The box vibrated in my hand and I felt its weight bear down sharply into my elbow. I sensed the movement there, and I saw slithery motion within. I shuddered like with fever. The solid door behind me propped up my clumsy body to face that sudden vision of sultry femininity, Molly-my sweet Molly!
She parted bloated lips and poked the thin, delicate tip of her pink tongue out from between them, leaving a glistening trail wherever it traveled and lingered and traveled again. Her eyes continued to probe mine, but I admit I could not focus entirely on them - no, I chose to admire those fleshy lips writhing before me, now curling upward, and I felt my manhood untangle and curl upward as well. The longbox vibrated softly in my hand. Another glimpse of silent movement through the cross-shaped cut-out centered on one of the lids. The tiny brass lock swung with exaggerated slowness. Indeed, everything was flowin’ at the speed of molasses.
Oh, what strange magic potion filled the sultry summer air!
“Ned,” she whispered with a voice so low it sounded not like hers at all. “My Ned.”
I blinked both eyes slowly and somehow missed her approach, for when I opened them again Molly stood mere inches from me, looking up into my bearded face as one gazes into the halo of the warming sun. I wanted to speak, but my vocal cords failed to produce any sound worth hearin’.
Then her head disappeared and I felt a sure, gentle tugging on the outside of my trousers. I looked down and beheld those widened pupils gazing into mine, her lips now pursed as if about to whistle, and one slim hand parting the folds of fabric which held me prisoner no longer, the buttons undone as if in a dream. Yes, I was free, tingling and ready.
I tell you, her touch was cool, yet blazing.
“Molly,” I managed, in both protest and abandon. “Oh, Molly.” I had no other words to brandish.
The light seemed to dim before my eyes as the moist embrace of slickly supple, quivering flesh surrounded my member from tip to root.
I set the longbox down on the tiny table which held the ornate guest book, placed my hands in her hair, and felt each movement as she alternately licked, nibbled, then engulfed more of me into herself. Forward and back, hot and cold wetness, until finally I felt the shiver building and with a moan she swallowed all there was and wiped the corners of her mouth with a prim, slender finger following the curl of her smile. Moments later she fixed her ruined lipstick and left me to cover myself-and recover-as best I could. No words exchanged. None needed, though surely I needed the support of that door behind me.
Oh, don’t judge me with disapproval, you dim-wits!
You’d a-had no more strength than me, if the roles were reversed. Molly’s a good girl, a swell actress and valuable ally, but at that moment she had fulfilled all my suppressed desires. When she returned to her desk, she winked at me and licked her lips and-for a moment, mind you-I missed the small-town Molly I used to know. It was like she’d got herself a cat-house education that afternoon, and I’d written the curriculum.
Frenzied knocking at the locked door set me to righting my trousers and buttoning the fly. I was thankful for the yellowed blinds that screened out the afternoon sun and kept visitors from pryin’. Sweat stung as it dribbled into my eyes.
“Are you goin’ to get that, Reverend?” Molly asked in her sweetest voice. She was my up-front girl again and looked no more forward to me at that moment than any church secretary.
“Uh, yes,” I stammered as I fumbled at the door. “I believe I will.”
I’d no sooner unlatched it than it flew open as if shoved by a gust of holy wind.
“Well well, lookie here!”
I studied the loud, lanky visitor. A Woolworth’s suit, a wrinkled white shirt, and shoes that hadn’t been polished since the War. A crushed fedora tilted over flat, uninteresting features. I could see a dented black Packard parked outside.
“Look, Sister Molly, if it ain’t a member of the local journalistic industry!” The words welled up before I could stop them, but it didn’t matter because the flat-faced man had flashed his press card at me even as I spoke. I can spot a newspaper man by the cheapness of his clothes and by the predatory gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
“John Molinaro, Reverend. News Gazette. You are the Reverend Jim-Bob Wallace?” He extended his hand experimentally.
I took his hand close to his wrist, holding it long enough to pretend cordiality and far up enough to escape a vise-grip that might have strangled a camel, had it found purchase. “Come in out of the heat, Mr. Molinetti.”
“Molinaro,” he corrected, smiling crookedly at Molly behind me. “Ma’am,” he said, leering. His gaze switched to me and went flinty. “I’m real sorry to come callin’ so soon after your arrival in town and all, but you know …”
I swung the door closed behind him, catching sight of the guest book and the longbox on the table. “Not at all, Mr. Moli-I’ve had a day to unpack and prepare for my ministry. What can I do for you?”
He smiled. “As you might imagine, your arrival here in
Brownton has caused quite a stir.” He wagged his head back and forth like it was hinged. “Quite a stir. Word’s been spreadin’ for the last day or so that you’re part of one of those special Christian groups.” He had a pad out by now, and a stubby pencil.
“We’re all Christians here in Indiana, sir,” I pointed out. “Ain’t we?” I made sure I was smilin’ like an idiot. Behind him, I saw Molly look away.
“That’s for sure, Reverend Wallace. You’ve put your finger on a basic truth around these parts.” He nodded and scratched some symbols into his notebook. “What is the name you go by, uh, the name of your ministry?”
He was tauntin’, pronouncin’ ministry like a cussword. I wondered if I’d set my sights a bit too high this time around.
“I’m ordained by the Holy Highway Church of God,” I explained slowly, so he could jot it down. “I’m here to spread news of the power and the glory.”
“No doubt, no doubt. And your first service is tomorrow? Is that right?”
I’d made some calls and my contacts were coming through, one by one. Next evening at eight the local Pentecostal church, housed in a bungalow on the outskirts of town, would host about three dozen worshipers and a delegation of preachers from in and around the county, and we would handle serpents for the glory of God.
And for the glory of the donation plate. Praise the Lord.
