SUNDAY MOURNING:
THE FUNERAL OF THE REVEREND-COLONEL
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The Holy Roller, containing the embalmed corpse of Reverend-Colonel Wilhelm Sonntag (Billy Sunday) passes in front of Independence Hall (July 7, 1937)
The sound of massed pipes and drums down historic Chestnut Street was almost ear-splitting Tens of thousands of mourners, clad in black and their "Sunday best," packed the streets and saluted and knelt as the Holy Roller, the official hearse reserved only for the Reverend-Colonel, passed by at a snail's pace, black smoke puttering from its exhaust as various members of the Church and armed forces walked beside it, their suits and uniforms crisp, black bands of mourning replacing the standard MDP ones.
Boom, boom, boom, came the sound of the Army drummers keeping time, hammering a beat per second on their eagle-festooned blue war drums, their kepis pitched forward over their eyes. They were followed by some 300 bagpipes, blaring forth their cacophonous tribute to the legendary tyrant, womanizer, and sycophant whose embalmed corpse rode ahead. Overhead, some 500 state of the art fighter planes buzzed overhead in a roaring tribute, spewing out red, white, and blue contrails behind them. Following the pipers came the Republican Union Military Police Philadelphia Branch, clad in their navy blue patrol uniforms, copper badges shining in the Wednesday sun and bolt-action rifles resting against their shoulders. Several high-ranking police officials marched ahead, carrying the traditional pike of old 17th century line infantry unit commanders. Next came the Zealots, some 1000 in all, crimson uniforms and pinch-crown hats resplendent, ceremonial sabers drawn, each sword bearing Enochian script embellishments. Behind them came cavalry from the Grand Army of the Republic, numbering about 500, sporting dress uniforms and Custer-era cavalry slouch hats. The clatter of 2000 hooves on the ancient colonial cobblestones was almost as raucous as the pipers, but still the surreal silent nature of the moment was what was truly deafening. Now came the roar of the mechanized infantry, rolling through on landships and motorcycles. Many of these men would depart for the South American theatre of war several weeks later, giving their last full measure of devotion to Manifest Climax. As the troopers passed by, local men all, women wept even harder, worrying this funeral was just the first of many that would roll through Philadelphia.
Several columns of MDP party elites marched next, trying to ingratiate themselves with the press, attempting to show to the man that they were each more heartbroken than the last, more faithful to the beloved scum-sucking preacher than all the others. Next came the Presidential motorcade, Joe Steele in an armored 1934 Rollarite Victoria and surrounded by plain-clothes security on motorcycles and on foot, his secret "Wolf Pack." The procession came to a halt after several more blocks at the world-famous First American Fundamentalist Christian Church, home of the catacombs containing the bodies of the Prophet Burr, Patriot-Saint Washington, the Martyr Arnold, and many more. It would be here that Billy Sunday would be laid to rest, among the greatest figures of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, a true American Pope. A guttersnipe, wannabe dictator notwithstanding, the American government wanted to make sure they curried favor with the overwhelming majority of citizens who viewed Sunday as a fanatical, handsome, Pinnacle-blooded pastor of the True Faith.
Waiting on the portico of the Prophet Burr's original church was the new Reverend-Colonel, Howard Lovecraft, in a black tuxedo with tails, a red silk cloth draped over his shoulders decorated with scenes from American history and Enochian script, black tassels blowing slightly in the wind. Flanking their new chosen one, in their blindingly white robes, stood members of the Council of Jehovah in a pyramid formation down the steps, each hooded figure holding a flag of the AFC Church. As the Holy Roller ground to a halt, an ethereal trumpet sounded from the steeple of the church. Not a pin drop could be heard as the eerie music continued. It was a rendition of "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," a song written by the founder of Protestantism Martin Luther and a favorite of Sunday's. At last, the song finished and all stood silent once more. Lovecraft raised his hand in a straight-arm salute. "Blessed be he who comes to the bosom of the faith, this our First Church. Who comes before the House of the Lord?" the dour-looking New Englander inquired, following an elaborate script of almost Shakespearean nature.
The hearse driver, now standing at attention besides the Holy Roller in his crimson Zealot uniform, raised his hand, took a knee, and replied, "It is William Sunday, comrade-patriot! Will ye allow him entrance into the House of the Lord?"
Lovecraft raised a silver bell aloft and shook it slowly seven times. "Yea, the bell doth toll for thee, William Sunday. May ye find rest and peace eternal in this glorious heart of the New Jerusalem." At this, the military cadre surrounding the Holy Roller took their positions at the rear hatch of the ivory-white vehicle. The driver pulled a lever which opened the back up and pushed the golden coffin along with it. Slowly, they all grabbed hold and heaved it out, grunting and straining under the enormous weight of the decorative box. As soon as it was out, Lovecraft again spoke. "Psalm 116:5. 'Precious in the sight of Jehovah is the death of his saints.'" The military funeral dirge played on a single trumpet from the steeple as the soldiers made their way up the steps with the coffin. Generals and officers stood to the sides, swords drawn and dipped to the ground in respect.
