Scrambled Hard-Boiled

by E.R. White, Jr.

Now for those of you that are under the impression all revivals are like something out of a Billy Graham special, let me set you straight. A real revival is about cutting loose, shoutin’ and singing. It is about putting the cares of the world behind you for a few precious minutes and tapping into the primeval stuff that exists in all of us. At its best, a revival is pure escapism from an otherwise dull and drab life that most people live, whether it be in a city or on a farm.

  It’s show business, folks.

  And like all show business, its primary purpose is to turn a profit so the show can go on. In the church’s case, the local preacher has decided he needs to expand his customer base in order to garner more donations. The quickest and surest way to accomplish this is through a revival, so with great fanfare and much hoopla, he puts out the word one Sunday morning that he feels the need to “revitalize” the congregation, and he’s calling a revival, which will take place a month or so hence—got to have time to advertise, you know. Typically, it will be held for five nights in a row, starting on a Monday.

  Now the preacher knows that a revival has got to be special, so he needs to juice up his game plan. This almost always means calling in a hired gun to come in and be featured as the guest preacher. While this costs money, preachers all over the world have crunched the numbers and have come to the conclusion that it’s worth it. It gives the congregation (customers) something fresh and new and increases the overall effectiveness of the advertisements in the community (“Here for a Limited engagement!”, “One Week Only!” and other such phrases). Better advertisement means more new customers and more new customers mean more donations in the future.

  For the guest reverend, it means a bit more money in his pocket and a chance to try out some new and improved routines on the road, before bringing it home to his own church. If you’re going to flop, better in front of a bunch of relative strangers than the home crowd. However, he's got to deliver, or else word will spread among his fellow preachers that he’s a bad risk, and he won’t be invited (hired) to preach at any more revivals. On the other hand, if he turns out to be a real crowd pleaser, he’ll be swamped with offers.

  It’s up to the local preacher (promoter) to lay all the groundwork and handle the logistics. The new choir robes for the occasion, the improved sound system, the associated luncheons and picnics and the advertisements are all his responsibility. The guest preacher’s responsibility is to save souls, and his effectiveness is judged by one standard and one standard only—volume sales.

  As with used-car dealers and street hookers, it ain’t the quality of the product being sold, but the quantity. The more people that can be converted or brought back into the fold, the better chance the local church has of keeping some of them as regular, paying customers. Everyone involved knows that most of those who come forward to be “saved” are swept up in the fever and emotion of the moment. Most, in the cold gray dawn of the next morning, will regret—or forget—their conversion to the righteous path. Like drunks swearing off booze, few very rarely succeed in sticking with the program, but it’s a statistical certainty that the more that try means there will be more that succeed. So the goal is bulk sales and the best way to achieve that goal is to get the assembled crowd to throw reason to wind and whip’em into a frenzy.

  It was such a frenzy that I had stumbled into. Any chance I had of getting a relatively sane or responsible person to listen to or help me would have to wait until things calmed down.

  I hurriedly made my way down the right aisle to one of the middle pews. The hymn was just finishing up, and people were slowly beginning to sit down. The guy who had been howling at the ceiling had stopped and was gently rocking back and forth on his knees, mumbling with his eyes shut. No one tried to stop or quiet him.

  Just part of the show.

  I sat down and began to catch my breath. I began to look around in order to get my bearings, when the doors that were on the left aisle swung open and Bradshaw slowly came in.

  He’d put his gun away and was scanning the congregation, no doubt looking for me. I slunk lower in my seat, trying to avoid his gaze. No such luck. He saw me sitting on the other side of the Sanctuary. He turned and exited. In a few seconds, he came through the doors on the right aisle and was walking towards me. About this time, the preacher stood up in front and started speaking.

  Bradshaw, not wanting to draw attention to himself, squeezed himself into the pew right across the aisle from mine and sat down. He looked at me a second then turned his head to stare straight ahead as the preacher kept talking.

