day, one was not—as you Fundamentalists put it—‘saved.’ We were baptized into the Church as children. But I made a slight mistake as a young man and your so-called Saviour saw fit to condemn me to an eternity of inhuman punishment in the Seventh Bolgia of the Eighth Circle of Hell.”
“Uh-huh,” said Brother Freddy. He swiveled around and gestured toward Camera One to dolly in closer for an extreme close-up on him. He waited until he could see only his own face on the floor monitor and said, “Well, we’re having an enjoyable conversation here with our guest, Mr. Vanni Fucci, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a break for a minute while we show you that tape I promised you of Brother Beau and I dedicating the new Holy Beamer we installed last week in Amarillo. Beau?” Below the frame of the close-up, out of sight of the viewing audience, Brother Freddy drew his right hand repeatedly across his throat. On the floor, Billy Bob nodded, turned toward the booth, and spoke rapidly into his microphone.
“No,” said Vanni Fucci, “let us go on with our conversation.”
The floor monitors showed a long shot of the entire set. The Miracle Triplets sat staring, the bottoms of their little shoes looking like exclamation marks. The Reverend Bubba Deeters raised his right arm as if he was going toscratch his head, glanced at the steel hook that was the reminder of the Lord’s Will during his Viet Nam days, and lowered his arm to the divan. Frank Flinsey, a media pro, was staring in astonishment at the three cameras where no lights glowed and then back at the monitors which definitely showed a picture. Brother Freddy was frozen with his hand still raised to his throat. Only Vanni Fucci seemed unruffled.
“Do you think,” said the Italian guest, “that if Dale had passed away before Trigger, Roy would have had
her
stuffed and mounted in the living room?”
“Ah?” managed Brother Freddy. He had heard very old men make similar sounds in their sleep.
“Just a thought,” continued Vanni Fucci. “Would you rather I go on about my own situation?”
Brother Freddy nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three uniformed Security men trying to get on stage. Someone seemed to have lowered an invisible Plexiglas wall around the edge of the set.
“It actually has not been seven hundred years that I have been in Hell,” said Vanni Fucci, “only six hundred and ninety. But you know how slowly time passes in such a situation. Like in a dentist’s office.”
“Yes,” said Brother Freddy. The word was a little better than a squeak.
“And did you know that one condemned soul from each Bolgia is allowed one visit back to the mortal world during our eternity of punishment? Much like your American custom of one phone call allotted to the arrested man.”
“No,” said Brother Freddy and cleared his throat. “No.”
“Yes,” said Vanni Fucci. “I think the idea is that the visit sharpens our torments by reminding us of the pleasures we once knew. Something like that. Actually, we are only allowed to return for fifteen minutes, so the pleasures sampled could not be too extensive, could they?”
“No,” said Brother Freddy, pleased that his voice was stronger. The single syllable sounded wise and slightly amused, mildly patronizing. He was deciding which Biblicalverse he would use when it was time to regain control of the conversation.
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Vanni Fucci. “The point is that all of the condemned souls in the Seventh Bolgia of the Eighth Circle voted unanimously for me to come here, on your show.” Vanni Fucci leaned forward, his cuffs shooting perfectly so that gold cufflinks caught the light. “Do you know what a Bolgia is, Brother Freddy?”
“Ah … no,” said Brother Freddy, derailed slightly from his line of thought. He had decided on a verse but it seemed inappropriate at right this instant. “Or rather … yes,” he said. “A Bolgia is that
“Uh-huh,” said Brother Freddy. He swiveled around and gestured toward Camera One to dolly in closer for an extreme close-up on him. He waited until he could see only his own face on the floor monitor and said, “Well, we’re having an enjoyable conversation here with our guest, Mr. Vanni Fucci, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a break for a minute while we show you that tape I promised you of Brother Beau and I dedicating the new Holy Beamer we installed last week in Amarillo. Beau?” Below the frame of the close-up, out of sight of the viewing audience, Brother Freddy drew his right hand repeatedly across his throat. On the floor, Billy Bob nodded, turned toward the booth, and spoke rapidly into his microphone.
“No,” said Vanni Fucci, “let us go on with our conversation.”
The floor monitors showed a long shot of the entire set. The Miracle Triplets sat staring, the bottoms of their little shoes looking like exclamation marks. The Reverend Bubba Deeters raised his right arm as if he was going toscratch his head, glanced at the steel hook that was the reminder of the Lord’s Will during his Viet Nam days, and lowered his arm to the divan. Frank Flinsey, a media pro, was staring in astonishment at the three cameras where no lights glowed and then back at the monitors which definitely showed a picture. Brother Freddy was frozen with his hand still raised to his throat. Only Vanni Fucci seemed unruffled.
“Do you think,” said the Italian guest, “that if Dale had passed away before Trigger, Roy would have had
her
stuffed and mounted in the living room?”
“Ah?” managed Brother Freddy. He had heard very old men make similar sounds in their sleep.
“Just a thought,” continued Vanni Fucci. “Would you rather I go on about my own situation?”
Brother Freddy nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three uniformed Security men trying to get on stage. Someone seemed to have lowered an invisible Plexiglas wall around the edge of the set.
“It actually has not been seven hundred years that I have been in Hell,” said Vanni Fucci, “only six hundred and ninety. But you know how slowly time passes in such a situation. Like in a dentist’s office.”
“Yes,” said Brother Freddy. The word was a little better than a squeak.
“And did you know that one condemned soul from each Bolgia is allowed one visit back to the mortal world during our eternity of punishment? Much like your American custom of one phone call allotted to the arrested man.”
“No,” said Brother Freddy and cleared his throat. “No.”
“Yes,” said Vanni Fucci. “I think the idea is that the visit sharpens our torments by reminding us of the pleasures we once knew. Something like that. Actually, we are only allowed to return for fifteen minutes, so the pleasures sampled could not be too extensive, could they?”
“No,” said Brother Freddy, pleased that his voice was stronger. The single syllable sounded wise and slightly amused, mildly patronizing. He was deciding which Biblicalverse he would use when it was time to regain control of the conversation.
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Vanni Fucci. “The point is that all of the condemned souls in the Seventh Bolgia of the Eighth Circle voted unanimously for me to come here, on your show.” Vanni Fucci leaned forward, his cuffs shooting perfectly so that gold cufflinks caught the light. “Do you know what a Bolgia is, Brother Freddy?”
“Ah … no,” said Brother Freddy, derailed slightly from his line of thought. He had decided on a verse but it seemed inappropriate at right this instant. “Or rather … yes,” he said. “A Bolgia is that
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