The Heavenly Gates - Series Finale

Part 3 of three. a.k.a. The Conclusion.

Dedicated to first-born child, Harriet - for reasons she alone will appreciate.

... I found the cult centre on a stretch of highway where the road led out of town. It was surrounded by insignificant business enterprises of the quick-buck variety - second-rate motels, fast-food outlets and lube shops. It was the perfect location for a cult - the people were as transient as the business community.

I didn't like driving in that area. Every moron sitting atop four wheels seemed to be just itching to either get out of town or go out and get drunk. There was a reckless feeling in the air that night, a kind of touchy abandonment where every fight is at least half a second in the planning stages and every accident is a hit and run.

I spotted my destination, cut the headlights and idled into the lot. For a while, I just sat in the car and watched through the windows. It was the cult headquarters all right. All the kids inside were decked out in their official garb. Striped jackets and pants - the legs and lapels of which were in fashion ten years ago and on their heads, small undersized beanies, the kind prep school kids have to wear. I was positive that brainwashing techniques had been used. You wouldn't be able to get any self-respecting teenager into a get-up like that.

I spotted the Thomas kid from a photograph his sister had given me. He looked like all the others. Short, close-cropped hair on the boys and the girls all in pony-tails. From what I could make out, the only prerequisite for becoming a member of this club was to have a big smile and a puss full of acne.

If it hadn't been for the photograph, I don't know how I would have been able to tell the Thomas kid apart from the rest of them. One kid looked almost identical to the other. What bothered me was the image that the leaders wanted them to project. They all seemed obnoxiously clean-cut and cheerful. If I was to wake up with a hangover one morning and one of these jokers was the first thing I saw, I'd feel the need to call him over and punch him in the face. Only then, would I be able to get on with the rest of the day.

I had to hand it to whoever brainwashed these kids though. They'd done a damn thorough job of it. With army-like efficiency they hustled around like ants - each with a job to do. But the movements seemed mechanical - like marionets dancing on strings. But boy, could they go through the motions. I half-imagined they would jump through flaming hoops if they were asked.

I left my car and walked in. I'd have to come up with an idea to get the Thomas kid out somehow and into the deprogramming process. As I walked across the lot, I glanced at the gaudy cheap statues on the front lawn - pagan idols of some sick, perverted idea of religion. Inside were glossy photos of some clown I took to be their leader, their guru. I passed a couple of the uniformed kids talking about ostracizing one of the new recruits for not wanting to take part in the group baseball game that weekend. If I was lucky, it might be the Thomas kid they were talking about and I wouldn't get much of a struggle out of him.

I played my hunch through. I went up to the Thomas kid.

"Your sister sent me. You want to forget this foolishness and get out of here?"

He nodded sheepishly, "They got me on garbage detail for a month just because I didn't want to play left-field, sir."

"Ya darn fool kid, what'd ya expect? This ain't no picnic. These guys play for keeps. Now - the blue DeSoto outside. Take the garbage out and be ready to get into it when I give you the signal. Got it? I'll be out in a minute."

As I stood in a line-up, my eyes began to dry out from the harsh glare of the overhead florescent lights. Obviously used as a sleep-deprivation technique in breaking down new recruits. I couldn't see how anyone could stand more than ten minutes in the place and after a five-minute wait in the line, I was ready to run out, fearing my braincells would either be numbed by the Muzak or fried from the lights.

When I reached the counter, a yapful of perfect teeth asks, "Can I help you?"

I order a coffee and the simpleton forgets to even offer me sugar or cream.

"That's alright, baby. I take my coffee the same way I like my women - hot, strong and black." I always like to give the counter help a hard time with that one.

But she didn't get it. It was over her head. All she could think of in the way of response was to do what she'd been told over and over again - "And would you like fries and a Big Mac with your coffee, sir?"

I grabbed my java and walked out. Flies and wasps circled the garbage cans. It was a good place to bring my swatter. In front of me, a new set of suckers walked under those damned golden arches.

We've fallen a long way, I thought. From the Pearly Gates to this ugly, neon-lit yellow beacon. Oh Lord, gimme a break! And then stepped aside and let them pass.