The inside of the church, remodeled in the mid-20s with a lavish budget, could hardly be recognized by previous generations. It was palatial, as fine as something out of Versailles or London in their glory days but with a distinctly American tone and feel. The rotunda under the central steeple carried the image of the Prophet surrounded by the angels in heaven, a fasces in his right hand and a cross in the left. The central pulpit was about six feet off the ground-level on a raised stage, with a white marble baptismal pool in the rear. On the back wall was an image of the Angel of Destiny, bloody sword in his hand, a wreath of stars around his head, and the phrase "
1776 - VIA VERITAS VITA - 1801" under his feet. Above him was a terrifying rendering of the Fundamentalist "Jehovah," a Zeus-like white bearded tyrant, his eyes hollow white and yet able to pierce the hearts of any heretics brought before his lair. American and MDP flags adorned the rest of the wall space as far as the eye could see, and the afternoon sunshine poured in through the 200 year old stained glass windows. Sunday's living relatives took up the first pew, dressed all in black like every other civilian present in the Church proper, sobbing hysterically as their patriarch's casket was gently placed upon the altar by the soldiers.
Normally, on each side of the pulpit there would be the choir. Now, however, each side was filled with hooded Councilmen of Jehovah, their hands clasped together in prayer. Lovecraft followed the casket in, each step measured and calculated, his shiny oxford shoes muffled by the red carpet that led to the altar and pulpit. President Steele, his wife and daughter and his cabinet followed him in. Supreme Marshal Acme Ashton shuffling along with his officer corps brought up the rear. Only then could invited guests begin filing in. As the mourners took their seats, more musicians marched along the side of the main chamber, playing and singing deafening version of "Amazing Grace" as Lovecraft took his place behind the pulpit. They gathered around the casket as if bringing laurels to Julius Caesar himself, playing their hearts out and their faces blue. The bass drum carried the inscription, "Pennsylvania Office of Racial and Religious Affairs Choral Jubilee." As they played, President Steele and his men saluted the crowd and Lovecraft and took their places standing beside the casket, relieving the soldiers of their duties who then took positions at the end of the first rows of pews.
Photographers and film crews captured the moment. The whole world would be waiting to see this, and everyone there was putting on their best dramatic face. Among the filmmakers was Benny Riechenthal, destined to become the greatest filmmaker in American history. He made sure to ingratiate himself with Steele, focusing on the stoic President and the single tear running down his cheek, the only public tear Steele ever shed. Newspapers and newsreels would report "even the most iron of Pinnacle men shed a tear for the loss of our dear Reverend-Colonel." After about 20 minutes of shuffling and seat-taking, the band stopped their music and allowed Lovecraft to speak.
"Comrade-patriots! We are gathered together today to mourn, celebrate, and commemorate the soul of Reverend-Colonel William Sunday, our beloved 'Bible Billy.' Let us pray." Lovecraft lifted his hands to the air on each side in a field-goal position, his long, lanky wrists sticking out past his shirt and tuxedo sleeves. Closing his eyes and looking upwards, the portrait of Jehovah looming behind him, he bellowed, "Oh, Jehovah! Oh Father in Heaven! Hallowed be thy name, and hallowed be the memory of Reverend-Colonel William Sunday, your chief minister among men! For seventy-five years you filled him full of fire, and of vigor, and of the Holy Spirit! For seventy-five years you guided him and used him toward your own ends, pushing us ever closer to our Divine Destiny! For seventy-five long years William Sunday walked this earth, doing your will, speaking in your tongues, wielding serpents, and casting out devils. While a lifetime will never be enough for a man with so much to offer, so much to give, we thank thee, Lord, for the gift of William Sunday, and we thank thee for bestowing upon us such a faithful Lamb of God. Mild in manner, kind of heart, handsome of features, and white-hot with your Word, William Sunday is riding to meet you now on a winged Yankee pure-bred stallion. As we opened the earthly gates of this, the First Church, we trust that you will open the Pearly Gates for our beloved Reverend-Colonel. May he rest in peace and laurels forever, amen."
After a rousing "Amen!" from all in attendance, the drummer struck up a fast beat and Lovecraft descended from the podium and walked to the casket. After saluting it briskly, he asked President Steele if he would have the honor of opening the casket. Uncle Joe quickly did and revealed the wrinkled dead face of Sunday, his asphyxiation rope-burn hidden with the help of a high starched white collar and necktie. His suit was almost as white as his hair, which was combed neatly to the side with pomade. Makeup made him look lifelike enough, Lovecraft thought, though he was glad to know he was very, very dead. In Sundays, clasped hands rested a Brown Bess musket, a relic of the Revolution that supposedly belonged to the Prophet Burr. It was one of the holiest artifacts in Fundamentalism. Gently, he tried to remove it as per the ceremony, but the corpse's fingers were locked up. After several agonizing moments of Lovecraft struggling to free the gun amid a few awkward coughs and the sound of dead, rubbery flesh on metal, it finally released. Recomposing himself, Lovecraft turned to the crowd and and held the gun aloft. "From your cold, dead hands do we take this weapon of war. No more shall Brother Sunday fight the good fight, for he has been graciously received in the Heavenly City above. All hail!" More straight arms salutes followed.
