All right, here we are again. Dan O'Shea put forth another flash fiction challenge, a call to enter our respective places of worship and let fly with a thousand words. Personally, I am not a church going guy. I grew up in a Baptist church and, regarding that, I'll go on record as saying I witnessed both the very best and very worst that people have to offer during those years. Though it never resembled the story that follows here.
So, I hope you enjoy this one, and I thank you for taking the time to read it. Be sure to drop in on Dan's blog and follow the links to all the other stories in the challenge. I'm heading over there now myself.
Kiss Your Ass Goodbye
- or -
Satan Is Real
(with apologies to The Louvin Brothers)
- or -
Satan Is Real
(with apologies to The Louvin Brothers)
Hector
Durbin cursed as the big Lincoln went into a slide and plowed into the
back of a white panel van. Hector’s head bounced off the steering wheel
and bursts of light went off behind his eyes. He tasted blood in his
mouth as he groped around the floorboard. His hand found the revolver
under the passenger seat and took hold of it. He got his door open and
pulled himself up out of the car. He got a glimpse of his reflection in
the door glass. His nose was busted, and his eyes were already starting
to blacken. “Shit…”
Hector
turned away from the car and noticed the illuminated stained glass
windows of a church on the corner of the street. He headed across the
street and wiped his bleeding nose with his sleeve.
“Loving
Arms Church of the Redeemer,” he said as he read the sign pounded into
the ground outside the yellow brick building. He put the revolver in the
pocket of his long wool coat. “If there’s anywhere safe…”
He
went up the steps and took hold of the iron handle and pulled the door
open. Warm air hit him and he stepped inside the foyer. He could hear
voices… Murmuring.
Then it hit him.
Praying.
They were praying.
Hector
stifled a laugh, unbuttoned his coat, and went into the auditorium. Two
sets of a dozen pews filled most of the space, and centered at the
front of the room was a huge carved wooden ambo. Most churches he’d been
in had the duo of lectern and pulpit, but not this place.
The
first few rows of pews were filled with people with their heads bowed.
Some were praying audibly, others prayed silent. Behind the ambo was a
thin man with dark hair greased up into a pompadour that would’ve thrown
the King himself into a jealous rage. Hector decided then and there, if
the day ever came where he stood before the Almighty, if there was
indeed an Almighty to stand in front of, he’d just have to ask how He
could ever have allowed that hip shakin’ hillbilly to go off and croak
on the can. It just wasn’t right. Hector walked down the aisle. As he
got closer to the ambo, the words from a Zevon tune kept running through
his head...
His hair was perfect.
Hector cleared his throat. “Hate to interrupt your prayer session, Reverend, but I’ve had an accident.”
The man raised his head and looked Hector in the eye. “I’m no preacher,” he said.
“Sorry,” Hector said, “I just assumed, you being up here front and center and all.”
“Here at the Loving Arms we have only one shepherd.”
“Gotcha. The Man Upstairs.”
“Him?” The man laughed. “No. The Redeemer.”
“Right. That’s who I meant.”
“Is it?”
“Look, I crashed my car.”
“We heard.”
“Yeah?”
“The Lord sent you to us.”
“Think so?”
“I know it, Hector Durbin.”
Hector
heard the man speak his name and his hand went into the pocket of his
coat and closed around the revolver. “Who the fuck are you?”
“A friend.”
The people in the pews had stopped praying. All eyes were on Hector.
“Got a name?”
“My
fellow servants here call me Brother Charles. But you can call me
Charlie. Or Mr. Bunker, if you prefer.” He stepped out from behind the
ambo and extended his hand to Hector. “I used to be just like you.”
Hector ignored the offered hand. “You think so, Charlie?”
“I know it. He’s got his hooks in you. Deep. And now you’re running.”
Hector licked his lips and tried to work up a sneer. “You’re full of shit.”
“It
was a long time ago…” Bunker opened the collar of his shirt and
unbuttoned his shirt far enough to reveal a jagged scar in the shape of a
pentagram covering his chest. “Just like you, Satan had my soul on
layaway back then.”
“Satan?” Hector laughed. “You’re crazy, man.”
“You don’t hear those dogs barking outside?”
“What dogs?”
“Hounds. They’re looking for you, Hector. He’s coming to collect what’s due.” Bunker poked him in the chest.
“Don’t touch me.” Hector brought the gun out and pointed it at Bunker.
“Time is running out,” Bunker said. “You need to find your way.”
Outside
the doors of the church a pack of dogs howled and scraped at the doors
with their paws. A long white ’57 Cadillac came to a stop at the curb
and gave the horn a blast.
Hector looked back over his shoulder. “What the Hell is going on out there?”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
“Hell. Hell is outside that door,” Bunker said. “Will you pray with us now, Hector?”
“Fuck you.”
Bunker sighed and looked to the people in the pews. “This one is lost to us,” he said.
They all nodded their agreement in unison.
“Brother Al?”
A stocky man with a long beard stood. “Yes?”
“Open the doors.”
Brother Al nodded and moved to the back of the auditorium and out to the foyer.
“He’s letting the dogs in here?”
“Not the dogs.”
Hector ground his teeth together. “Who’s out there?”
“Time to kiss your ass goodbye, Hector Durbin.”
Hector wanted to pull the trigger. Put a slug right between Bunker’s eyes. But, much as he wanted to, he couldn’t do it.
The sound of hooves moving on the hardwood floor filled the auditorium. Hector turned and his mouth dropped open.
“Good evening, Charlie,” the goatman said as he approached the place where the two men stood.
“Can’t say it’s good to see you again, Scratch.”
“No?” The goatman laughed. “I’m the one who should be the sore loser here.”
Hector
pointed the revolver at the goatman’s head. He pulled the trigger and
the gun crumbled in his hand as the goatman laughed. Hector turned to
Bunker. “Please!”
“Too late,” Bunker said and stepped away from Hector and the goatman.
“No!”
The goatman took hold of Hector’s arm. “You can scream now, if you’d like.”
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