Print Page
Send to FriendThe Preacher had been wrong, however. Someone had snatched it from him in his sleep, and he couldn’t possibly comprehend how it could’ve been done. He might’ve been a heavy sleeper, but not that extreme of a degree. How could this have happened? He had looked down upon waking up and his trenchcoat had been unbuttoned, his inner pocket now empty, where once it would’ve contained his small pocket Bible. That meant they had torn the coat open, pulled the flap, and managed to pull the Bible from his inner pocket, all without waking him up. And now the Street Preacher could just imagine those heathen bastards burning it just to spite him.
“Lord, forgive me,” he pleaded. “Someone stole my Bible. I Don't know how, but someone did, and now it is gone.”
It is gone because you fell asleep with it on your lap.
“But Father, I do not understand—”
He felt a sudden pressure—throbbing and aching—over the back of his head, as though someone were squeezing tightly, just enough to cause discomfort but no damage, certainly nothing like the lightning bolt that God was reputed to strike people with when they questioned His will or upset Him some other way. But the Street Preacher understood perfectly well that that was merely a cliche', and thus, shear blaspheme as well.
He understood something else, too, just now: He had lost the Bible because he had fallen asleep reading it. It would’ve been too dark to read in the alley, as little if any light had penetrated through at night, but he had his flashlight then, and now that was gone as well, and he truly did have nothing but the clothes on his back. His jacket was open because he had left it open. And why not? It might've been a little chilly last night but it certainly wasn’t that cold. He'd fallen asleep, and then somehow, a silhouette appearing in his mind as he saw the events unfold now in his mind, had run along and snatched both the flashlight and his pocket Bible from his hands and ran off, vanishing within the darkness beyond, forever gone and out of reach.
“Lord forgive me for my negligence,” he begged, growing tearful, full of remorse.
You are forgiven, my son.
"Thank you, Lord." He made the sign of the cross, touching the index and middle finger of his right hand over his forehead, then his stomach--around the spot where his navel resided beneath his trench coat and sweatshirt--then to the left shoulder and concluding with his right. He then asked: “But who stole it? Can you not show me who stole my pocket Bible, oh Lord?”
That is not for you to know.
“But how will I ever get it back?”
You can’t, because it is gone now. You can get a new one at your leisure. They are sold elsewhere. For now, you must concentrate on the task at hand: converting Bart Dawson to our side.
“Of course, Lord, forgive me.”
The Street Preacher realized his place in the grand scheme of things, yet still found himself annoyed that the Lord would keep things of such importance from his, after he had dedicated his life, but he struggled to deny and repress such feelings; they were a sin onto themselves, sinful thoughts, sinful feelings. He couldn’t allow himself to have them. There were things he desired to know, however. Desire, he realized, was also a sin, but he couldn’t help himself. He desired to know things, such as what his real name had been, who he had been before that dreadful accident two years ago, the life he had led. The Street Preacher would have given anything for an identity other than the one he held now, but that’s who the Lord wanted him to be, and so that’s who he would have to be, regardless of whatever sinful desires might pull at his heart. It was all about what God wanted. Nothing else mattered.
* * *
Bart sat idly in his car, in the middle of heavy traffic on his way to work. Wasn’t it always the way in the morning or during rush hour. Stop and go traffic. Today it was even worse than usual. Only a mere couple feet every few minutes--it rarely got this bad in Terma even during this time of the day or during rush hour. Perhaps someone had gotten into an accident, he thought. Even if they had cleared the road of all wreckage, it wouldn’t speed things up that much because there would always be those that would slow things down just so they could get a good glimpse of what had happened, see the smashed cars, see if anyone was killed, any injuries whatsoever. Stupid gawkers. As if they’d never seen a collision before in their lives. As if they didn’t show that stuff on TV or in the movies all the time.
Calm down, man, he told himself. Not like it’s a big deal if you’re late or not. Not like Gino ever makes a big deal about that sort of thing, as long as you're not three hours late or anything like that, he usually doens't care.
But it was a big deal...at least today it was, because there was that matter of alerting his boss of Kathy possibly being in danger from a religious fanatic and psychopath.
Quit being paranoid, man. It’s not that big of a deal. Not like she’ll be at work until later anyway. And you’re not gonna be late because you left early this morning because you got up early, so quit panicking.
Good point.
Still, he wanted to get there as soon as he could to warn Kathy’s uncle. If he could warn Gino, perhaps he might have a better chance of protecting Kathy, and that’s what it was really all about, wasn’t it? Yes, he thought, that’s definitely what it’s all about here.
