September 26, 2002

The Manservant's Tale

Part Two:  A Relentless Killing Machine

    "The doctors say I have a pericardial malignancy.  It has already spread, and they say the prognosis is very poor."  Mr. Heston said this in a measured, solemn tone as he sat on the green silk divan in the Media Room of his Beverly Hills Mansion.

        As Mr. Charlton Heston's manservant for the last thirty-eight years, I clearly understood the inner strength and courage it took for him to  so calmly share this information.  However, the pathos and subtlety were lost on his guest who shifted his massive bulk on the leather loveseat and smirked pleasantly.

    "I see ... very good, Chuck," he said with a chuckle.

    "Damn it, Rush! Listen!" Mr. Heston shouted, pounding his fist on the incidental table.

    "Oh, sorry, Chuck.  It's these damn hearing aids of mine.  They were made in Ukrapistan, and half the time they don't even work at all," Rush Limbaugh said as he fiddled with the tiny devices until them emitted a series of piercing high frequency shrieks.  "That's better.  Now what was it you were saying, Chuck?  Something about you getting a puppy?"

    "I've got cancer of the heart," Mr. Heston thundered.  "I'm gonna die pretty damn soon!"

    "I see.  Now what kind of puppies are we talking about , Chuck?  I love Scotties," Mr. Limbaugh answered, grinning merrily.

    "I'm going to the Democratic National Convention tomorrow night, Rush!  I'm going to kill as many of the bastards as I can," he roared in that still-rich baritone voice.  The voice of Ben Hur, Moses, and Major Dundee.

    "You say you're going to get some cats, too?" Mr. Limbaugh said with a chuckle.  "That will keep you busy, old sport!"

    "Get this fat imbecile out of here," Mr. Heston growled as he rose with great effort and pointed the portly radio personality towards the door.

    That afternoon as Mr. Heston rested and watched "Passions" and "Guiding Light" in bed, I checked out the weapons systems and electronics on the customized Chevy Suburban we would use to drive to San Francisco the next day.  We spent the evening when he awoke preparing the weapons and arming the grenades and mines.  While carving notches in the tips of a magazine full of dum dum bullets, the sage, old patriot ruminated on the fate of a nation.

    "It's the Democrats who ruined America.  With their welfare and their equal opportunity and their abortions, they have worn away at the core of this great Republic like an unholy horde of termites destroying the foundation of a rugged, old non-denominational church."

    Across the basement, the television broadcast a steady stream of speeches from the Democratic National Convention.

    "You watch, Jeff.  If they have their way, each day will start with President Rodham Clinton handing every school child in America a packet of condoms and a plate of Soylent Green.  Damn dirty apes!" he yelled discharging a round from his Manlicher semi-auto carbine and blowing the big screen TV to bits.

    He was "wobbling" again.  Mr. Heston over those last few months of dementia would - as I called it -  "wobble" between the here and now and the even more realistic memories of his past acclaimed roles on the silver screen.  This time the report from his weapon jolted him back to the present, and he was as docile as a lamb when I bathed him and put him to bed.

    It seems impossible that just twenty-four hours later I was surreptitiously steering the Suburban through the labyrinth of alleys behind the Harvey Milk Convention Center in downtown San Francisco.  Dressed in full chauffeur's livery,  I carried out Mr. Heston's brilliant plan as an incredibly life-like Bill Clinton animatronic mannequin rode beside me in the passenger seat nodding, smiling, and waving, a tribute to the special effects wizards who Mr. Heston had befriended over the years in Hollywood.  We had full, unquestioned access.

    As we pulled into the loading dock, the time for action was near.  With a jolt, I opened the back doors of the Suburban and dropped the heavy metal ramp.  I could hear behind me the highly amplified voice of Barbra Streisand on stage just thirty feet away as she addressed the convention and prepared to introduce Senator - soon to be President - Hillary Rodham Clinton.  It was then that the assault vehicle shot down the ramp at full throttle.  Mr. Heston called it his "Chariot of Firepower," and it was an intimidating sight.  It had started as a heavy duty wheelchair, but after extensive modifications with a turbo diesel engine, two full weapons racks, and rear and side bulletproof shields, it looked like nothing less than a high speed killing machine.  Though riddled by the unchecked malignancy of his heart, Mr. Heston looked formidable as well, dressed entirely in black, a machine gun in each hand as he worked the throttles with his feet.

    His last shouted words to me were somewhat unclear.  I believe he shouted, " ... and to the Republicans for which it stands."  Then with a hoarse battle cry of "Damn dirty apes!" he surged forward, careening through the backstage area.

    By now, every American has seen the footage of the attack countless times as at exactly 9:13PM EST the assault vehicle tore through the red, white, and blue bunting that formed the backdrop at the rear of the massive stage.  The first grenade launched from the M-16 "over and under" pump rocketed up to the ceiling, exploding harmlessly as it blasted apart a fifty foot bale of balloons which were about to be released onto the crowd.

    The tapes show that as he charged forward Mr. Heston took dead aim at Ms. Streisand with his MAC 10 machine pistol set on full auto.  However, after the first round winged the Academy Award winning singer, the weapon jammed.  It was then that Mr. Heston's luck turned bad.  Discarding the MAC 10, he fired another grenade, this one a smoke round for cover, but the recoil threw the assault vehicle off course, roaring inexorably towards the front of the stage and the gaping orchestra pit.

    On a night filled with terror which ended with a total of fifty-nine casualties, from the crowd of cowering fattened liberals and crooked party fixers a single hero came forward.  From stage left, Christopher Reeve roared into battle in his wheelchair on a collision course with Mr. Heston.  With his one good hand, Reeve squeezed off shot after shot of covering fire from the Mauser pistol he had concealed in the arm rest of his wheelchair.

    As he struggled to regain control of his vehicle, Mr. Heston threw down the M-16 and pulled out his beloved Colt .45 Peacemaker revolver and blazed away at the paralyzed actor as they surged towards each other in a deadly showdown.  It was Reeve's last round which shattered the axle of the assault vehicle sending it reeling out of control over the edge of the stage and straight down twenty feet into the darkened orchestra pit.  At impact, a series of explosions wreaked havoc and destruction.  In the pit, all fifty-nine members of the special guest Texas Correctional Institutions Death Row Glee Club and Men's Chorale were killed instantly as they finished singing a touching a cappella medley of "Hotel California/ The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  The blast sent the convicted killers to meet their maker in a cruel unexpected stroke of capital punishment.  Mr. Heston died on impact, spared the indignity of looking up to see the garish faces of Hillary Rodham Clinton, Teddy Kennedy, and Mario Cuomo leering down at him.

    But now it is a year later, and though the great man is gone I remain and count the days until my trial on fifty-nine counts of "accessory to homicide."  I suspect each of those Death Row Choir members had families and loved ones.  Even those cold-blooded convicted murderers are God's creatures, and I will have to live the rest of my days knowing that I in some way played a part in their passing.  I too will some day pass on, and though it may be in a  small cell, I will go as a loyal manservant, forever in service to a great and fearsome master.

P.S.  Did I mention that this is honest-to-goodness a complete work of fiction?