Report From The Prayer Division 
by Eric J. Gehl

That night they placed the programmer at the altar of the old electric company, dragging a slick streak behind from where they'd split it's middle. The insides were draped in greasy furls and roils over the arms of the Chief Executive Shaman, where he stood at the bottom of the steps to sanctify their rite with a reading from the Toshiba. 

A crowd stood behind, mostly from the Chanting Department at the Ministry of Worship, shouting and clapping as they watched the carcass being piled by the doors. Others watched from rooftops and alleyways, the crowd at the altar dense and hard to navigate. 

Junior Field Acolytes from the Prayer Division, Ceremonial Department, crinkled and rusty telescope scepters set to one side, jammed rolls of newspaper under the carcass. The Clerical Engineer ran up shortly, brushing them aside, pulling a light pen free of his robes.

The cleric clicked it on, crossed himself, then the programmer. He turned, pulling up armfuls of loose cabling and wires curled and knotted on the steps, routed through a twist of fencing around the side of the building, jammed and cranked into the transformer array at the back. 

He stripped a small pair of wires with his teeth, splicing the ends and holding them to the end of a larger cable. He took a breath and gave the Prayer of Deliverance.

"Anything good on tonight?"

The crowd roared, throwing up their hands. 

The cleric struck the end of the large cable, sending a small arc onto the pile by the door. 

The papers caught, the carcass flared, burning bright in the middle where a laminated ID hung from it's pocket. This was where the soul lived, they knew, where it would escape from if given the chance. The cleric produced a stack of magazines and dropped them on the pile. The soul would be confused now, seeking false sanctuary while it burned. 

The cleric faced the crowd, striking the ends of the wires again, covering the steps in a shatter of sparks.

"You wanna keep this on?" he screamed. 

"YesYesYesYesYesYesYES!" 

The crowd cheered, flinging up their arms, fanning the flames to the moon, imbibing it to find this a righteous sacrifice that it might open the sky. 

A group on a fire escape began banging phone cradles against one another, sending their assent in tight lilts of ping! ping! ping! 

The shaman raised his arms of twists and curls, draping the entrails about his shoulders. He painted his eyes with blood and slick, wiping the rest on the robes of the Section Priest of Placation. He slipped the Toshiba from the belt of the priest, sliding it out of it's holy vest.

"Instructions for proper installation of VHS Model 551!" said the shaman. 

"VHS! VHS! VHS!" they chanted.

A group of service personnel from the Histrionics and Dramatic Rituals Division were gathered nearby, awaiting their cue. The shaman opened the Toshiba and they grabbed up the ends of their power cables, swinging their monitor screens in wide circles above their heads. Others joined in, the crowd and those above, swinging radios, televisions, even an old Coleco terminal. 

"Place stereo input from antenna relay to amperage array at VHS port! See step three!" intoned the shaman.

"See Step Three!" they chanted. "See Step Three!"

Long streamers of typewriter ribbon hung from the monitors, taped to the front or tied around back, the whirl of their motion cutting under the shaman's recital with a wrinkled whistling.

"Some input jacks may not be adaptable to series 22-s configuration. See reverse side for instruction!"

"Reverse side! Reverse side!"

Manics on the rooftop across the street cheered and threw handfuls of CD's into the air. They clattered over the crowd, glinting against the glory burning at their altar, winking it back. A woman banged a pair of handycams like cymbals, choking back tears. 

"If problems persist see trouble shooting chart on page 36!" said the shaman, bunching the edges of the text in his fist.

"Trouble shoot! Trouble shoot!" 

The roof crowds threw rolls of fax paper, cheering as they spun and fluttered in graceful heaps into the street. The shaman knelt, offering the Toshiba to the flames, mouthing a silent supplication. The play and spirit of the flames bounced against the doors of the building, flaring as the acolytes braced the flames, topping the pile with a handful of hamburger wrappers and some gutted video tapes. 

The crowd railed again, Division Heads of Inspiration holding them at arm's length. The shaman turned to face the crowd, bowing his head. 

They calmed, shushing to coos and murmurs, the quiet pulsing in a wave back into the far edges. Those on the roofs leaned forward, closing their eyes, listening. A child cried out and was scooped up, it's mother bouncing him gently, pointing down to the street. Silence drifted in under the dark sky. The moon held them in thrall, watching as the flames of the altar waned and fluttered. 

The shaman snapped up, thrusting the Toshiba above his head.

"If you have further questions!" 

The crowd screamed, flailing. Children banged their fists on empty keyboards set across their laps or on ledges or curbs or crouched knees, heads bowing toward the altar. 

ClakkaClakkaClakkaClakkaClakkaClakkaClakka 

"Call 1-800!" the shaman began, peeking out from the top of his head. 

The children shrieked, pounding harder. Others joined in with cameras, lenses buckled, film traps open, clicking off dead frames to punctuate the pounding. 

Clakka-clakka-CLAKCLIK CLAK Clakka-clakka-CLAK CLIKCLAK 

"5-9-9!" the shaman said, head rising. His eyes stayed hard, shaking in their sockets, taking in the crowd. 

Old women fainted. Dogs howled. Men cried. 

Clakka-clakka-CLAK Clakka-clakka-CLAK Clakka-clakka-CLAK 

"3-4" The shaman's eyes froze, tears thick at the rims. 

The children frenzied. Feet stomped. Cassette tape streamers were tossed into the air. 

ClakClakClakCLIKClakClakClakCLIKClakClakClakCLIKClakClakClak 

"3-7!" The shaman's head went back, mouth thrown open, eyes shut under his cheeks. Barely audible he whispered: "And speak to one of our many qu-qualified and cuh-courteous representatives." Tears spilled in cold, shaking fingers to plug his ears. 

The crowd cheered as legion, reveling in their rite to the powers that be. They offered themselves to the sky, the moon and their gods, praying for the reception of their sacrament. The histrionics personnel brought their monitors down in a sharp swing, detonating the screens in a thick burst, the glass seeming to hold together one frozen instant, a whist of air just between the pieces as they blossomed out in an expanding dome onto the ground. Those on the street and roofs joining in did likewise, loosing their fists of their chosen instruments and letting them sail or gripping them tight, once more, to blast them down onto the concrete. 

The shaman dropped the packet of instructions, falling onto his back, overwhelmed. The acolytes held up their scepters, flaming paperbacks closed around their ends and twisted shut with wires. They crossed them over the cleric's head, where he knelt at the top, facing the crowd. 

They played their soul, cheering again as the shaman was hoisted onto a litter. A small boy shouldered his way to the front, folded in the robes of Assistant Disciple in Charge of Extra-Cursory Affairs. He scooped up the Toshiba and, crossing himself, placed it back in the baggie, sealing it with a prayer. 

He offered it again to the altar, then turned back to the crowd, the shaman draped upon their shoulders in stricken glory. They raised him, squinting up past their extended arms, watching a bright streak lick a blurry smear across the sky. 

They danced, arms and faces raised in spectacle, thrilling as the moon delivered their soul's peace and opened the sky, dropping another satellite. 


