duchess or countess or whatever who used to poison people in the Middle Ages.”
Vanni Fucci leaned back and sighed. “No,” he said, “you’re thinking of the Borgias. A Bolgia is a word in my native language which means both ‘ditch’ and ‘pouch.’ The Eighth Circle of Hell has ten such Bolgias filled with shit and sinners.”
The silent audience was silent no longer. Even the cameramen gasped. Brother Freddy glanced at the monitors and closed his eyes as he realized that his very own Hallelujah Breakfast Club, the top-rated Christian program in the world except for the occasional Billy Graham Crusade, would be the first program in TBN and CBN history to allow the word “shit” to go out over the airwaves. He imagined what the Ministry Board of Trustees would say. The fact that seven of the eleven Board members were also members of his own family did not make the image any more pleasant.
“Now listen here …” Brother Freddy began sternly.
“Have you read the
Comedy
?” asked Vanni Fucci.
There was something more than anger and intensity in the man’s eyes. Brother Freddy decided he was dealing with an escaped mental patient.
“Comedy?” said Brother Freddy, wondering if the man were some sort of deranged standup comic and all of this a publicity stunt. On the floor, the cameramen had swung the heavy cameras around and were peering in the lenses. The monitors showed a steady shot framing only Vanni Fucci and Brother Freddy. Brother Billy Bob was runningfrom camera to camera, occasionally tripping over a cable or coming to the end of his mike cord and jerking to a stop like a crazed Dachshund on a short leash.
“He called it his
Comedy,
” said Vanni Fucci. “Later generations of sycophants added the
Divine.
” He frowned at Brother Freddy, an impatient teacher waiting for a slow child to respond.
“I’m sorry … I don’t …” began Brother Freddy. One of the cameramen was disassembling his camera. None of the remaining cameras was aimed at the set. The picture held steady.
“Alighieri?” prompted Vanni Fucci. “A dirty little Florentine who lusted after an eight-year-old girl? Wrote one readable thing in his entire miserable life?” He turned toward the guests on the divan. “Come on, come on, don’t any of you read?”
The five Christians on the couch seemed to shrink back.
“Dante!” shouted the handsome foreigner. “Dante Alighieri. What’s the deal here, gentlemen? To join the Fundamentalists Club you have to park your brains at the door and stuff your skull with hominy and grits, is that it? Dante!”
“Just one minute …” said Brother Freddy, rising.
“Who do you think you …” began Frank Flinsey, standing.
“What do you think you’re …” said Bubba Deeters, getting to his feet and brandishing his hook.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” cried the Miracle Triplets, struggling to get their feet to the floor.
“SIT DOWN.” It was not a human voice. At least not an unamplified human voice. Brother Freddy had made the mistake once on an outdoor Crusade of standing in front of a bank of thirty huge speakers when the soundman tested them at full volume. This was a little like that. Only worse. Brother Billy Bob and others with headphones on ripped them off and fell to their knees. Several overhead spots shattered. The audience leaned backward like a single three-hundred-headed organism, whimpered once, and adopted a silence unbroken even by the sound of breathing. Brother Freddy and the guests on the divan sat down.
“Alighieri did it,” said Vanni Fucci in soft, conversational tones. “The man was a mental midget with the imagination of a moth, but he did it
because no one before him did it.
”
“Did what?” asked Brother Freddy, staring in fascinated horror at the madman in the crushed velour chair next to his desk.
“Created Hell,” said Vanni Fucci.
“Nonsense!” cried Reverend Frank Flinsey, author of fourteen books about the end of the world.
Vanni Fucci leaned back and sighed. “No,” he said, “you’re thinking of the Borgias. A Bolgia is a word in my native language which means both ‘ditch’ and ‘pouch.’ The Eighth Circle of Hell has ten such Bolgias filled with shit and sinners.”
The silent audience was silent no longer. Even the cameramen gasped. Brother Freddy glanced at the monitors and closed his eyes as he realized that his very own Hallelujah Breakfast Club, the top-rated Christian program in the world except for the occasional Billy Graham Crusade, would be the first program in TBN and CBN history to allow the word “shit” to go out over the airwaves. He imagined what the Ministry Board of Trustees would say. The fact that seven of the eleven Board members were also members of his own family did not make the image any more pleasant.
“Now listen here …” Brother Freddy began sternly.
“Have you read the
Comedy
?” asked Vanni Fucci.
There was something more than anger and intensity in the man’s eyes. Brother Freddy decided he was dealing with an escaped mental patient.
“Comedy?” said Brother Freddy, wondering if the man were some sort of deranged standup comic and all of this a publicity stunt. On the floor, the cameramen had swung the heavy cameras around and were peering in the lenses. The monitors showed a steady shot framing only Vanni Fucci and Brother Freddy. Brother Billy Bob was runningfrom camera to camera, occasionally tripping over a cable or coming to the end of his mike cord and jerking to a stop like a crazed Dachshund on a short leash.
“He called it his
Comedy,
” said Vanni Fucci. “Later generations of sycophants added the
Divine.
” He frowned at Brother Freddy, an impatient teacher waiting for a slow child to respond.
“I’m sorry … I don’t …” began Brother Freddy. One of the cameramen was disassembling his camera. None of the remaining cameras was aimed at the set. The picture held steady.
“Alighieri?” prompted Vanni Fucci. “A dirty little Florentine who lusted after an eight-year-old girl? Wrote one readable thing in his entire miserable life?” He turned toward the guests on the divan. “Come on, come on, don’t any of you read?”
The five Christians on the couch seemed to shrink back.
“Dante!” shouted the handsome foreigner. “Dante Alighieri. What’s the deal here, gentlemen? To join the Fundamentalists Club you have to park your brains at the door and stuff your skull with hominy and grits, is that it? Dante!”
“Just one minute …” said Brother Freddy, rising.
“Who do you think you …” began Frank Flinsey, standing.
“What do you think you’re …” said Bubba Deeters, getting to his feet and brandishing his hook.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” cried the Miracle Triplets, struggling to get their feet to the floor.
“SIT DOWN.” It was not a human voice. At least not an unamplified human voice. Brother Freddy had made the mistake once on an outdoor Crusade of standing in front of a bank of thirty huge speakers when the soundman tested them at full volume. This was a little like that. Only worse. Brother Billy Bob and others with headphones on ripped them off and fell to their knees. Several overhead spots shattered. The audience leaned backward like a single three-hundred-headed organism, whimpered once, and adopted a silence unbroken even by the sound of breathing. Brother Freddy and the guests on the divan sat down.
“Alighieri did it,” said Vanni Fucci in soft, conversational tones. “The man was a mental midget with the imagination of a moth, but he did it
because no one before him did it.
”
“Did what?” asked Brother Freddy, staring in fascinated horror at the madman in the crushed velour chair next to his desk.
“Created Hell,” said Vanni Fucci.
“Nonsense!” cried Reverend Frank Flinsey, author of fourteen books about the end of the world.
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