Meat the Messiah: s01e02 – Be Alert and of Sober Mind
in l.a. the sun is a flash bulb in the camera of the sky that never relents. roy mcroy eats his whole lunch in a laborious, trodding fashion. only two more days of this job. when he was young he met greta garbo at a screening of which film he couldn’t remember. since then he wanted to be near greatness. he got a job 35 years prior at the w.b. lot as a security guard, straight out of high school. it was a union job with a pension so he stuck around. he married his high school sweetheart and they had two children. when they got a tv at the security booth, the channel was always set to fox news. he left it on there because he wanted some noise while he had down time. the conservative programming made him more suspicious of immigrants, and black people who weren’t famous seemed to be hoodlums. for years he let his brain simmer on the conservative hotplate, until it was dry and hard. this was a point of contention at home, as his wife and kids were not cooking their brains on trash tv. instead, his kids became bay area anarchists, and his wife ran off with a woman; all of whom stopped talking to him. he started drinking and was mad at nights. he broke down crying at walmart and bought a gun. now with two more days on the job, he has two more days of purpose. two more days of slog and agony. then he could end it. roy mcroy watches as a cadillac convertible drives up to the security booth at w.b. studios. he sees elvis and hulk hogan, an old drunk and ronald mcdonald in the car. ronald mcdonald takes out a shotgun and blasts him in the face.
***commercial break***
a very white upper middle class family rides in their cadillac escalade. ‘in this fast paced digital world, it’s important to take into account the quiet of a well made car.’ the escalade plows through a herd of deer without losing speed. blood splatters the windshield. the kids in the back say yay! the dad turns on the windshield wipers.
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panama’s ‘destroyer’ plays in bullet-time as the hammer strikes the shell. there is a rapid expanse of gasses and flame, propelling the buckshot down the smoothbore barrel, each bb of shot trying to outrun the last, until they meet the true forms of light and death outside the barrel. this is plato’s shotgun, and in this moment, when the shot traverses from gun to face, everyone surrounding understands the true forms of the mortal moment. as the music swells, roy mcroy has a reverie from sometime ago, when men were men and the goddamn antifa wasn’t trying to take his job. it was a simpler time, some decades before this one. and he thought of an office building in the middle of a field that he saw as a kid. he didn’t know what was in the office building, nor why he was there, but he knew that there was something beautiful about that building and that field, that it had the american promise of taming the wilderness for business, that all frontiers would soon be mapped. there should’ve been a picture taken of that building, in all its dull imposition. this is what roy mcroy thinks of in his last milliseconds, as the buckshot pierces meat and crushes bone… as the metal snakes through the skull and out the back. the body of roy mcroy slumps back and air escapes his lungs like a sigh.
credits roll.
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