After an hour eulogy of the womanizing murderer, Lovecraft stepped away from the podium and allowed Steele to take his place.
"All hail, comrade-patriots! It is with heavy hearts and no lack of tears that we commend our beloved Reverend-Colonel to the All-Father. Now, Brother Lovecraft here has said all that could be said about the purity and sanctity of William Sunday's spirit, but I wish to tell you about the true nature of this man, the real man behind the curtain, the actual William Sunday. I don't want to tell you lines you've heard before or inform you of how holy he was, or how much he knew about our faith. No, I wish to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. In reality, William Sunday was one of the nicest, warmest, and most caring friends I've ever had, truly exemplifying the Golden Rule. From my early days when I first took office, he was there, standing beside me, feeding me spiritually over cups of late-night coffee and sandwiches, praying with me and leading me into the light. When I succeeded my father and faced challenges to my legitimacy, there stood Bible Billy, ready to go to bat for me in a heartbeat. I will not talk for as long as Brother Lovecraft either, but I will say this, hand upon the Good Books: I loved William Sunday almost as much as I loved my own father. And I very much look forward to seeing him again one day. People of the Republican Union, members of the Cabinet, Councilmen of Jehovah, and soldiers of our glorious armed forces, take heart! For though William Sunday is gone, he shall never be forgotten! We shall enshrine him in our hearts forever, until Judgement Day. All hail!"
After several more speakers (ranging from Supreme Chief Patton to well-known evangelists) and the accompanying perfunctory applause, the band struck up the
national anthem. The Council of Jehovah even joined in as Lovecraft frantically, almost demonically waved his hands like a conductor, bacon-greased hair whipping about, leading the crowd in song. Outside, the roaring blasts of 21 artillery pieces sounded at Independence Hall, while the Liberty Bell rang true once more. Church bells across the city and the country joined in, and all of America stood still, even in wartime. Horses whinnied and reared in the streets as the cavalry tried to calm them. RUMP vehicles blared their sirens, a haunting undertone to the current racket. Even in the streets, civilian and soldier alike held their hats, helmets, and caps aloft and erupted into song. Goosebumps ran up and down the arms of thousands as a gentle summer breeze whipped through historic downtown Philadelphia, the birthplace of America.
Our flag is proudly floating on the land and on the main!
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!
Beneath it oft we've conquered, and we'll conquer oft again!
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!
The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!
Down with the slavers, up with the stars!
While we rally round the flag, boys, we rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
Oh, we're springing to the call for three hundred thousand more,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more,
Shouting the battlecry of freedom!
We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true and brave,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
And although he may be poor, not a man shall never be a slave!
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
And we'll hurl the Devil's Lot from the land that we love best!
Shout, shout, the battle cry of Freedom!
As the anthem finally ended, the soldiers who bore the golden casket into the Church once again swept into position, heaving the coffin from the altar. With a rollicking chorus of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" breaking out "spontaneously" from the crowds, they made their way to the entrance to the catacombs beneath the church, carrying the Reverend-Colonel to his final earthly destination. Lovecraft led the way, the musket in his hand almost like a Papal scepter, Councilmen of Jehovah carrying torches to light the way. The sound of the singing had an eerie effect underground, echoing throughout the sacred stone halls. They passed the tomb of Washington, his sarcophagus in the center just beyond a barred door, an original flag of the Revolution still draped over it some 150 years later. Fresh white roses adorned gilded pots around the final resting place of the first Commander-in-Chief. Next came the Martyr Arnold, Shayes, then the Prophet himself. A few other lucky patriots joined these legendary figures, but Sunday was going two tombs down from Lincoln, one across from Reverend-Colonel Moody. A black-and-white tiled marble floor and the scarlet red walls had been designed according to Sunday's exacting specifications last decade, when he first began to fear the Reaper. Lovecraft unlocked the iron door to the room and allowed the soldiers to carry Sunday in.
They carefully placed the casket inside a granite sarcophagus fit for a pharaoh or a Bonaparte and made ready to slide the heavy lid in place. Before that was done, Joe Steele asked to be left alone in the tomb for just a moment to "say a prayer." Everyone exited, even Lovecraft. About 50 seconds later Steele exited the room and returned to the main floor of the church. In came the soldiers to finally close the sarcophagus, but to their disgust an awful stench filled the air. It took a few seconds to realize, but they found the casket's lid slightly ajar, a trail of fresh piss dripping off the side.
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Veterans of the Velvet Revolution and Mexican Immolation pose one more time in dress uniform as Rev-Col. Sunday's hearse rolls by. The center-left veteran carries a traditional fasces
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The Council of Jehovah marches in full regalia to the First Fundamentalist Christian Church
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Mourners march past a squad of Zealots outside the First Fundamentalist Christian Church
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Soldiers of various branches carry the MDP flag-draped golden casket of Billy Sunday up the steps of the Church, where Lovecraft and the Council of Jehovah await
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A Zealot stands guard to an outside entrance to the catacombs where the Founding Fathers are entombed
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Professor Gilgamesh Singleton, retired Sky Marshal Warren Harding, and Supreme Marshal Acme Ashton attend the funeral of Billy Sunday
