What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [36]
A year later, he was back. With a beard, a new name, a water gun, and something that was almost, but not entirely unlike a plan.
“Bring me Jesus,” he said, but before the priest spoke the old ladies pounced. The water gun skidded across the floor and under a pew. The retirement-age velociraptors slid their claws through Festus’ arms, and started dragging him back toward the doors. At ninety pounds apiece, these grannies should have been no match for their quarry, but they had surprise on their side. Nobody ever expects to be attacked by a grandma, let alone two of them.
“What the fuck?!” Festus tried to wrench his arms free from the vice-like grip of the diminutive septuagenarian killing machine in a floral dress on his right, but it was no use. Knitting apparently helped build incredible arm strength. He consoled himself for a moment by telling himself it wasn’t right to fight old ladies, even batty old dinosaur grandmas with claws of steel. There was also the fact that it really didn’t seem to matter whether he fought back. And so he did what any red-blooded beta male would do in his situation. He flailed wildly and screamed like a little girl.
A few of the men in the audience had actually been enjoying church for the first time in a long time. After all, although the priest usually strung together a good homily, his sermons rarely involved intruders armed with water guns. But nobody liked to see a grown man cry like a that. One leaned over the back of the pew where he was sitting, and looking at Festus with disgust, called out, “Get a grip, man!” Another man picked up the water gun and began shooting Festus.
Festus’ howls bumped up an octave.
“Stop screaming, damnit!”
The absurdity of the situation was beginning to take its toll on Festus. Of course, being pinned down by psycho-killer attack grandmas while being shot in the face with a high-caliber water bazooka probably would have been rough even for a man like Gregor Samsa, let alone a powder puff like Festus. The pressing issue, however, was not the grandmas or the water guns. It was the fact that he’d come in to this church as the weirdo troublemaker. And somehow he’d stumbled upon what might have been the most screwed up, psychotic congregation in Texas. He saw no option other than to howl like a maniac.
One of the parishioners came up and tore the water gun out of the first man’s hands. “Stop it!” he said. “He’s never going to shut up if you keep spraying him in the face.”
Festus spluttered and caught his breath, and looked up just in time to see the priest stride up, tearing off his vestments as he walked, leaving only a severe, black cassock. His face was dominated (and actually preceded) by a large, angular protrusion that he, presumably, regarded as a nose, but that looked more like a beak than anything else. Between his freakish nose and his black, man dress – which flowed and billowed behind him – the priest looked like a giant crow.
Two old men in leather pants and black T-shirts fell in beside him as he walked. One of the old men had the word “Mother” tattooed on his arm. The other had leather wristbands adorned with half-inch metal spikes. Festus noticed that the parishioners were streaming out the side doors of the chapel. In fact, most had already left.
“You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with, boy,” said the priest.
“The Catholic Church?”
The priest’s Village-People cohorts laughed. He held his hand up to silence them.
“Young man, what you’ve done here today is an awful, awful thing. And you are going to pay for your sins.” He turned to the priest. “Bring me the host.”
It was at this point that Festus went into full-on batshit comic-book-character mode. His eyes