  My mind was racing. What the hell was I supposed to do now? As the preacher upfront was beseeching the crowd to come forward in order to be saved and avoid hell, it dawned on me that I was as good as halfway there already.

  Right then, I was the only one that knew about the connection between Bradshaw and his mom. There was no way he could afford to let that information be known. The moment this service was over Bradshaw was going to shoot me. If he or his mother had any hopes of getting away with their scheme, I had to die before I could talk to someone. The second I did that, it was all over for them.

  No, I had to die, and it had to be before I talked.

  I could see the whole scenario flash before my eyes. The second the revival was over for the night, he would waste me. He’d then flash his badge—never mind he’s out of his jurisdiction—and say he’s a cop chasing a dangerous suspect, and it appeared the suspect was getting ready to do mischief. I bet he even had a “throw down” gun to place next to me to make it look like I was armed. Yeah, the circumstances would stink around my death, but there was a good chance he could get away with it, especially if he had his mom paying the legal bills. The alternative was my living and spilling the beans on him and his mother. Then he’d have no chance.

  I should have never stopped running.

  The awful truth of the matter washed over me, and I looked over at Bradshaw. He was still staring straight ahead, but the color had drained out of his face, leaving it pasty white. His eyes had taken on that shark-like black flatness again, and he was starting to breathe rapidly. His mouth was slightly open, and I could see his chest rising and falling. He was panting like a dog.

  Cold fear slammed into my gut. I realized Bradshaw had come to the same conclusion about me having to die and was getting up the nerve to blow me away.

  It’s one thing to kill an unarmed man, alone in the dark of the night. It was quite another to do it in front of over a thousand witnesses and in a church no less.

  By now, the preacher up front was bellowing from behind into the podium microphone, exhorting the faithful to avoid damnation and be saved. I wildly began to look about, knowing that my time left on this earth could be measured in seconds. I was about to give in to panic, when, for some damn reason—divine intervention?—I recognized the man preaching up front.

  It was none other than the Right Reverend Leo P. McLardy. By the way he was jumping up and down shouting, he seemed to have fully recovered from the bullet wound to his left buttock.

  That was when my special gift kicked into overdrive. In a blink of an eye, I knew what I had to do if I wanted even a chance of staying alive.

  I threw myself into the middle of the aisle, did a couple of somersaults—to dodge bullets in case Bradshaw opened up with his gun—and ran to the front of the church.

  “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. “Good God Almighty, I’ve seen the light and been saved!”

  I jumped up on the table that was placed at the foot of the dais. There were a bunch of brass collection plates stacked on it, and some noisily crashed to floor. I then leaped on to the dais itself, right next to the speaker’s podium and McLardy.

  Bradshaw just sat there in the pew, my sudden actions stunning him into immobility. As I looked at him from the podium, I saw the energy drain out of him and he bent his head over, defeated.

  To this day, I don’t know why he didn’t follow me and shoot me before I said
another word. I guess you just can’t kill a man who’s in the middle of finding religion.

  Something to do with Hamlet, I think.

  People were up and shouting now, mostly yelling “Hallelujah!",“Lord be praised!” and a few “Who the hell is this?”

  I grabbed McLardy by the shoulders and spun him around so his back was to the audience. I whispered into his ear, “Listen, McLardy, let me talk, or I’ll tell everyone here about your getting shot in the ass.”

  I looked at the good Reverend in the eyes, and I saw that he now recognized me. For a moment fear and hate flashed across his face.

  “Why should I trust you?” he hissed.

  “I’ll pay you a grand and anyway, what choice have you?” I said.

  I’ll say this for old Leo, he didn’t miss a beat. He turned to the congregation and motioned for quiet.

  “I know this man!” he intoned. “I personally have been trying to put him on the path to Jesus for a long time now. God be praised, he has seen the light!”

  The crowd murmured its gratitude, and a few more shouts of “Hallelujah” broke forth.

  “He wants to bear witness now and confess his sins, and by all means we must hear him.”

  With that McLardy turned to me and motioned for me to step up to the microphone. He moved off to one side.