Traffic began to move slightly once more, and the Intrepid advanced another few feet before he applied pressure upon the break once more, bringing it quickly to a halt two inches behind the bumper of that same Chevy Blazer with the same old and faded MEAN PEOPLE SUCK bumper sticker on the top lefthand corner of their rear window and on the same window, on the top righthand corner, the much newer American flag decal with the words Remember September 11th, 2001 inscribed below.
And on the radio, "Bad Religion" from Godsmack continued to play, and he listened intently, as he sat there, traffic at a complete standstill now for another couple of minutes, musing at how close to home those lyrics seemed to his on this particular day.
Strange that he would find that currently his life could be compared to the lyrics of a rock song, but that’s how it felt right now. He thought that in many cases, such as the case with his mother, with Father McCarthy, and now with the Street Preacher, it truly could become a bad religion if taken to dangerous extremes. How strange, he also found it, that he would notice it now, yet he had heard the song many times before. But that might’ve been because he had now started to take the threat of the Street Preacher a little more seriously, where once the bum would’ve been a mere hassle he struggled in vain to elude after work. And he had long ago come to terms with his childhood, which, for a great many reasons, something he would have rather not thought about at all. Too many bitter memories. And no reason to stir them up all over again when he really didn’t need to. Let sleeping dogs lie. After so many long years of painful recovery, why disrupt the natural flow of things now?
Yet he now had no choice but to do just that, because it was happening all over again. Perhaps not in a literal sense--the Street Preacher hadn’t yet raped him or touched him in an inappropriate manner. Still, there was an eerie sense of deja vu all over again; now there was another religious fanatic using (abusing) his own divine affinity as a means to do as he pleased and bring strife to those who stood in his way and contradicted his values.
It was his job that Bart derived the most happiness he had had in perhaps his entire life (strange and pathetic, he knew, but still no less true). And there was no way in hell he was going to allow anyone to take that away from him.
* * *
And despite the traffic jam, Bart still managed to arrive an hour and a half before schedule. Gino would’ve been so pleased (though had he left at his usual time--given the major traffic jam he had just been through--he would’ve surely been at least twenty minutes late), and still, he felt frantic, his anxiety overtaking him, thoughts of the Street Preacher dominating his mind, the lyrics of Godsmack’s “Bad Religion” playing in the back of his mind, and his new interpretation of the song still painfully clear.
He hurried to the office, punched in, and turned around only to see Gino standing by the doorway, watching him, smiling. “Ah, you’re here a bit early, Bart,” he noticed with great approval.
“Sir, we need to talk.”
“Of course, Bart, what is on your mind?”
“It’s about your niece.”
“Ah, yes, Kathy,” said Gino, and his smile widened as he approached Bart and ruffled his hair affectionately, his dark eyes growing radiant. “You have your eye on her, I see. Well, no worries, she feels the same way about you, and I am sure that in time, you two will make such a lovely couple.”
“Yeah, I know,” Bart responded, a grim expression on his own face, “but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He paused, brooding, struggling to find the words in a way to best explain it to the Italian man standing before him without alarming him too much. Perhaps a euphemism of some kind would help. Fuck, man, just spit it out already, he ordered himself impatiently, and spit it out he did:
“I think her life might be in danger.”
And with that said, Gino’s eyes raised in horror at what he had just heard. His mouth dropped wide open, he was completely flustered, speechless, and whatever joy and cheeriness that had once been present over his now haggard face had now completely vanished.
* * *
"Ever since I started working here," Bart began, "there's been this old guy, stalking me. Always waiting outside for me to leave for the night and then approaches me as I head for my car. I think he's a bum, some kind of deranged street preacher. I don't know what he wants with me, but he won't leave me alone. He keeps saying that I am living in sin, living an evil life, and that he is my only hope for salvation."
"And you think that he might have his eyes set on murdering Kathy?"
"I'm not sure," Bart replied. "At first, it was just me. He hadn't even mentioned Kathy until a couple days ago. Before then, it was just my problem, and no one else's, otherwise I would've talked to either you or her about this by now."
"But what could he possibly have against my niece?" Gino mused, his face now even more haggard. "For that matter, why would he approach you at all? Why you out of all the other people in Terma."
"The luck of the draw, I guess," Bart laughed bitterly, envisioning his hands around the Street Preacher's throat. I swear, if he so much as lays a finger on her, he vowed, I'll kill the son of a bitch right then and there, consequences be damned. "I suspect what this is is his own psychosis fingering me at random as a lost soul, and then making the rest up as he went along, eventually incorporating Kathy into his own mad delusions as well."
"We could call the police...maybe they can help."
