by Mike Monson
“I’m Yamaha Bob, and I’m an alcoholic, an addict, and a liar,” said a guy sitting near Paul. He was a little guy, barely over five feet tall and so skinny Paul doubted he weighed 120 pounds. He rode a Yamaha, which made a lot of the Harley/chopper-riding club members hate him. He was quite a liar, too. He once told Paul that he was a Secret Service Agent during the Nixon administration. Dude was barely thirty.
“My first sponsor used to tell me that we all had to work our own program, that if we worked someone else’s program, we’d wind up drunk. So I’m not saying that you all are full of shit, just that what you’re saying works for you might not work for me, and if what you’re saying is just some crap your sponsor told you and not your own original shit, then you just might be setting yourself up to fail. That’s all I’m saying.”
Bob kept going, which was the cue for a lot of people to go the toilet or to go outside for a smoke. Paul decided to find his niece, as she wasn’t at the meeting.
He went out the side-door. There were clumps of people all over, mostly grungy men, standing around, smoking and talking. There were some cute young women here and there alone that Paul had found could either be there because they were serious about their sobriety or because they were looking for drugs or tricks. It was in the mid-90s by now and most of the drunks were in shorts and t-shirts, except for the bikers, who always wore jeans, chaps, boots, and heavy leather jackets no matter what. Over against the wall near the door to BJ’s, middle-aged spandex-pants-clad Cleo Closing Time (self-named because when she was drinking she was always available at closing time), was talking intently to her weeping daughter Laura (no nickname, but when she first started coming around her name was Leo) and he could hear Cleo whisper/shouting at her “Just walk through it, just walk through it, just walk through it.”
Alcoholics and addicts were everywhere he turned, but no Miranda.
Paul didn’t feel like going back to the meeting yet. Looked over at Mr. Tokyo’s and decided he was hungry enough for a doughnut or two. As he walked over, he saw some people walking out of Living Waters. Four men, all nicely dressed in slacks and dress shirts. Two of them had ties. They all had neat, short haircuts and carried little black-leather covered bibles. They did not fit in at this strip mall.
One of the dudes in a tie was the Reverend Pete Fish. They all stopped to admire a newly painted sign that had just been put up. The poster board was gone. On the new sign was a new name: The Church of God’s True Word.
Paul kept walking to Mr. Tokyo’s. Pete went back into the storefront church and the other three followed Paul. He didn’t think Pete noticed him. Pete didn’t notice much of what was real.
This wasn’t a good time of day for donuts at Mr. Tokyo’s. Shit. They hadn’t made any fresh ones since mid-morning, and most of the good ones were sold out. They wouldn’t start making them again for a couple of hours. Now was rice bowl time.
Oh well. He picked out a pretty good-looking chocolate cake with coconut, and a chocolate bow tie (twisted-bar with thick chocolate frosting and tiny chocolate chips). He took his treasures and a cup of coffee over to a plastic table by the window facing the strip so he could keep his eye out for Miranda.
Pete’s three friends from church all got rice bowls, coffee, and cherry slushes, and sat down under the TV that hung from the ceiling. Paul always noticed that fundamentalists and evangelicals ate a lot of junk food. These guys were all kinds of fat and doughy-looking, even fatter than Paul, and, unlike Reverend Pete, who was lean and still in peak condition from his military days. They all sat down together under the TV that hung from the ceiling. Usually it was tuned to the local NBC affiliate, but today, for some reason, it was set on Fox News. Great. Paul knew those doofuses would enjoy it.
Paul couldn’t stop looking at these guys. Before they ate, the biggest one led the rest in a loud prayer. By the time he was done, they and Paul were the only customers left.
One of the Fox anchors was going on and on about the overturning of California’s Proposition 8 by the local U.S. District Court, a decision that had been approved by the California Supreme Court. Now the backers of the anti-gay marriage proposition were trying to appeal that ruling with the U.S. Supreme Court.
“This is such a good example of the power of Satan on the earth,” the biggest of the Christers said. “If we don’t do something, fags might really be able to get married in California.”
