outside, it was pitch dark save for the thick array of stars overhead. Frank blinked and looked around, and he could make out the shapes of mountains in the distance, but the landscape itself was completely flat. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like there were somewhere out in the Bonneville Salt Flats. Behind him, Flake had the barrel of the gun pointed at the base of his skull.

"Should I get the shovel?" said the other man: the one whose name Frank still didn't know.

"No," said Mr. B. And then he nodded, and Flake forced Franklynn down to his knees.

"Please, oh, God, my God, please..." said Frank.

"What does the Celestial Kingdom look like?" Mr. B. said, to no one in particular, and then the first blow came down.

Frank felt it as a sharp, deep and alarming pain in the spot where his shoulder met his neck. He reached up to touch it and his hand came away slick and and warm and dark. He started to gasp and let out a scream, but then the second blow came, and before he blacked out, he could sense that his head was flopping off to the side.

Flake lifted the machete a final time and brought it down, and then Franklynn's head rolled away from its body, which slumped to the ground and continued to spill blood onto the desert sands.

"Ugly business, that is," said Ron. "Water will not do."

"It is what it is," said Mr. B. "But I will say, what surprised me the most was that he never even asked to shake my hand."

Flake laughed hoarsely at this and Mr. B. looked up at him. "Let's not be laughing at the dead," he said. "Get this taken care of and let's be on our way."




The phone was ringing: it was 3:04 am. He picked it up and climbed out of bed and carried it out into the hall so he wouldn't disturb his wife.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"My goodness. It's late. Is there something wrong?"

"I.... Well, I don't know."

"What's that supposed to mean? What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

"I mean, our people were supposed to take care of this, but they haven't been able to find him."

"He's gone?"

"Completely gone."

"Now, how can that be possible? Trace his cell phone, for heaven's sake."

"That's just it. We found it in a dumpster in Tooele."

"Huh. So has he run away, then? To Nevada?"

"We don't know. We'll keeping looking. I can promise you we'll take care of this to the best of our abilities."

"Yes. Yes, you had better do that."

"I sorry to have woken you."

"No, no. There is no sleep for those who defend the Kingdom."

"Indeed."

Click.

He stood there holding the phone, thinking and listening to the sounds of his house at night: the stillness of it. Before long, he would have to get up for work. If he was lucky, he could return to bed and fall asleep quickly and would be able to get in a final 2 hours or so, but he knew that was unlikely. Instead, he would lay awake, thinking about how the difficult choices so often fell to him, and about how much the Saints needed him. About how they needed him now more than ever. In a few hours more, the sun would rise again, as it always did, and he would be there, ready to confront whatever challenges lay ahead.



THE END.

[_annie]

Noooooo. Poor Franklynn

[_Doctor CamNC4Me]

I totally don't get any of this. ??

[_Everybody Wang Chung]

Thank you Bobberson!

Another brilliant, subversive and cautionary tale of Mopologetics.

[_Gadianton]

annie,

I felt bad for Franklyn too. He was just a regular guy who got caught up in something bigger than he was. The guys at the bottom are always expendable; so sad.

...his denial of the SCMC as "a clipping service" was hilarious.

[_Dr. Shades]

Another ending that raises more questions than it answers!!

[_moksha]

Was this part of the Cosmic Battle between the forces of rebellion and a small clipping service? Was one sides hit squad a bit faster than the others? Does The Iron Rod have good garlic burgers?

Hopefully, answers will be forthcoming in the next chapter by Bob Bobberson.

[_Bret Ripley]

He met the tyrant's brandished steel,
the lion's gory mane;
he bowed his head his death to feel:
who follows in his train?

R.I.P. Brother Carmichael.

[_beastie]

I also hope we get some answers in the next installment.