What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [35]
Festus faltered. This was turning out to be much more difficult than he’d anticipated. These people were supposed to be angry and irrational. He didn’t want to steal Jesus crackers from sad little grandmas.
He didn’t notice, up at the altar, the slight smirk that crossed the priest’s face. Or see the altar boy’s lip curl in disgust as he stole a glance toward Festus. He definitely didn’t pick up on the priest nodding to a parishioner who was standing off to the side of the pews.
They didn’t show it, but the congregation was prepared for idiots like Festus. They’d heard about that kid in Florida who had absconded with the host without swallowing, and a few of them had even seen the communion-cracker-desecration videos on the Internet. And as close as they were to the University, they knew it was only a matter of time until one of the goddamned hippie kids showed up and pulled a stunt like this. So they’d prayed, and then they’d planned, and then they’d drilled. They’d drilled until each of the congregation elders knew his or her part cold. And then they’d drilled some more. They were ready.
Festus took a deep breath. “I’m here to rescue Jesus, you dirty cannibals.”
The priest set the bowl of Jesus down, and stepped out from behind the altar, locking eyes with Festus. “Son, I understand what you’re saying.”
Festus responded by pointing the water gun at the man and moved toward the altar. The priest held his hands out. “At least do me the favor of hearing me out,” he said.
As Festus made his way up the aisle, an older man slipped behind him and quietly turned the lock on the doors at the rear of the church. Two old ladies crept toward Festus from either side, keeping just outside his peripheral vision. They walked on their tiptoes and bobbed their heads, holding their gnarled, old-lady fingers out in front of them, looking very much like velociraptors dressed in their Sunday best.
Festus took a deep breath, preparing to dive in. He’d practiced his speech. “In the Bible, Jesus—”
“Son—” the priest’s voice boomed. Festus stopped, mouth agape. People usually ignored him, though he never knew whether it was because they regarded him as a harmless weirdo, or because they thought he was crusty. “This is serious business,” the priest said, “This isn’t just snack food we’re talking about here.” He glanced at the predatory old ladies moving ever closer toward their prey. He still had a little bit of time to kill. “Tell me son,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Doctrine of Transubstantiation?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Festus, shaking his head. “I’ve heard all that, and you know what? It’s crap. Total crap. They made it up. You know it, I know it, so please shut up, okay?” Festus lifted the water gun back up from where he’d let it hang down and waved at the congregation. The old priest took a step back, gathering up his vestments.
Festus knew these people. He’d spent years with them – among them. Back then his name was Daniel – a good, Biblical name. And while he’d never had much in the way of faith or been much of a fan of what he considered the “mystical” side of the church, he’d understood that there was far more to it than that. He understood the role it played in people’s lives. And like so many people, he’d felt that he was a ship without a keel or a rudder or whatever. But maybe he shouldn’t have let it bother him so much. He was, after all, never really in to sailing. Or any sports or outdoor activity of any kind really.
After high school, when people he knew went off to the military or college or jail, he’d enrolled in the seminary program of a small Catholic university. He’d spent the next six years studying theology, getting first a bachelor’s and then a master’s degree, always thinking that maybe he’d catch some