“Amen, Vernon,” the smallest one said. “Much prayer will be required to maintain the sanctity of marriage.”
“Next thing you know, someone will be wanting to marry his dog.” This intelligent statement was from the third guy, who was wearing a purple polo shirt.
“You guys are so full of shit,” Paul said.
Vernon and the purple polo guy looked over at him.
“What?” Vernon said. “Did you say something?”
“I said, you ignorant homophobes are full of shit.”
“What’s a homophobe?” Vernon said to his friends. “I keep hearing that word.”
“It’s supposed to mean we’re afraid of fags or something,” the small guy said. “Like we’re phobic of homos, get it? Homophobic.”
“I’m not afraid of queers,” Vernon said. “That’s stupid.”
“Hold on,” purple polo shirt said. He stared at Paul. “Are you in favor of queers getting married? To each other?”
“Definitely. Why not? If they love each other. I’m all for it. But I wouldn’t call them queers or fags. That’s disrespectful.”
“Wait a minute,” said the smallest one. “Now you’re saying faggots deserve respect? Haven’t you read the bible?”
“Fuck the bible,” Paul said.
Purple shirt got up and came over to Paul’s table.
“What are you,” he said, “some kind of faggot? Is that why you care so much?”
God, Paul hated these people. He had no patience with them. None.
“That’s right. I’m gay, I’m a queer, I’m a faggot, a butt fucker, cocksucker, sodomite.”
Vernon and the small guy got up too. They walked over to Paul’s table carrying their bibles.
Paul wasn’t scared. What were they going to do? They had bibles. Their church was a hundred feet away.
“Brother,” said Vernon. “Why don’t you let us sit down and pray with you?”
“Why don’t you kiss my faggot ass?” Paul said. That felt good. The three looked at each other.
The big guy started to smile. “You know what Reverend Pete said?”
The other two stared at him, then at each other.
“He says he’s a fag, a queer,” Vernon said. “Wants perverts to marry.”
“That’s right,” purple polo shirt said. “We’ve talked about this.”
“It’s our duty as Christian family men,” the big guy said.
Paul was starting to feel frightened now. He wished he hadn’t said anything.
Vernon smiled. He turned to his friends. “Let’s do this.”
The three of them rushed at Paul. Knocked his coffee into his lap. While Paul was dealing with the pain, Vernon and purple polo each grabbed one of his arms. The small guy grabbed his feet. Paul kicked and twisted and tried to get away but they were all too strong. Plus, there were three of them. And they had the power of their religion.
They dragged him outside. Paul couldn’t believe it. He kept kicking and squirming. He looked into their eyes and they seemed so happy and excited. His head knocked into and bounced off of chairs, tables, counters. No one seemed to care about that. Mr. Tokyo had disappeared, probably into the back.
The small guy held the door open. He smiled down at Paul. He motioned for them to follow and walked around to the back. Paul screamed and Vernon hit him in the mouth. Paul couldn’t believe it. Vernon seemed to like it because he did it three more times even though Paul stopped yelling.
Something awful was about to happen. He knew that. Life became very still. Time nearly stopped. He felt the heat and smell comi
ng off the sticky, oily, dirty pavement. He heard his attackers breathing and cars going by on Sylvan Avenue.
“Okay,” Vernon said. “Let’s prop him up against the wall.”
They propped him up. Until then, he hadn’t noticed his back hurting, but now he could feel it seize and spasm.
“So, is that right?” Vernon said. “Are you a fag lover?”
Paul didn’t answer.
“Stupid faggot,” Vernon said. He stepped forward and punched Paul in the stomach with his right fist. The pain was shocking. It brought Paul back to something that’d happened during recess in fifth or sixth grade.
Purple polo shirt punched Paul in the throat. Paul thought he was aiming for his face, but missed.
“Should we beat the shit out of him?” the little guy said.
“Don’t you think the Reverend would want that?” Vernon said. “I say we don’t damage him too bad or send him to the hospital or anything. Just hurt him real good.”