  I stood before the expectant crowd. It might have been cool outside, but inside the church, it was warm and the smell of sweat and anticipation hung over the people sitting in the church pews. I looked at Bradshaw. He still had his head bowed, staring at the floor.

  “My name is Jay Dafoe. I made my living spying on people, snooping into other people’s affairs. I’d work for whoever would pay me. If the devil had money and needed a private detective, I was your man!”

  I heard the gasps of horror from the crowd, saw the shaking of heads and people giving each other knowing looks—Yep, that damn Satan again. You might have known.

  “But today, I come before you all, to confess all to Jesus, to denounce the devil and his ways. I come to you alone, unafraid and—unarmed.”

  With that last statement, I opened up my jacket and let everyone get a good look at my empty holster. Now if Bradshaw tried to kill me, it’d at least be—without a doubt—cold-blooded murder.

  “Oohs” and “aahs’ were heard as the congregation eyed my empty gun holster, and all were suitably impressed.

  “I’m here to tell you a story, my friends. A story of two sons gone astray, one tempted by money, the other, by the ways of the flesh. I’m here to tell you a story of harlots and jezebels, of greed and lies. Finally, I’m here to tell you a story of death and betrayal.”

  All eyes were on me now, the only sound in the great room coming from the man still on his knees, rocking and praying, obviously lost somewhere in a world of his own creation.

  I started telling everyone there the story of Susan Bowman and Sonny Slatterson, (“He’d have been better off to commit the sins of Onan than sleep with that wanton woman!”) and a father’s love of his prodigal son. I told the story of the wife with the hidden past whom “unlike Mary Magdalene” never repented of her wicked ways. The only other story that I could think of at the time was the one about Jonah and the whale, and it didn’t really relate.

  But I had the crowd hooked. I wasn’t pulling punches here, and I was naming names. I wanted everything out in the open, and I wanted to make it clear to Bradshaw sitting over there in aisle fourteen that it was over. I figured the surest way to guarantee my safety was to let everyone in on the story.

  And I did.

  And they ate it up.

  They had come for a show and by damn, I was giving them their money’s worth.

  The Slatterson family was well-known in these parts, and everyone was thrilled to hear about their dirty laundry. The women enjoyed it more than the men, especially the part about the all high-and-mighty Cheryl Slatterson being a former madam and whore.

  By the time I came to the end of my tale, I had the crowd in the palm of my hand. There was even one good-looking young lady looking at me from the front pew, all dreamy eyed. I gave her a wink and looked over at McLardy. He was starting to act a bit put off because, after all, he was supposed to be the star of the show and now was merely the warm-up act for yours truly.

  At the end, I was a hopping and skipping all over the place, shouting and spilling my guts for all to hear. I finally came to a stop and looked at Bradshaw. He’d raised his head now, and I could see tears of anguish streaming down his face.

  It was over, and he knew it.

  I pointed at him.

  “There he is, folks!” I shouted. “He gave his soul to Satan and that wanton harlot he calls his mother. But it’s not too late, Stan Bradshaw, it’s not too late is it, folks?”

  Shouts of “Amen” rang out and many began to urge Bradshaw to step up take responsibility for his crimes. The choirmaster, who obviously knew his stuff and how to milk a moment, had now gotten the choir to start softly singing How Great Thou Art in the background.

  I went for the kill.

  My mouth now was next to the podium microphone, and I spoke in my best stage whisper.

  “Stan, it’s over. Satan has failed—all that matters now is for you save your immortal soul. Come down to the front, confess your sins to Jesus and ask for his holy forgiveness. Do it now, man, now, before it’s too late!”

  With that, I stepped to one side of the podium, and stuck my hand out to him, like a man does to a drowning victim, ready to lend assistance in his time of need. With a look of expectancy and mercy on my face, I began to motion for him to step forward.

  Bradshaw looked at me, tears coating his face, and slowly came to his feet. A few in the church murmured “Praise Jesus” as he stepped into the aisle and stiffly began to come forward, as if a greater power than man was behind him, pushing him on.

