THE JOHNNY BASTARD FILES : Radio Interview

Although this would be my first meeting with the man, I had already gotten to know him from his nineteen "diary" entries which he had published online over the past two years. I had awaited each new installment with eager anticipation, as though each new addition were a visit from an old friend, albeit one who wasn't too friendly. Each chapter gave me further insight into the life and mind of a seriously disturbed individual, a tortured soul fighting back against his pain with hatred and apathy as his weapons. As I finished each installment I fervently yearned for more. I was fixated on his life and experiences, although I couldn't relate with him on his dim and jaded views of the world and humanity.

I was doubtful at first that I would be able to get Johnny Bastard on my show.

Approval from my boss wasn't the issue, as he was more than pleased to let me have Mister Bastard as a gueste as my boss was always sticking me with subversive figures on my show anyway, so when I told him about Johnny Bastard and his views and dark philosophies, he was more than happy to have the guy on the show.

The issue was Johnny's willingness to come on my show and be interviewed live on the radio. He had been interviewed once before and it hadn't gone too smoothly. Moreover, he had vehemently refused that interview at first, though he was eventually talked into it. Would he be persuaded this time around? I didn't know. But for the sake of my show and my own morbid curiosity, I had to ask. And so I emailed him and we discussed the matter on the phone for a while afterward as well. And as I promised that I would not mention anything having to do with Eve, he grudgingly and hesitantly agreed to the interview.

* * *

I stirred in my seat, my feet shuffling over the floor, as Johnny Bastard entered the room. He was not what I expected him to be. Reading his writings, I almost expected a monster, a deranged psychopath with glowing, demonic eyes and a leering grin as murky shadows hovered around his face. Or because he was a janiter, I expected him to be a shaggy old man with long gray hair dangling about his face and thick facial hair.

Instead, Johnny Bastard was a normal man in his mid to late thirties, clean shaven, with short dark hair, slightly graying over the temples. He looked blankly toward me with his gray eyes possessing neither hate nor warmth, but cold indifference. When he spoke, I expected it to contain bitter overtones, but he sounded clear and rational, though it contained not a hint of perckiness or elation. "Hello, Lex, hope I'm not late for the interview," he said quietly as I offered him a seat.

"Right on time," I answered and we shook hands.

His grip was firm over my hand and although he looked me firmly in the eyes, I couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling. I shuddered discreetly as a chill ran up my spine. I knew all about this man and I had a sense of how his mind worked. Yet just looking at him now, meeting him face-to-face, one wouldn't have any idea that he was the same man who had written each of the nineteen installments of The Johnny Bastard Files. One would not have the faintest clue that this man hated most of the people he came across--regardless of race, religion, age, or gender--simply for the fact that they existed. I knew, of course, but that was the whole point of the interview.

"So, Mister Bastard, are you ready to begin?"

"Ready when you are, Lex."

* * *

And so the show aired and I put on my radio voice and persona. "Hello, and welcome to the Lex Denvers Show," I began, suppressing all hint of my excitement and discomfort over the guest that I had on tonight's episode. I myself was good at hiding my emotions and thoughts when I needed to at the appropriate times, such as on air. "Tonight's guest is someone you may or may not have heard about. He is a bitter misanthrop who has been publishing his online 'diary' for the past two years and has now had nineteen installments. I'm talking about Johnny Bastard."

"Hello, folks. I hate you all," he said, chuckling softly to himself.

"So I understand that you've gone through quite the ordeal recently, Mister Bastard. You were aliens yet again around eight months ago, impregnated by El Chupacabra, and then had to get a self-inflicted abortion, so to speak, and had some severe infections which were cured by doctors just in time for you to write your Valentines Day installment."

"That's right. It was a very unpleasant experience. And my hatred for the abortionists who refused to help me when I needed it runs very deep. Don't get me wrong, Lex, I hate all of humanity--even you--but I hate those bastards even more."

"Well, that's good to know," I said, with nervous laughter. "How are you feeling, anyway?"

"Do you care?"

"I don't know about my listeners, but I care," I said, smiling.

He chuckled quietly. "You're a good liar, Lex," he said, and the remark cut me like a knife, because I wasn't lying, despite what he believed. Or perhaps he wanted to get a reaction out of me. "But if you're at all curious, I am doing better." He paused and brushed his fingers through his dark hair, then continued. "I'm still a bit fatigued after the whole ordeal. But the doctors say that I will make a full recovery and I feel better with each passing day and I've even been able to go back to work."

"How is work going anyway?"

"It sucks, but hey, some things never changed," he replied, and we both laughed.

As the laughter subsided, I asked if he had any gratitude whatsoever toward the doctors who saved his life, and he shook his head (which the listeners wouldn't be able to see, but he did elaborate, so the listeners would understand as could I). "Screw them; they only did it for the money. Its nice being alive...sort of, but they'll never get my gratitude or respect and are meaningless to me. The hell with those geeks."