“I’ll do it,” the small guy said. Purple polo and Vernon held Paul’s arms while their friend moved in front of him. He looked serious yet ecstatic.
He punched at Paul’s face and stopped. He laughed and punched him in the stomach. He giggled as he kept punching his stomach. It hurt, but not horribly. Then he stepped back and kicked Paul in the balls. That really hurt, and it made the guy smile. He did it again and again and again while giggling.
“Wow, cool,” Vernon said.
Purple polo put his face really close to Paul’s like he was going to kiss him.
“Fucking queer,” he said. He bit Paul’s ear and held on. The ball kicking hurt so much he felt himself start to vomit. Purple polo seemed to sense this and let go of Paul’s ear and Paul. Vernon let go too. Paul fell to his knees but was unable to stop his fall with his hands because his entire upper body was in spasm and he couldn’t move his arms. He threw up his Sugar Frosted Flakes. He’d never thrown up this much in such a short period of time even back when he was drinking like a maniac.
“Praise the Lord and Hallelujah,” the man in the purple polo shirt shouted as he kicked Paul on his left side. Paul fell over and lay on is back.
“Okay, that’s probably enough,” Vernon said.
Paul stayed on the ground, unable to move.
“Let us pray,” the big guy said. He held out his hands to his side. The three men stopped staring down at Paul and they joined hands.
There was silence for a moment or two.
“Father God,” said Vernon, “I thank you for the opportunity to do your good work. And please bless my two friends in Christ. They are soldiers in your Christian army and today they showed their willingness to fight for your cause. In Jesus Christ’s Holy Name, Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated Vernon, the man with the polo shirt, and the smaller one. Then he turned to Paul on the ground. “Okay faggot, I wouldn’t think of calling the police on us, ’cause we will just find you and do it again, even worse, maybe even cut your dick off. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”
Purple polo shirt came up to him. He squatted down at Paul’s face. He grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look upwards. “And, faggot ass, if you’re dumb enough to call the cops, we’ll just tell them that you offered to suck us off, and they’ll probably just let us go and you’ll get a record as a pervert.”
FOURTEEN
In the back of The Church of God’s True Word, there was a dusty storage room that Pete Fish was trying to make into a proper office. So far, all he’d had time to do was dispose of the leftover Spanish-language bibles and votive candles (“heathen idolatry”), install an extra-large gun safe packed with automatic pistols and assault rifles, move in an old metal office desk, and add some folding chairs. He planned to bring in more gun safes and guns over the next several days, as soon as the Lord’s plan started to bear financial fruit.
Pete sat in one of the new chairs as the three men from his congregation beat up Paul Dunn. He watched as his wife stood over their daughter, Miranda. Bethany had just smacked Miranda across the face and the tiny young woman had fallen hard to the floor. Though it filled him with shame, the blood rushed to Pete’s penis as he watched. His wife, wearing her usual conservative pastel pantsuit well-suited for her positions as a real estate agent and a pastor’s wife, leaned over and picked Miranda up and slapped her again and again. Hard, but not hard enough to leave a mark. She held onto several of her daughter’s multi-colored braids to make sure she didn’t fall. Bethany was a tall woman, about five-foot-ten, and in her usual high heels was a bit over six feet.
From time to time Bethany glanced over at Pete with excited eyes. It had been nearly two years since the last time Bethany had beaten Miranda in front of Pete—basically since Miranda had moved out of their house and into Mavis’ and since Miranda had taken up with the violent, fearless, and very strong and scary Logan Swift. Tonight, Pete knew, their marital bliss would be great, as it always used to be after the many strict sessions disciplining Randa they’d engaged in throughout their marriage. Pete and Bethany had never spoken of the fact that they were both very turned on by this activity—it wasn’t the kind of thing good Christians talked about.
Pete didn’t want Bethany to stop, but he knew if he didn’t put an end to things soon Bethany might lose control and really do some damage to the girl.
“Where is it?” Bethany said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Miranda said.
