One night, I heard my nieces whispering; they were talking about the new pastor at the church that I hadn’t attended since I was younger then them. Curious, I leaned in and listened. One whispered that she’d heard the pastor had been having “relations” with some of the choir boys and girls. Another one whispered that she’d seen pictures by accident; he had showed them to her, but she had ran out of the room before he could touch her. Infuriated, I decided to take a trip down to the church. Candles were lit and lights were on in the study, so I was sure the pastor was there. My heavy heels clicked against the thin carpet as a young, blonde man emerged from the study. When I told him that I was looking for the pastor, he surprised me by informing me that I was looking at him. He was so young, younger than I can ever remember seeing a pastor. I could see how some of his young flock may be attracted to the smooth-talking, baby-faced young man; but he didn’t fool me. I knew that my nieces would never lie about those things that I heard them speaking about.
He looked me up and down, and I could see a little disappointment in his face. “Usually, the young girls and boys hang out here at night. I like to keep them out of trouble,” he said. I replied, “I bet.” I looked around his office while he sat in his expensive leather chair an impatiently waited for me to explain why I was there. I wasn’t in a rush since I had locked the church door behind me; but, I did find it odd that all of his pictures were of young people and himself. Fuming, thinking that one of those young faces could have been my niece, I wrapped a chord around his wrists. I pressed my spiked heel to his rotatory cuff and twisted his arms out of their sockets. He screamed, but not to my satisfaction. I took the envelope opener from his desk and began sawing off his trimmed pecker. It took sweat and muscle, but it was an enjoyable feat. Then, I drug him to the alter, where there were a few feathered harnesses laying by the stage. “They’re my little angels. You don’t understand.” I told him that I did and kicked the bloody mass between his legs until he was sitting beneath the table that held the offerings during service. I carved “false prophet” on his chest. I blindfolded him and told him that I sparing the looks of horror from those that found him; but, I wanted him to acutely hear their screams.
I wasn’t sure that night if he lived or not; but, he did. A couple of months later, though, he was back in the newspapers: this time he was found with his throat slit over the chalice bowl. It seemed that someone else didn’t like what he was doing, either. But, it also seemed more personal: there was a crucifix shoved up his urethra, what was left of that dick that he’d loved using so much.
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