Gabriel~
“And LO!The wrath of the lord was vicious and terrible upon the wicked sinners! Ye, tho thou ist humble before me, thy tithes will ascend you into the Kingdom of Heaven!”
The timing is fucking perfect, too. I pound my fist hard on the pulpit just as the taped organ music hits it’s crescendo, blasting through the tinny speakers on the side of the Winnebago. For extra flourish, I splash a handful of the water mixed with glitter and bubble soap from the bowl next to me up into the air. The light catches it and it shimmers around me as it falls back to the ground, and the gathered crowd gasps and ooo’s and aaah’s.
They eat it the fuck up. Of course they do, and I knew they would, just like I know every crowd that gathers around my Winnebago or under my tent is going to cream their pants for my especially dramatic brand of fire and brimstone sermons.
“Ye! Banish the wicked from thy midsts and bestow thy gifts and tithes upon the steps of the temple!”
The trick is to suggest, not ask. You suggest that they empty their fucking pockets into the bucket at the foot of the pulpit. You suggest that the money in their pocket, or purse, or under their mattress back home is their one-way ticket to the land of salvation, endless summers, warm smiles, playing shuffleboard with the one and only Jesus Christ, or whatever the fuck it is people think is waiting on the other side.
Fuck it, if it’s doing lines of blow off Mary Magdalene’s tight little ass with Paul and Matthew, that’s what I’m giving them. That’s what I’m selling them, for the low, low price of whatever I can get them to cough up, and my shame. But, shit, that stock ran out years and miles ago.
“The mighty shall triumph over the wicked! For YE, I am the LORD! And I shall smite the heathen amongst you! Bring tithes upon my church, and my light shall guide you home! Can I GET a hallelujah!”
Ooooh there it is. Like music to my fucking ears. No, not the chorus of hallelujahs that gets called back at me, or the fervently screamed amens. I mean the sound of money hitting the bottom of that collections bucket. I grin and smile down from my perch behind the pulpit at the first customer—a frail old thing clutching a coin purse from the last century. But damn if that purse doesn’t seem to have no bottom. She just keeps digging in deep and pulling out fistfuls of coins and wadded up bills and tossing them right in.
“Bless you, preacher!” She crows, beaming up at me as she turns the fucking thing upside and empties it into the bucket.
“No, dear,” I smile broadly and piously. “Bless you.”
After that, it’s like a script playing out. Once the first one starts feeling charitable, the rest of them will follow. They always do, and they sure do here and now. No one wants to get outdone in front of Jesus. No one wants to get stuck with the last seat next to the bathrooms on the bus up to heaven.
One by one, and then in hordes, the gathered crowd brings me their hard-earned cash and dumps it in the donations bucket. If I still had a soul, I might feel a twinge of guilt over this. Luckily, I ditched that pesky fucker years ago.
“Behold! My kingdom opens unto you! For thou shalt cast aside the sinners and the heathens and trample them into the dust when you come forth to bring tithes upon my heavenly gates!”
Fuckin’ none of this is from the Bible. I mean, not even fucking close. But you throw in some “ye’s” and some “thou shalt’s” and a whole bunch of shit about the wicked and the damned, and no one bats an eye. They don’t care. Some of them might even know it, but none of them pay it any mind. My customers are the low and humble. They’re the lost, desperately looking for answers and salvation. You might say I’m slinging bullshit, or call me a fraud, or a charlatan. I’ve been called a con man, grifter, huckster, rat-bastard, and far, far worse. But you know what? I own it. Sticks and stones will not break these bones, and words are just fucking words. Words are a sales pitch, and I’m the best fucking salesman any of these yokels has ever seen.
At least, I hope I am, because if I’m not, that’s when I get run out of town on rail.
But you know what? So what if it’s bullshit. So is TV. So is fucking Facebook. Everyone’s selling bullshit and the promise of salvation, one way or another, and for whatever you consider salvation. Booze companies, pill makers, movie producers. They’re all selling you their own brand of enlightenment and salvation from the endless shitstorm that is life. So what’s wrong with selling folks the comfort of knowing there’s a place for them court-side at Jesus’s own shuffleboard playoffs?
The money keeps tinkling in, and I grin and look up at the big Georgia sky and the warm, muggy summer sun. I take a deep breath, and my smile widens. I’ve been up in the Dakotas, and eastern Montana, and a little bit of Wyoming for the last few months, and it’s been fucking miserable. Cold nights, dreary days, and the people up north are a different brand of rube. They hang on to those wallets a little bit tighter than these folks.
But God bless southern hospitality, that’s all I’ll say about that.
I’ve left the north behind for the season, and Canaan, Georgia is my first stop on what my gut tells me is going to be very profitable little tour of bible country. In my industry, summer in the south is like shooting fish in a barrel. With a bazooka.
The organ music keeps blaring through the speakers, and the money just keeps dropping into the bucket. Oh, but I’m just getting started here. I haven’t even begun to shake this town down. The music winds down, and I take a big breath. I beam at them, squaring my broad shoulders and raising my hands high in the air as I close my eyes tightly. Eat your fucking heart out, Billy Graham.
“Brothers! Sisters! Fellow children of our LORD!” I bellow. I even add a little twang to my voice to bring me down beneath the Mason-Dixon. This Carolina boy hasn’t forgotten everything about where he came from, after all.
“Who amongst you needs to be cleansed before the Lord! Ye! For thou wast unclean, and my waters made you pure! Thou wast lost, and my gentle washing found you!”
I’m genuinely impressed by my ability to shit pure gold out of my mouth when I want to.
With a dramatic whirl, I turn and storm off the little stage next to the Winnebago and stride over to the big tarp-covered thing. I grab the edge, and with a flourish, I yank the tarp off, revealing the huge, hundred-gallon baptism tank. These fucking things run a mint. Luckily, this particular one was generously donated by a wealthy, uh, parishioner up in Colorado last year. The thing is a bitch to cart around in the trailer on the back of the Winnebago, but it’s a fucking money printing machine.
The ooo’s and ahhh’s from the crowd bring a smile to my face. Day one, and this is already shaping up to be banner haul.
With another flourish, I yank off my flowing robe. I’m wearing a bathing suit and a white undershirt underneath, and I step up to the platform and then slowly descend the stairs into the water. I flex my muscles, roll my shoulders, and crick my neck, and the crowd begins to form into a line, money clenched in their eager fists. God, it’s like clockwork, every time. Past them, I can see more cars pulling up to the parking lot next to the field I’ve set up shop in on the edge of town. More eager customers come bolting across the grass, waving their money.
I smile and help the first man in after he drops his money in the box. I mutter… well, something, but who cares, and then I dunk the guy in water. He comes up sputtering and grinning to the cheers of his friends.
“Bless you, Preacher Gabriel!” he gushes, clutching my hands. “Bless you for your work!”
