Revelations(12)
Wait until I find out who gave her our exact location, though, because that was no lucky guess on her part. She knew just where we would be. Exactly where we would be. Had she come tonight I could’ve written it off as understandable, as our itinerary isn’t exactly secret after all. Otherwise people wouldn’t know how or when to find us. But it’s obvious to me that one of them told her, and if I had to take a guess it’s either Philip or Matthew, as I know she fucks them both.
Separately, together, I don’t know or care. Stupid asses, both of them, her little lapdogs—if she told either one to roll over, they’d drop to the ground and do it, barking. Grovel before the bitch, tongues hanging out, drooling in the same idiotic way. I’m surprised she doesn’t have them sporting dog collars. Maybe that comes next.
And why does she have to be here tonight?
All right, enough, enough. I know. Take a deep breath. Inhale, relax. I shouldn’t let her get to me like this. She isn’t worth it; she certainly isn’t worth losing sleep over. Unlike him. Which I’ve done, believe me. Often. Plus I’d never give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s upset me.
Everything’s in readiness for tonight. I’ve seen to that myself, it’s what I do.
The others may refer to me as anal, but no one else could possibly do the things I do, or as well as I do them. We each have our part to play, I believe I’ve mentioned that before, but I think no one wears quite as many hats as I do. I’m responsible for setting up the entire tour, plotting our itinerary, finding places to set up our show (revival, prayer meeting, gathering, what have you—a rose by any other name).
We typically prefer more rural settings as opposed to urban ones for our purposes.
There are so many people, particularly young ones, that aren’t being reached by anyone else—although we’ve been known to appear in major cities as well, at times. I’m the liaison officer with all local officials in terms of permits and licenses and what-have-yous, finding out what there is to be found about the local yokels so we can target our audience accordingly. I make sure we’re in strict accordance with all local statutes, even if I do have to kowtow to every Andy Griffith and Boss Hogg I come across. You can imagine how distasteful that is to me, when I know myself to be far superior to each and every one of them. But what can I do? Once again it comes down to following the script, and I can do nothing else. So I do what I’m supposed to do, what I need to do, to please him. Not Him, but him.
It all comes back to Jesus in the end. It always does. No pun intended. Damn.
Yes, I take it back, there was.
The tent has been completely set up. Once I was able to finally get those yahoos out of the water and back to work, that is. And by tent I don’t mean the flapping canvas affair reminiscent of carnivals and circuses in days of yore, medieval jousts or any of that sort of thing. Not that we haven’t had our fair share of those, but those days are long gone now, thank God. Hail modern technology and prefab! It should’ve been done before this, but we got sidetracked, what with the wine and the skinny-dipping, and yes, I admit it’s partially my fault.
Nonetheless, it’s finished, no harm done.
Simon is my chief muscle, it’s all he’s really good for, in my humble estimation. Or not so humble. Whatever. He and his brother Andrew, and also Bartholomew, are responsible for setting up. The others help, somewhat, but they’re really useless for the most part, fucking prima donnas. I swear, I’ve never seen them behave quite this way before, as if they lift something, they’re gonna break a nail—they’re acting like goddamned divas. Yes, I know, I said it again.
Language. I’ll try to do better, no promises. They’re acting like her, except maybe not quite as slutty. Fucking musicians. I swear. I’m going to make a request to God that maybe next time…never mind, it doesn’t matter what I suggest, it’ll be what it’ll be. You’d think I’d know better by now. And if I were to make an actual suggestion, it wouldn’t have anything to do with them, believe me, it would have to do with…Forget it. Fantasies. Pipe dreams. Some days I feel like I’m living in a Eugene O’Neil world, waiting for the iceman to cometh…damn, why’d I have to think that way?
The first night of our week—what we refer to as our week of salvation—
invariably begins with an open house for one and all. We’ve found that if we do as we wish and invite the young people first, the parents come with them anyway, as if they intend to form a protective phalanx about their tender offspring. Jesus finds it endearing, I simply find it annoying. Whatever. Of course it also draws the local constabulary. And every sleazeball, con man, and pervert within a hundred mile radius. But that’s okay, too. I handle them all, with great aplomb and panache. I am the overseer, so to speak—Jesus’ Simon Legree. Minus the dogs. And the ice floes.