Bob Patrikson, Ruler of Earth, hasn’t let go of the dry, dirty, football-sized Stone for six months. The leading network has been touting Bob as the holiest man alive: no one’s kept the Stone this long since 2162. But it also reports that Gerald Rogginway and Harry Swile have formed a truce and are closing in on Saint Bob’s position.
Contestants are trained from birth. In addition to physical exercise, they have to memorize the Sacred Words: a speech in an ancient tongue that once came from the lips of God himself. Tryouts are held in Kentucky where the original Holy Stone Church bustles. Only if a candidate exhibits both physical prowess and perfect memorization can he enter the arena that once was the continent of Africa.
Since May of 2233, when Bob had disintegrated the Stone’s previous keeper, he’d been so busy dodging opponents all across that wasteland that he seldom had time to use his authority as Ruler of Earth. He first announced that all resources would be diverted to his home state of Ohio. Then he replaced Boise with a crystal palace for his wife. Next, he decreed that the worldwide hunts were taking too long—everyone who didn’t believe in the Holy Stone should be executed on sight. And his followers scrambled to obey, for he who held the Stone was like God.
The faith began in response to what took place in 2099, at the end of mankind’s last Great War. Though Saint Larry has expunged much of human history, The Origins of the Holy Stone by Samuel Fritzwellington blame Africa’s scarring on invading ‘snow peoples.’ And it tells of the final battle when God Himself manifested between the advancing armies: “Arms were dropped in awe; His voice touched each person. And God did utter, in the vernacular of that time, the Sacred Words we still cherish. And he did gesture to the Stone, and he did vanish into the AEther.” Before devolving into thought experiments, Origins relates that the ‘snow peoples’ returned home and dropped their disagreements.
There’s an interruption on every screen across what’s left of the globe: a flash bulletin. “Journalism Drones bringing you the action live! That’s right folks, I’m William Prate and this is the bunker where we believe Saint Bob is hiding! Crowd-favorite Gerald Rogginway is parting the brambles, opening the seals… and Harry Swile is already priming his Molecu-Ray! Folks, I do believe he’s sweating in anticipation! Oh… the door is opening… and look! There! It’s him!”
Every eye in Super America sees the waifish form of Saint Bob. He’s clutching the football-sized Stone to his chest, rocking back and forth. His eyes widen. “Wait,” he pleads. Then he disintegrates.
“Oh my!” guffaws William Prate. “Looks like the word ‘wait’ isn’t in Harry’s vocabulary! What a way to end a winning streak—what’s this? What’s this? Did you see that, folks? Crowd favorite Gerald Rogginway has just been vaporized! Humanity zero, Harry Swile two and counting! What a day, folks! Look at that, Harry is reaching out for the Holy Stone! He is got it in his hands! Alright folks—the moment we’ve been waiting for! Please give it up for the new living God, Harry Swile! Long may he—oh? What’s this?”
Every household and bar halts mid-cheer. From the screen, the image of their new champion also disintegrates. The cameras of the Journalism Drones spin and hunt, finally settling on the face of another man, his Molecu-Ray smoking as he comes from the brambles.
Prate presses his earpiece. “Folks at home, I’m hearing that this is Juan Linares, from Down South. We, uh, don’t know too much about him… but what if…”
A tell-tale flash comes from the screen indicating that the Journalism Drones fired. Juan Linares’ ashes blow away on a slight breeze.
“Folks… let’s just say the Stone is up for grabs! What a day for us, and what a day it must be for you! Therefore—let us lower our heads in prayer. Here to guide us in the Sacred Words is Stuart Patrikson, son of Saint Bob.”
A blonde fourteen year-old appears on the screen. “Howdy Mr. Prate!”
“Well hello there, Stuart. Mighty glad to have you. And thanks for leading us in prayer.”
“No problem, Mr. Prate. I’m doing it for my Daddy, who’s part of the AEther now.” The boy bowed his head and dredged up the English words he had committed to memory. His accent was terrible: only a few scholars knew how to pronounce the dead language. But Stuart bravely recited the words God left to humans at the end of the war. With one voice, Stuart and his viewers recited, “I am the Lord your God. And I’m telling you to stop fighting. Seriously, stop fighting. It’s the stupidest thing you could be doing. Your soul is equal to this random rock, so stop fighting with people! Especially ones you don’t like. If you feel hate, look inside yourself to find what is broken. Do not harm any other person with words or actions! Not for any reason! And stop taking stuff that isn’t yours! I literally wrote all this down in a book you revere. So stop fighting—you’re all One! Seriously, this is the last time I’m going to say it! Pay attention! We can hang out if you get your act together, so knock it off. Seriously. Go home.” And Stuart said amen, and William Prate said amen, and all the Super Americans said their amens too.
“Thank you son,” said Prate,“that was beautiful. Now folks, we have a list of contenders near the unclaimed Stone. Coming up is a play-by-play of the competition, so stay tuned!”