"I doubt it." He sighed. "The best they could probably do at this point is put a restraining order on the guy. And let's face it: that probably wouldn't do much good at all."
"Why would you say that?"
Why indeed, thought Bart, almost scoffing at the very question. It was then that he once again thought of Father McCarthy, the other religious fanatic whom had ruined Bart's childhood along with the help of his mother. But his mother would've been closer in comparison to the Street Preacher; for she too was under the misguided impression that she was doing the Lord's work. McCarthy had only given into his own sick passions. It was his mother who was closer--torturing her only child because she believed that that was how her lord wanted her to raise a child. Or like Clayton Lee Waagner from America's Most Wanted, who was so opposed to abortion he felt the need to assassinate abortion doctors and anyone else working in abortion clinics throughout the country. Or even terrorists like Bin Ladin and the Taliban, whose beliefs differed from the others, but whose motives, actions, and justifications remained eerily similar. The Street Preacher was no less a hypocrite than any of those cowards, and Bart couldn't hate them enough.
"Bart..."
"Because people like that do what they do out of the inane belief that they're following God's plan. And they won't let anything get in the way, let alone man-made laws."
* * *
The Street Preacher watched as Kathy pulled her Neon into the rear parking lot, remaining discreet, just another shaggy vagrant in the background of this large city, not one of those heathens ever suspecting the truth. He figured by now that Bart would know. Deep down inside, the confused, wayward man knew the truth. He might fight to repress such knowledge. But it fought fiercely too, forcing it's way to surface, forcing Bart to come ever-closer to having to face it, facing what was real, facing his own destiny. But only after that wench Kathy was dead--that temptress who threatened to damn his soul should she be allowed to live long enough to spread her evil, tainting all that is holy. He would kill her, just as he had killed that filthy whore the night before, and that abortionist several months before that.
"Lord, give me strength."
He grinned. Soon they would all feel God's wrath.
* * *
Kathy brought the Neon slowly to a halt in the parking lot next to Bart's Intrepid and killed the engine. School was done for the day--now it was time to punch in for work. She left the vehicle and walked toward the rear entrance of the building.
She caught sight of something to her left, at a distance. A vague shadow in her peripheral, now catching her attention and she turned to see what it was, still walking, now faster than she usually would. It was the silhouette of what looked like a homeless man a hundred yards away, beyond the parking lot. A chilling breeze swept past Kathy and she shivered, filled with dread at the sudden realization that the vagrant was coming toward her, though still far enough away so he logically wouldn't pose much of a threat. It was almost as though he were watching her, stalking her for reasons she couldn't comprehend.
Calm down, Kathy, she told herself. Not like you've never seen a vagrant drunk before; and they've been a lot closer than that bum over there is now.
Filled with a sense of utter revulsion, Kathy took two reproachful steps to the right, and still, the old bum came at her, moving faster now as he grew closer. What could he possibly want with me? The question lingered, and faster Kathy moved, hurrying to the back door. She took another glance to her left, and he was even closer. She could now make out a few of his features: the dingy, gray dreadlocks, thick scraggly beard, soiled trenchcoat, and faded jeans. He grew eerily closer now; forty feet away and it was still too close for comfort. Kathy was nearly running now.
For a moment, she considered bolting to her car and driving away as fast as she could. She even entertained the notion of running him over right, though she doubted that there was any way possible that it would be ruled as an act of self-defense in court. Driving away was feasible, though, and Uncle Gino would surely understand. He'd always been kind and understanding, filled with love and compassion.
But by this point, she was closer to the back door than she was to her car.
The bum was now thirty feet away, and Kathy was by the exit door, and she stood frozen for a few seconds as the bum gained a few feet closer. She felt like a cornered beast, her heart racing frantically, her eyes raised fearfully. What does that filthy creep want with me? she asked herself again, this time more fearfully. She felt confined, like a claustrophobic must feel when locked inside a very tight stall, the walls seeming to close in on them. It was this bum that was closing in on Kathy now and she couldn't get away fast enough, could barely bite back a scream.
Then she grabbed the handle to the back door and ripped it open hastily before nearly leaping through the doorway, inside and away from the creepy homeless guy, and slammed the door behind her, gasping as she then wiped the thin sheen of persperation from her brow, breathing a sigh of relief. That was TOO close.
Gino's Pizzeria had always been a place of familiar warmth and comfort, as was the apartment where she and her uncle had lived and where her uncle had raised her as a child after her parents had been killed in that train wreck when she was so very young. Now her place of employment served yet another purpose: safe haven.