I paused, not knowing what to say, so instead changed the subject entirely. "So tell me, Mister Bastard, why did you start the whole online journal thing anyway?"

He considered the question for a moment, and then. "It was a chance to get my thoughts on paper, so to speak. I know I'm screwed up and I've been screwed up my entire life. I haven't always been full of sadistic hate as I am now, but I've always been messed up one way or another. This 'journal' is a way of finding out more about myself, a chance to look at my thoughts on paper and see if I can come to terms with them. I know I'll never be normal. If that were the intention, I'd see a psychiatrist for therapy, but that would be pointless, because the shrink could never fully understand me or what I go through on a daily baisis because they've never walked in my shoes. The hell with it; I'm probably too old to change anyway, and even if I wasn't, I have neither the motivation or any great desire. I am who I am, and that's all there is to it. I published my installments online so that others might have a chance to read them and catch a glimpse into a warped and damaged mind and at the very least get some vague idea of what its like to be me."

Now it was my turn to nod. "Just like what I've gotten out of reading it."

"That's right," he agreed.

"So what about the reaction people have to your online journal? What kind of reaction do you think most people have when they come across it while surfing the net?"

"I'm sure they have some reaction," he replied. "Some might be appalled by what I write, some might agree partly, or some just think the whole thing is purely entertaining. I don't really care much for what people think, though I am curious as to their reaction in an academic sense."

"Well, we're about to find out now. Looks like we have our first caller. Hello, Joe, you're live on the Lex Denvers Show."

"Hey, Lex," Joe said on the phone, "I love your show."

"Why thank you," I said, blushing, as I always do when receiving compliment. Despite my celebrity status, I'm still a bit modest, which is rare in celebrities. "Do you have a question for Johnny Bastard?"

"Yes, actually I do, Lex. Hey, Johnny, why are you so hateful at the world. No offense, man, but I'd really like to know where its all coming from?"

"I hate you as well," Johnny Bastard replied.

"Yeah, that's nice," Joe responded. "I'd just like to know why? Could you explain to me?"

"The world hates me because I'm different, because I'm screwed up. My solution is to hate them back. Its worked for me for a long time and continues to work. You should try it sometime, Joe. Hate is a beautiful thing. It feels good. Really good. Its a very liberating emotion. When you hate them, you don't care what they think, and they're hate for you loses its sting entirely and becomes meaningless. Because you hate them with a passion, you don't care about what they think of you, and so are no longer bound by societies morals and taboos and are free to be whatever you want to be, free to be yourself."

"That's an interesting theory," Joe mused. "See, I'm a psychology major at school. I'm interested in what makes people tick, particular abnormal people such as yourself...no offense."

"None taken."

"So, would you say that this hate is a defense mechanism?"

"I guess you could call hate anestesthesia of the heart," I added.

Johnny Bastard nodded. "I guess you could say that."

"Makes sense," Joe agreed. "Well, I best be going now. Thanks for your time and answering my question."

"Okay, our next caller is Charlene," I announced. "Charlene, are you there?"

The next caller was more along the lines of the majority of callers. Instead of the idle curiosity displayed by Joe, Charlene sounded bitter, angry, the urge apparently so strong for her to speak her mind and tell the world how she really felt that holding back caused tension, leaving her almost at a loss for words at first. "Hello, Lex," she said through a straining voice. "I'm a first-time caller, long-time listener to your show. The reason I'm calling now is out of concern for my children."

"Your children?"

"Yes, Lex, my children. I understand that Johnny Bastard is a janiter at an elementary school. And while I didn't get a chance to read all of his little entries, I read the one he wrote about children, and it really worries me. I started thinking 'What if this psychopath works at the same school my children attend?' So my question is: What elementary school do you work at Mister Bastard? I only want to know because if my children attend that school, I'm definitely getting them transferred somewhere else to get them away from you."

"I work in a public school," Johnny Bastard said smugly.

"Yes, I know that. I want to know which public school you go to. Could you at least tell me that?"

"Yeah, maybe I'll tell you that," Johnny Bastard said. "And while I'm at it, I might tell you my real name as well, and if my employers are listening, they can fire my ass. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I just want to know where you work so I know if my children are safe? I don't understand why you would have such a job anyway, since you obviously despise kids and people in general. I can't believe they hired someone like you; its putting the children at risk!"

"I hate my job, and I try to have as little contact with the children as possible," Johnny Bastard explained. "Sure, I could quit my job, but with the economy the way it is, I might not get another job. I don't have a lot of skills anyway, and I'm barred from working around food as well, under court order, so that puts even more limitations on my employment options. If I don't work, I can't pay the rent or eat, and then I'll just be some bum on the street, and who the hell wants to be homeless. Its not like I have any motivation to go to work anyway. So while I hate my job, I tolerate it, and try to keep away from those wretched brat children that I have to clean up after, and have as little contact with the little snots as possible. As for which school I work at, its a public school. Maybe its the same one your kids attend, maybe its not. I'll just let that little mystery keep you up at night." He said that with an evil, sadistic smile over his face.