“Why isn’t it here?”
“I told you, you’ll get it later. Tonight.”
“It was supposed to be last night.”
“Sorry, change of plans, Mom.”
“You little brat,” Bethany said, as she closed her fist and brought it back behind her head.
“Okay, Bethany,” Pete said. “I think that is enough.”
Bethany ignored him.
For a moment, Bethany and Miranda just stared hard at each other until Miranda smiled. As Bethany cocked her fist back, her nostrils flared and Miranda’s grin grew larger. Pete jumped up and grabbed Bethany’s arm just as she brought it down onto Miranda’s face.
“Bethany!” he said. “Sweetheart. That’s enough now.”
Bethany continued to struggle. Her cell phone rang. It was on the desk. She glanced at it and clutched Miranda’s hair with both hands and sat her down on a chair.
“You stay!” she said to Miranda. Pete pulled her over to sit in the chair next to him. “Fuck you, Mom,” Miranda said.
“What are we going to do, sweetheart?” Bethany said to Pete. “I knew it was a mistake to have Randa and Logan do this job. We could’ve found someone more trustworthy.”
“They were our only way into that house, our only way to get our hands on the stuff,” Pete said.
“But we can’t trust them,” Bethany said. “Especially Logan.”
“Hey!” Miranda said. “We pulled it off, didn’t we? And you know Uncle Paul is going get blamed, just like you wanted. Grandma told the police all about his threats and his debts. They found out about the life insurance and pension money too. And I told the police about the gun under his bed. And I gave Mavis some phony story that Logan and I saw Paul buying a gun at that shop out on Yosemite. Way she is, she’ll tell the po-po all about it. And you guys and the police will tell Jorge Rincon everything grandma and me tell you. You two should be happy. Jesus.”
“And hopefully he can stay out of custody long enough for Rincon to catch up to him,” Bethany said to Pete. “Or maybe get to him inside?”
Miranda grinned. “That’s on you two. I’ve done my part.”
“What can you tell us about the stuff?” Pete said to Miranda.
“It’s good,” she said. “It’s not anywhere near pure Logan says, but it’s good stuff.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Like I said, Logan is the expert on shit. Okay? You’ll have to talk to him.”
“He didn’t give you any idea?”
Miranda sighed, she looked at the door. “
Not really,” she said. “There’s something about whether he sells it like it is, in bricks, which would be fast, or if he sells it by these little bags. But that could take a month or more.”
“Don’t play dumb,” Bethany said. She walked up very close to her daughter. Rather than pulling back in fear of another blow, Miranda brought her own face closer. “I bet you know exactly what it’s worth, Randa. Bricks or bags.”
Miranda stood up and walked toward the door.
“I need to get back to the meeting or else they won’t sign my card.”
“Pete,” Bethany said. “Stop that little bitch.”
Pete reached out and grabbed a couple of Miranda’s braids in his right hand and jerked her toward him. He put his left arm around her waist and held tight. Bethany stood over Miranda.
“I told you that Logan wants to hold onto it until tonight,” Miranda said. “What’s your hurry anyway?”
Bethany slapped her daughter’s cheek. Her phone rang again, she glanced at it, muted the ringer.
“How much is it worth?”
“I didn’t want to tell you because we can only estimate,” Miranda said as she struggled. “Jesus, Dad, I have to go!”
He loosened his grip on Miranda.
“So, make an estimate,” Pete said. Bethany sat back down.
“Okay,” she said. “In bricks, it’s about two hundred thousand.”
Bethany smiled. She stood up. “And in bags?”
“Maybe a million?”
Bethany reached out and hugged her husband.
“But you know, either way, Logan wants a bigger cut.”
“Oh shit,” Bethany said. “That thief. How much?”
“Like I said, we’ll figure it out tonight. Logan won’t give it up until all four of us meet.”
“That’s stupid, we can’t be seen anywhere near Logan.”
“He insists. Sorry. You’ll have to wait a little while longer.”
Bethany crossed her arms. She looked at Pete, then Miranda.