Don't be silly, she told herself, still unsettled, a part of her wanting to burst out laughing, while the other part wanted to scream to the top of her lungs in terror. Come on, Kathy, he's probably just some drunken wino wandering around aimlessly. She giggled nervously; the thought hadn't done a thing to quell her frazzled nerves.
Kathy was almost tempted to reopen the exit door slightly, enough to peak through and see if the bum was still outside, coming toward the door, but decided against it. He was probably just some freak, perhaps trying to scare her. Or, like she had thought before, just some drunken wino wandering around aimlessly, looking for some cash to buy more booze with. Would it be correct to assume that he would have rushed toward her, begging for some change had he seen Kathy walking by? She didn't know. Perhaps he had seen her and didn't care.
Kathy started walking toward the office, looking back again and again at the back door, half-expecting it to be pulled open and for that bum to leap in after her. Or perhaps he was waiting outside, biding his time before Kathy got out of work once again or went on her next break. More than likely, by the time that happened, the bum would have gotten bored and left. But there was still that sickening thought lingering in the back of her mind that perhaps he was extremely patient. And let's face it, folks: he was a homeless man, who more likely than not would have nothing better to do other than beg for cash and get drunk, so--
That's enough, Kathy, now stop it, she ordered herself. He's just a bum, and that's all he is.
She looked ahead, toward the oven in front of her fifteen feet away, wondering if the bum might burst in here and and shove her head in, killing her. The flames would burn away her head, frying her brains inside her skull, and if that didn't kill her, then she would no doubt be so close to death that it might not even matter. Maybe he might grab some of the knives Uncle Gino had lying around in his knife rack or inside the dishwasher. Or maybe the bum was armed already, having a blade concealed inside that filthy trench coat of his, the blade dull and covered in rust, but still deadly nonetheless...perhaps even more so, since even if the cut didn't kill her, the chances of infection would be much greater.
God, why am I so PARANOID today?
She nearly burst out laughing as she headed toward the office door, to the right of the oven, a few yards over. A part of her wanted to grab one of the knives by the rack...just in case. But another part, much small, but prominant in its own right and may have directly caused her neglect to lock the back door, which she had just now come to realize. That sudden realization filled her with an even greater dread, and she considered briefly whether or not to go back and lock it now...lock it before it was too late.
Come on, Kathy, its not like you've never seen a bum on the streets before.
That was true, but Terma hadn't exactly been littered with homeless people either. The derelict populace had been extremely small: a few scattered here and there, but they mostly kept to themselves. You might run into them once every couple of months (or years); you might find them staggering around drunkenly or maybe they might beg for some loose change, but as annoying and unsightly as they might be, it wasn't like you had to worry about them mugging you or raping you...most of the time...
So why was Kathy so afraid now, when she was normal so naive and carefree?
Her trembling hand closed over the handle of the office door, and she slowly pushed it inward. And it was upon entering the empty office that she finally asked herself where everyone had been just now; thoughts of the bum outside fleeing her temporarily.
George Vincent, their janitor, could have been mopping the door (although given the time of day it was now, that was unlikely), or maybe cleaning the restrooms. Leonard most likely called in sick today, as he did at least two to three times a week, it seemed. He probably had woken up with a mild case of the sniffles this morning, or maybe he stubbed his toe. Although when you thought of it, if he was sick, it was probably better that he didn't come in, since they were handling food and everything. But in any case, where were Bart and Uncle Gino, who always came to work at least most of the time (though Bart was still the new guy here)?
Calm down, Kathy, she told herself. Uncle Gino's probably at the register while a few people pay their bills, and Bart could be waitng on a few other customers. It would be a perfecly logical explanation, if Leonard called in sick yet again. Kathy giggled, marvelling at her ability to sometimes read way too much into life's petty, insignificant details.
She removed her coat and hung it on one of the large hooks screwed into the wall next to the bulletin board, and then went to the computer to punch in for the day. She hit the F10 key once, then her employee number, and then "1" on the keyboard; and voila, she had punched in once again. Now to get to work.
She was startled as she turned around, flinching back when she realized that someone had been standing behind her, albeit briefly, and gasped in fright. For that split-second, she thought that the bum from outside had gotten in after all, and that he was now standing behind her, awaiting the chance to finish her off. She nearly threw out her hands at him, then her fears quelled when she saw the man's olive face and dark hair and recognized those as being the features of Bart Dawson.
"Jeez, Bart, you scared me."