Charlene paused, saying nothing, but I could hear her nervous breathing on the other end as she inhaled a few huge gasps and gusted them into the speaker of the phone, probably unaware that she was doing it, otherwise she might have become conscious of it and stopped. When it appeared that she had digested what Johnny Bastard had told her, she said: "Okay, thank you for letting me get through, Lex. And thanks for your time, Johnny. I guess this means that I'll have to look into transferring my kids to a private school somewhere, I suppose." And then she hung up.

"Well, now that we've worried one of my listeners, I think its time for a commercial break."

The commercial break went by quickly enough, and when my show returned, more and more angry callers called up to tell Johnny Bastard off, and it went on like that throughout the entire hour I had him as a guest. There were a few people who, like Joe, were able to remain calm and rational, and ask valid questions. Most of them just called to tell him off, however, and rip him to shit. Women yelling at him over his attitude, and a few men showing off how manly they were by threatening to come by his house and beat the living crap out of him and kill him and rip his throat out. Through it all, Johnny Bastard remained calm, and his smug grin never faltered once. It was as though he enjoyed how offensive he was and how much of a rise his thoughts and very existence had gotten out of people.

* * *

After the interview, I had gone out to Dunkin' Donutes for a coffee and a half dozen donutes. When I returned, I ran into Johnny Bastard once again. His back was to me, and he was at the driver's seat, trying to get his door unlocked. I was still a bit uneasy in his presence, but not quite as before, as I felt I was getting a hang on his whole personality. Johnny Bastard, as hateful as he was, treated me with respect. Last month, I had interviewed a Nazi white supremist on my show, who also offended a great deal of my listeners, but my boss had forced him on me and I have a wife and kids to take care of, so what choice did I have? The skinhead was quite rude and unpleasant, and toward the end wrote me off completely and called me a race traiter and a nigger-loving Jew on the air (and I'm not even Jewish). Before him, was a Christian extremist who decided that I was an incarnate of Satan and accused me of being in league with evil. Some of my guests are pricks, who talk to me as though I have no feelings at all. Johnny Bastard might not be thinking warm and fuzzy thoughts about me or anybody else, but he wasn't insulting or rude, either, and for that, at least, I was grateful.

"Hey, I wanted to thank you again for agreeing to come on my show," I said as I approached him.

"He turned and looked at me. "My philosophies and outlook on life seems to have pissed a lot of your listeners off," he said, and shrugged as though it were a trivial matter.

"Yes, it did piss a lot of them off. But it also increased my ratings. Not that that was the only reason I got you on, but it would mean that a lot of people were curious about you just as I was."

He nodded. "I get what you meant." And then we shook hands once again. While it didn't mean that we would become best of friends, or even that he liked me, it meant that we had at the very least some sort of understand, some truce, however shaky, and that he could at the very least tolerate my presence.

I nearly shrieked as a loud gunblast went off, like thunder, and the bullet whizzed past me two inches away from my ear. Johnny Bastard screamed in agony as the bullet tore through his shoulder, and his grip over my hand immediately slipped away. Blood had spattered over the car window behind him. Johnny Bastard winced in pain. His shoulder had been shattered upon impact and his left arm was now dangling limply from the rest of his body as he stood hunched over, his shirt getting deeply stained in blood as it rained over the blacktop below. "What the fuck?" he hissed as his knees buckled and he leaned over his driver's side mirror for support, his face quickly growing pale as blood continued to spurt from his shoulder.

I turned behind and saw the gunman, dressed in a black trench coat, his shoulderlengnth white hair dancing in the night breeze, his face shrouded in shadow. He raised the .45 caliber Smith and Wesson toward Johnny Bastard once more, moving closer, and I could see his angry face, eyes full of self-righteousness, gleaming dimly from the moonlight and lampposts.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice stammering, my heart racing.

"Because this...this...this bastard shits on everything that the Lord stands for!" he declared angrily. "He preaches a gospel of hate and must be stopped before he is allowed to damage our society any further than his kind already have!"

The man squeezed the trigger once more and the gunblast blared into the night, shooting sparks from the muzzle as the bullet hurled toward Johnny Bastard and burrowed deep into his chest, exploding from his back in a storm of blood and splinters of bone from his spine and ribs that sprayed over my face and stung my eyes. The gunman fled into the shadows and I raced toward Johnny Bastard, who's knees buckled and then he fell backward, his head crashing down upon the pavement below.

Blood was now dripping from his nose and mouth as I held him, cradling his head in my arms and felt his warm blood soaking my body. He looked up at me briefly, his face haggard, his eyes raised in fear and disbelief before rolling all the way to the back of his head. From a distance, I heard sirens approaching. But it was too late, for Johnny Bastard was already dead.

February 28, 2003

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