  Silence reigned as he got to the end of the aisle and stood, mute and trembling.

  Then, he threw his head back and from the back of his throat came a moan that morphed into an anguished yowl. Suddenly, as quick as lightning, he reached under his arm, pulled out his gun and started to point it at me.

  “Holy Shit!” screamed McLardy and he dove to one side. I managed to crouch behind the podium before the gun went off. It shuddered as the bullet struck and went through it.

  Redemption be damned, Bradshaw had decided to go ahead and have the satisfaction of killing me.

  Pandemonium now erupted and everyone was ducking or running for cover. I was trying to hide as best I could behind the podium, when Bradshaw jumped up next to the podium and came after me, gun in hand.

  I rolled off the dais and onto the table that held the brass collection plates. I kept rolling until I hit the floor. In a flash, I stood up holding one of the plates.

  At that same instant, Stan Bradshaw leapt off the dais and landed on his feet in front of the first pew. He was not more than twenty feet from me and was pointing his gun at my head.

  I was a dead man and we both knew it.

  Then, the miracle happened.

  A little girl, not more than six or seven, had been pushed under the front pew when the gunplay had erupted. Her mother was covering her for protection, but she failed to notice the little girl had her right arm and hand sticking out. Bradshaw didn’t notice it either, because he took one step forward in order to get a better shot at me and stepped on the girl’s fingers.

  Like a knife, her high decibel scream pierced the air, causing Bradshaw to suddenly look down. It was the break I needed.

  I flung the brass collection plate at him, hoping to catch him off guard and give me a chance to run.

  He never saw it coming.

  The plate spun at him like a flying saucer and caught him in the throat as he looked up from the screaming girl. His gun went off as soon as it hit him, and I felt a hammer blow to my shoulder.

  I was spun sideways and knocked to my knees. The world went askew for a few seconds then my vis
ion snapped back to normal. I saw blood gathering on the floor beneath me. It took a second or two for me to realize it was coming from the hole in my shoulder, which was now numb with shock. I couldn’t get my left hand to work. I looked up in dreaded anticipation—sure Bradshaw was getting ready to deliver the coup de grace to my head.

  Instead, he lay sprawled on his back, his gun on the floor to his right. He was grasping his throat with one hand and beating the floor with the other as he thrashed about in agony.

  I staggered to my feet, only to fall to my knees. I then crawled my way next to Bradshaw and grabbed his gun with my good hand. I was going to plug the bastard right there but when I looked at him, I knew immediately that it’d be unnecessary.

  His face was blue, and he wasn’t thrashing around as much. The collection plate had crushed his windpipe, and he was suffocating to death.

  I sat there and watched the light of life slowly go out of his eyes. It was a horrible, painful death, and it was too good for him as far as I was concerned.

  Once I was sure Bradshaw was dead, I allowed myself to collapse on the floor next to him. By now, those still in the church realized that it was all over and began to gather around Bradshaw’s body and me.

  I heard someone shout to call for an ambulance and the cops. Some of the more devout grabbed Reverend McLardy who was hiding behind the organ and insisted that he heal me at once.

  The good Reverend had to explain to them that his healing specialty was limited to rheumatoid arthritis and the hard-of-hearing. The spontaneous curing of gunshot wounds was limited to the practices of Jesus and the twelve apostles—excepting Judas, of course. When someone pointed out that they didn’t have guns during the time of Jesus, McLardy, that slick bastard, quickly pointed out that guns were in the same category as knife and sword wounds, and they did have those weapons back then, especially those damned Romans. A few grumbled about suing McLardy for malpractice, but most bought into this. Then some smart-ass teenager brought up the subject of Paul and shouldn’t he have the same healing rights as the apostles—excepting Judas, of course. This sparked another round of arguments.

  I just lay there and listened to all this as I continued to bleed all over the floor. Eventually, I realized that I was in way up over my head, theologically speaking and decided to pass out as I waited for the ambulance.

  Chapter 21