Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

Cast Out

Tuesday, 14 Elul, 5693

Fritz had never felt so uncomfortable in his life as he did sitting on his padded seat in the General Assembly that afternoon. He tapped his pencil lightly on the blank scratch paper which he had laid out on the personal desktop in front of him and tried to escape the incredible tension which existed in the room. It was a broad hall the lot of them were sitting in, but somehow it seemed all too small and stuffy for such a devastating occasion. He kept his eyes fixed past the edge of the desk and let his troubled mind wander back to long gone days. The thoughts of what was occurring in his very presence, taking place through the bullheaded people all around him, was almost too much to be understood.

When he was young, he had entered into a Kingsmen service held on the off day of the local cinema. He had gone there of his own volition. His parents were not religious. His father was a teacher of fine arts, and his mother was a woman of Altruic descent. Still, there was something about the idea of attending a service which somehow appealed to him, if only for that one time. What he found there, though, was much more than his young heart had ever anticipated: he found home.

He had smiled as he beheld the words etched into the wooden lectern at the front, old and polished, the words of their King, which read: "The one who comes to me I will by no means cast out." There was something about that which settled with him. The foreign phrase had planted in his heart and sprung up with a strange and beautiful growth; a warmth which he had never known bubbled up inside of him, and he had at once this peculiar sense of belonging there, in the service of this King whom he had never known. He remembered sitting there in the padded chair of the cinema, leaning forward in his seat and staring down with his hands hung over his knees and his fingers twined as he meditated on those few words that had sunk down deep inside of him. On his face had been placed an irrevocable smile from another world. He had found belonging there in the presence of that humble monarch, a belonging which no man could rescind...no matter how hard they were currently trying.

He must have been letting his nerves show more than he meant to be, because Francis reached over and grabbed his wrist, giving it a comforting squeeze to steady him. Above all, the knowledge that he was not alone there was vital, and so he was grateful for the support of his friend.

Fritz slowly laid his pencil down in front of him. The whole room was a sea of brown, each man dressed in party colors and anxious to strike out against the Altruic invaders. He took a deep breath of the suffocating air, hot from the lingering summer and filled with the tension of the times. The words "cast out" kept replaying in his mind. He knew it wasn't really everyone who was a party member there. He had come to attend the gathering with a handful of friends, among them Francis, Liam, Jay, and a man named Fredrick Stern, who had always shown himself to be a pragmatic moderate with a goodly temperament and had championed their cause, much to the surprise of everyone. It was a bold move, especially for someone like him, but it had given the movement increased credibility in the eyes of the old guard.

Fidel had been taken to the front and selected by the leaders of the new Kingsmen Assembly to record the minutes. Fritz recalled how the bold man had trembled when they called him to the front, a testament to the hostile atmosphere in which they found themselves. They had been thrown into a den of lions, and the beasts were ready for their lunch — Reformers. Fidel, however, had only been asked to do the minutes, a vague relief to the few who cared, and he had been tapping furiously on the keys of the typewriter ever since, recording with accuracy all that transpired, something which Fritz found appropriate, given the circumstances. The Garman Kingsmen never seemed to know what was really going on, anyway, and the leaders of the Good Fellows took no interest in the truth. Now whatever was written was what it was... no matter how horrible.

Yakovi jumped up again from his seat for what must have been the third time at least, though Fritz had lost track of counting, and once again attempted to make a motion for the opposition. That had been their plan, after all — to bring a motion to the floor, one that would denounce all of this ethnic garbage and heretical teaching that the Garman Kingsmen were so dead set on peddling. The plan was for Yakovi to get up, make the motion, and for the lot of them to vote in favor of putting an end to this growing mess of lies and hatred. The hope was that such a stand might encourage some of the other members who were present to side along with them, even in spite of their shirts. At the very least, it would make their point clear: this is not the church.

But plans have flaws, and the flaw in this case was that no one would actually allow Yakovi to talk without being interrupted by someone else, usually the chairman, who was more than willing to use his position to the full benefit of his side. All semblance of order had deteriorated into nothing and the scraps had been thrown out the window for the dogs to devour them. This time, however, Yakovi did manage to get a word in before the usual interference of the overly eager chairman, in fact a few, and he had nearly completed his call for a vote on the counter measure when he was crudely shouted down by the many men in brown.

That was it, the final straw, and Francis had had enough of it all. He had been growing more and more irate with each word that the others had spoken and each word that Yakovi had not. This latest outburst by the assembly was proof enough that any attempts at diplomacy had drowned in the gutters of Hölle. He stood up instantly, smacking his hand down against the writing board in front of him.

"Enough," he breathed so quietly that only Fritz could hear. His face was red with anger, and he clenched his teeth.

Yakovi was still standing from his latest attempt at a word, and he slowly turned his body to the rear until his eyes met Francis. He stopped and stared at him, his muscles tense and rigid, and his eyes shown with a foreign intensity that seemed to reflect the impassioned feelings of Francis, whose eyes burned like a blue blaze.

Fritz stood up, leaving all of his reluctance behind him. He had wanted to leave long before that, anyway. Besides, there would be some importance now to a show of solidarity between the minority men. Much to his delight and admitted relief, the others slowly followed. One by one, each man stood until the members of their small contingent had all ascended to their feet, abandoning their seats along with their pride. Even Fidel stood at the front, leaving a final quip on the record about it.

The next step was clear: departure en masse, but the chairman wouldn't let go of Fidel without a little noise.

"You dare to stand in my assembly!" the man with a face like a bulldog shouted, striking his fist against the podium. A resounding bang could be heard throughout the chambers and echoed in the ears of all who were present, loosing an unholy fear upon them. "Sit down and type!"

Fidel turned to face him for the last time, looking the fellow full in the face. Intimidation never had been below the honor of the wearers of brown, but then... what servant could be greater than his master? The entirety of Freitag's Association was run on fear, and the system itself fed on the resulting paranoid mayhem that it caused.

"I'm glad to hear you recognize that this is, indeed, your assembly and not our God's, as you had otherwise maintained. But I am happy to inform you, Mr. Leopard, that I don't work for you; I work for him," Fidel informed with a firmness to his tone that Fritz had only dreamed to hear before then.

It was with that final word that the lot of them strode out of the chambers and into the brisk fall evening with their sights set on a meeting of their own and a much needed debriefing.