He said nothing; didn't crack a grin, nor utter a snicker. His expression remained solemn, but this didn't surprise Kathy at all, as Bart was never the most excited or percky of individuals, and definitely didn't seem notorious for playing practical jokes and was certainly nowhere near as obnoxious as Todd Liemer--the guy that had been employed before Bart. Todd had always been such a sexist, obnoxious pig, always putting Kathy down, putting her on the spot, making her uncomfortable, and her life a living hell during the brief time he'd been employed, until Uncle Gino had finally gotten the heart to actually fire the guy (Gino had a bad habit of being way too nice to people sometimes and giving them too many second chances). Bart had been such a relief afterward, so cute and sweet. But also very quiet and solemn, as though he might be depressed, and Kathy sometimes worried about him. She didn't lose a lot of sleep over it, but she worried about him nonetheless, although--much to her relief--he did seem to be opening up a little at a time as of late. Unfortunately, his expression at this moment had been even more grim than usual, even when he first started working here, and that concerned Kathy a great deal.
"What's wrong, Bart?"
"We need to talk," he said listlessly.
* * *
"Why didn't you tell me about the creep before?" Kathy asked, alarmed as Bart told her about the Street Preacher, what he had been through with him, and the potential implications of all that he had said.
"Because before, it was my problem," Bart answered simply. "But now, as of two days ago, it might be your problem as well."
"We could go to the police," Kathy suggested.
Bart shook his head.
"Why not?"
"The best we could probably do is get him locked up for a couple days," Gino spoke up, "maybe put a restraining order on him. It's like Bart said--"
"Are you serious?" Kathy interrupted, with more fear than anger in her tone. "This is my life we're talking about here. Wouldn't the cops understand that? Wouldn't they want to do everything in their power to try to protect me? They've got laws against stalking, you know. We can get this guy put away, at least for a while. And if we do, then he wouldn't be bothering you anymore, Bart. Don't you see? We gotta go to the police about this."
"I thought of going to the police about this too," Bart told her. "But I'm not completely sure it would do much good--"
"What are you, a lawyer now?"
"Well, no, but--"
"Even if we can only get a restraining order on the psycho, or get him locked up for a little while, it's still better than nothing," Kathy argued. "And maybe a little while is all it'll take for him to forget about you and focus on converting someone else in his insane fanatical mania," she added, struggling to remain calm, but Bart could tell she was starting to panic.
"Gotta admit, Bart, she does make some sense there," Gino agreed.
"Yeah, maybe she's right at that." Bart sighed. "I'm sorry...sorry for dragging you both into this. It's just that...he pisses me off, but it was always my problem...just like Father McCarthy and my psycho-religious mother were my problem and no one else's..."
"What?" Kathy said, bewildered, as was her uncle.
"Never mind."
"Well...look, I'm sorry I freaked out and stuff, but..." she paused, her mouth still opened, her fears not yet quelled. "I saw someone today left my car to come in here...a bum...he was fifty feet away, but he still creeped me out. It was like he was watching me...stalking me, I don't know. I thought I might be getting a little paranoid, but maybe I'm not..."
"Was he an older man, gray hair, dreadlocks, with a filthy trench coat and jeans?"
"Yeah...yeah, I think so," Kathy replied.
"That's the one," Bart confirmed. "That's what he looks like."
"Oh God," Kathy moaned, her voice now flooded with fear once more, on the verge of panic.
"Look, why don't you two go on your break," Gino suggested. "I'll call the police and get this whole thing straightened out. I'm sure they'll see to it that that guy doesn't come around here ever again to bother either one of you."
"Break? But Uncle Gino, I just got here."
"Yeah, but you're stressed out now. You need to relax."
"You sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. Take as long as you need." Gino waved his hands upward, toward the door.
"Well, I could use something to eat," Kathy said, then frowned. "But I'm kind of broke until pay day."
"I got some money," Bart broke in.
"Nah, I won't hear of it," Gino interjected. "I'll make you both a pizza on the house."
"Really?"
"Sure, thing, Bart. Kathy's my niece, after all, and she likes you a lot and I like you, too." He grinned and ruffled Bart's hair affectionately. "I'll start on it after I phone the police and have them take care of our psychotic loitering buddy outside. Give me about twenty minutes and I'll have that pizza ready for ya."
"Thanks, boss."
"Yeah, thanks Uncle Gino!" exclaimed Kathy as she kissed her uncle on the cheek.
Gino shrugged, blushing: "Hey, don't mention it. Just hold on a few seconds while dear old Uncle Gino takes care of your problem, okay?"
"Sure thing," Kathy said, and she and Bart walked out of the office, holding hands, looking at each other and smiling warmly.
Lyrics taken from "Bad Religion" by Godsmack
Copyright © 1998 All Rights Reserved
Use of these lyrics was in no way intended as copyright infringement,
for profit, or to steal funds away from their creator, and the lyrics in question
can easily be removed at the request of their respected authors.