Disclaimor:
The following is text directly from a Stephen King (under his pen-name of Richard Bachman) novel called The Regulators. If the mods must delete this for copyright or other legal reasons, so be it. However, my intent is not to in any way ripoff King, or somehow rob him of sales revenue-the book is great in my opinion, you should go out and buy it if you're intrigued.
It just struck me as so simliar to what many of you have described of Witness attitudes and beliefs that I thought it might be interesting to people here. Note: the text is in the form of a diary entry about a housewife's little boy who lost his favorite toy. In the book it's in a font that makes it look like handwriting, thus the italics. Highlighting is by me, to indicate particularly JW-like places. [...] is by me as well, to show places where I cut a bit out, otherwise this would have been twice as long.
June 13, 1995
Around 3:00, while I was vacuuming, there was a knock on the kitchen door. I opened it & there stood Mr. Hobart from down the street, and his son, who is a pudgy redhaired boy with thick glasses and pasty skin. Sort of repulsive looking, if you want to know the truth. The kid had a Dream Floater van in his arms. There was no question it was Seth's. I didn't have to see the broken tail-light and the scratch up the driver's side to see that, but as a matter of fact I could see both. You could have knocked me over with a broom-straw. I tried to say something & couldn't, my throat was locked up. I don't know what would have come out if I had been able to talk.
It's hot today, mid 80s, but WM. Hobart was dressed like a church deacon (which I'm sure he is) in a black suit and shoes. His kid was wearing the junior version of the same getup, & was snivelling. Had a pretty good bruise on one cheek, too. I'd bet my bank account his old man put it there.
It didn't matter that I couldn't talk, because Hobart had the whole thing scripted. "My son has something to say to you, Mrs. Wyler," he said, then looked down at the boy as if to say you're on, don't fuck it up. "Hugh?"
Snivelling harder than ever, Hugh said he'd given in to the Tempting Voice of Satan [edited for length by me]... He talked real fast, crying harder & harder as he went along. The kid finished by saying, "You can go to the police and I will make a full confession. You can spank me, or my Dad will spank me." ...[edited for length]... "I am very sorry," the kid says, still rapping it out as fast as if it was on cue-cards in from of him. "I have asked Lord Jesus for forgiveness, and now I am asking you for forgiveness."
[edited] "The boy also has to apologize to your son," Mr. Hobart said. He looks like Moses with a clean shaven face and a good haircut, if you can imagine Moses in a double-vented three-piece from Sears. [...] "If you'll just lead us to him, Mrs. Wyler-"
I'll be damned if the self-righteous SOB didn't start trying to push his way right in! [...] "Seth's not my son, he's my nephew," I said, "and he's taking a nap right now." "Very good," Hobart says, giving a stiff little nod. "We will come back later. Is tonight convenient? If not, I can bring Hugh back tomorrow afternoon. I can ill afford to take off a second afternoon-I work at the stamping mill in Ten Mile, you know-but God's buiness must always take precedence over man's."
[...] all this time, I swear it's true, the kid's looking around like he wants to see if there's anything else worth hawking. I'd say the day is going to come when Hughie winds up on some shrinky-dink's couch, except that people like the Hobarts don't much believe in shrinks, do they?
I herded them out the door & kept them going right down the walk, I mean I was on a roll. The kid, meanwhile, is asking "Do you forgive me? Do you forgive me?" over & over again like a broken record. By the time I got them down to the sidewalk, I realized I was furious with them both. Not just because of the hell we've been through but because they both acted like I was somehow responsible for the the thieving little fart's immortal soul. Plus I kept remembering the way his eyes were going everywhere, seeing what we had in our house that he didn't have in his his.
[I asked] how Hugh Hobart had come to lift Seth's Power Wagon in the first place. Pere and fils exchanged a glance at that. It was a funny, uneasy glance, and I realized neither of them much minded the idea of a spanking or even a visit from the cops, but they didn't much like the idea of talking about the actual theft itself. Not one little bit. No wonder the fundamentalists hate the Catholics so much. The idea of going to confession must make their balls shrivel.
[...] one of the things they do as good church members is to "spread the Gospel". This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our mailbox, the one about a million years in hell & not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporarily empty, wanting "to spread the word & plant the seed, not engage in debate" (William Hobart's words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.
They must've hit our place right after we left for Milly's. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street...& gave in to the ever-popular TVS (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the Power Wagon yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school & she was cleaning up his room. Last night they had a "family conference" about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.
Once the story was out, the kid started in on "Do you forgive me" again. The second time through, I sad, "Quit saying that." He looked like I'd slapped him and his father's face got all stiff. I didn't give a crap. [...] Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn't going the way it was supposed to, & he hated me for it. [...] "We'll leave you now Mrs. Wyler, if you're finished." Hobart said. "Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. In his room. On his knees."
"But I'm not finished," I said. "Not quite." [...] "Hugh," I said, "you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don't you?" He nodded cautiously...like he was testifying in a trial & thought one of the lawyers was laying a trap. "So you know that stealing Seth's toy was wrong." He nodded again, more reluctantly than ever. By then he was practically hiding behind his father's leg, as if he were three instead of eight or nine.
"Mrs. Wyler, I hardly think it's necessary to browbeat the boy," his old man said. Unbelievable prig! He's willing to let me turn the kid over my knee & whale on his ass like it was a snare drum, but when I want the kid to say out loud that he did wrong, all at once it's abuse. There's a lesson in this, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.
"I'm not browbeating him, but I want you to know that the last few days have been very difficult around here," I said. It was the adult I was answering but still the kid I was really talking to. "Seth loves his Power Wagons very much. So here is what I want, Hugh. I want you to tell me that what you did was wrong, and it was bad, and you're sorry. Then we'll be done."
[...] "Mrs. Wyler, do you think that's really necessary?" Hobart asked. "Yes sir," I said. "More for your son than for me." "Dad, do I have to?" he whines. He's still giving me the death-ray look from behind his smeary glasses. "Go on and tell her what she wants to hear," Hobart said. "Bitter medicine is best swallowed in one gulp." Then he patted the kid on the shoulder, as if to say yes, she's being mean, a real bitch, but we have to put up with it.
"It-was-wrong-it-was-bad-I'm-sorry." the kid says, like he's back on cue-cards. Glaring at me the whole time-no more tears or snivelling. I looked up & saw the same stare coming form the father. The two of them never looked more alike than they did right then. People are amazing. They came up the street, scared but sort of exalted at the idea of getting crucified, just like their boss did. Instead I made the kid admit what he was, & it hurt, & they both hated me for it.
July 6, 1995
Someone shot the Hobarts' pet Angora cat last night. Apparently nothing left but blood & fur. Kim says Irene H. is hysterical, thinks everyone on the street is out to get them because they know the Hobarts are going to heaven & the rest of us are going to hell. "so they are making this hell on earth for us" is what she told Kim. She begged Kim to tell her who did it, said Hugh was devastated, wouldn't come out of his room, just lay there on his bed, crying and saying was all his fault cause he was a sinner. When Kim said she didn't know and didn't think anyone on Poplar Street would shoot the Hobarts' cat, Mrs. Hobart said Kim was just like the rest & told her they weren't friends anymore. Kim very upset, but not as upset as I am. [...]
If you read this far, thanks for your patience. So whaddya think, King knew some Witnesses, or what?
