Vengeful Revival

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Silas McGee only attends church because of his wife's last wishes. But what happens when he finally reaches his breaking point?

Submitted: February 24, 2013

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Submitted: February 24, 2013

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A Vengeful Revival

It happened at the gospel meeting at the West Chapel Church of the Crossroads. Silas McGee, wrinkled and liver-spotted at the crotchety old age of seventy-two, ensconced himself in the same pew he had been sitting in since he was a child. He glared at the preacher up on the pulpit, hearing a supposedly sincere, passion-filled sermon especially written for a revival, and stared blatantly at all of the so-called believers, a scornful smirk upon his face. Shouts of “Amen!” and other “holy” exclamations echoed around him. “Hypocrites. All of ‘em.” Silas’s heart was as hard as the salt lick in his backyard. He knew the reason for all of this commotion. Every time West Chapel was short on tithes, it would have a revival to bring in some cash from some obligated Christians who usually came only on Christmas and Easter anyway.

Silas sighed and scratched his bald scalp. “What’s the damn point of all this crap anyway,” he thought, “when everyone turns the Good Shepherd on for church and off throughout the week like a light switch?” Silas had been here longer than anyone in the congregation; he only still went in obedience to Loretta’s last wishes, God bless her soul. He has seen the parishioners on the weekdays living their unrighteous, sinful lives. Brother Charles is a regular down at O’Malley’s pub, and even bunks there when he’s too drunk to distinguish between a hottie and a heifer; Mrs. Betty Sue is often seen leaving the residence of Reverend Madison in the morning wearing nothing but her bathrobe; and Sweet Marissa, the teenage freckle-faced blue-eyed choir singer makes extra money at the strip joint performing for cross-eyed truckers and crooked husbands. And here they all were, blameless and holy, Amen-ing as if the Second Coming was upon them.

“Damned fools,” muttered Silas. If Loretta were here to see the foundation she had built crumble, she would be devastated. “…And YES people YES! No matter YOUR MISTAKES, FORGIVENESS is granted by the MAN who DIED upon THAT TREE CANIGETANAYYMEN?!” This pied-piper of a preacher was enticing holy shouts out of the mouths of the congregation members, and money out of their pockets and purses, which would most likely go towards filling the piper’s strange glass pipe with “Mary Jane”. “A jackass leading a heard of jackasses, that’s what this place has become,” Silas ranted in his head. He was sick and tired of all of the corruptness. He worked too hard for way too little; he wished Uncle Sam would give a damn about the man with the blue collar, and with Loretta gone and her favorite place full of drunks and whores, what else was there to live for? Silas clutched his chest; the contractions in his chest were back. He had forgotten to take his horse pill of a heart medication this morning, but this still had to be done. For Loretta. Silas McGee stood up calmly, every eye upon him, whipped out his .44 Magnum from his coat pocket, fired four shots into the adjacent pews, two at the preacher, then clutched his chest and fell over dead in his pew.

Monday morning, and it was time for the daily paper to be delivered. Samuel went on his usual paper route, not even glancing at the headlines as usual, just as long as he got enough money to bet on the dog fights after school was over. He was sure to hit Old Man McGee’s door extra hard to provoke him into a fit of yelling, like he did every morning. To his disappointment, no one came to the door. The paperboy, wondering why his daily show was being prolonged, walked up the front porch steps and looked down at the paper. Silas McGee’s perpetually grim face stared back at him, with the headline reading, “It Happened at the West Chapel Church of the Crossroads.”


© Copyright 2018 Marconi. All rights reserved.

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