“It is indeed, Mr. Millitaro. Ya’ll come by and witness to our Savior? You can report in your paper the holy love that’ll be pouring out of each of us.”
“What about the snake handling? Can I report on that?” He grinned at me as if we were sharin’ a joke. Maybe we were.
“There will be serpents handled, yes, symbolizing our mastery over the Great Serpent, the Evil One.”
“You know snake handling is illegal here in this state, don’t you?” he drawled with a smirk.
“The laws of man hold no sway over those of the Lord,” I said, bringing my hands together and gazing downward. I’ve found that most reporters get edgy when faced with piousness. I’m pious right often when there’s a journalist in the room. Played just right, their stories help swell the donations. Wrong, and we’re headin’ out of town just ahead of a lynch mob.
He looked around, measurin’. “Not a lot of money in your calling, is there?”
That’s another tactic, attempting to goad some blasphemous response from a man of God. I’m careful not to let my finances show in my surroundings.
His gaze fell upon the longbox. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, stepping closer. He bent over the table and jumped a small step back when the box moved of its own accord.
“That is a serpent, yes sir,” I said. “A full-grown, poisonous rattler we’ll be handling tomorrow, safely under the protection of our Savior.” I imagined the disgusting scaly skin, rippling and slithering inside the box, visible through the cross-shaped cut-out. He stared at it. “You’re welcome to handle the serpent yourself, Mr. Moli- …”
“They’re not my flock yet,” I pointed out, trying for modesty. I looked at Molly for some support, but she was facing away from us. Usually she’s part of the act, drivin’ it home.
He headed for the door. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said. “You can count on it.”
I smiled. “Prepare yourself to witness miracles.”
I heard his mocking laughter even after he had left.
“What the hell were you doing?” I shouted at Molly. “You gone crazy?”
Before she could answer, the door flew open again and smacked against the wall. I turned and faced this new intrusion with my quick temper, which faded when I saw that it was a striking woman in a serious Sunday dress. Her features were as severe as the cut of her clothes-sharp and not altogether unattractive, though pinched and devoid of any cosmetic embellishments. You could cut yourself on her chin and nose.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here on behalf of my husband, the Reverend Horton. He has the parish down the street a-ways, Holy Redeemer. I’ve come to plead with you not to taint our community with your blasphemy!”
High-pitched, nasal, nagging voice. This was not turning out to be a good day, despite that display of Molly’s unexpected expertise in matters carnal.
“Mrs. Horton,” I began as smoothly as I could muster, “let me assure you that-” I trailed off.
Her eyes had left mine and wandered downward, fixin’ my groin area with a bizarre stare. I followed her stare and saw that my trousers had somehow remained unbuttoned. Had Molinaro noticed? As I made to hastily correct the matter, the Reverend Horton’s wife suddenly sank to her bony knees and reached out for me, grabbing and preventing my escape.
“Yes,” she whispered, voice gone real husky, not nearly as nasal. Answering a question, a demand, only she could hear. “Yes! I am honored, my master!”
Her fingers fumbled my stiffening member from its hiding place and I found I could not edge away, since Molly had sidled around behind me and held me firmly within Mrs. Horton’s range. My brain was like to explode, watchin’ the minister’s wife fondle my rising manhood, kiss it, and then take it between her thin lips, a line of drool escaping the corners of her prim mouth. I bet myself right then that the Reverend Horton had never even in his dreams experienced his wife’s considerable hidden talent. I turned to face Molly to question this newest bizarre occurrence, or at least her part in it, but her eyes were nearly crossed with ecstasy, nodding dazed assent-to what, I couldn’t hear. Then Molly’s lips covered mine and the heady smell of fresh lipstick invaded my nostrils even as her darting tongue made inroads into my throat. In a minute both women muttered “Yes! Yes!” as I convulsed and spilled my seed into the ascetic mouth of Mrs. Horton, while Molly’s sweet lips sucked my tongue dry.
Moments later the minister’s wife stood, her eyes again blazing into mine. “You be there tomorrow night, you hear?” Her tone had slowed to a drawl, completely unlike how she sounded upon her arrival. Carnal and raw, it was the voice of a demon.
I said “Yes, ma’am!” but she was already storming out the door. Molly left immediately after, speaking not a word, leaving me alone in my disheveled clothes, a strange soreness setting into my abused member. I sagged to the floor and felt tears squeeze from my eyes. Surely, you would think I’d struck a golden vein in this new and bizarre tendency for women to offer their mouths and tongues to me, but I sensed the onrush of some sort of end, a final twist to my strangely sweet-sour torture.
The door opened before I could stand to slip on the latch, and my newest visitor looked down upon me with a mixture of amusement and false pity. Thin and wiry, he was dressed in black and wore a sort of beret on his nearly hairless head. A devilish goatee stained the lower reaches of his chin. He grinned with crooked brown tooth stumps.
“Well, man, what have we here?”
Under the circumstances, I declined to answer.
“Ned Potter, I presume?”
“I’ll have Riley’s money in a week,” I said, gathering my legs under me. “Ten days at the most.”
“Sweet, but not good enough.” He gritted the stained stumps. The pain must have been severe. “Riley wants you to know, he’s in a hurry, man. He’s sweated up over this little problem you and he have between you.”
“No need, not at all. Seven days-” I was nearly up now, and focusing on his groin, where my boot would land when I had regained enough of my balance.
The beatnik was no idiot. He leaned forward and stepped on my leading foot and-while I shouted in blue pain-snatched something long and metallic out of his pocket. I saw the glint of the blade even as I heard the snick of the mechanism, and then the tip of the dirk was probing my left nostril.
I half-stood very still as his nicotine-and-rot breath washed over me.
“Don’t sweat it yet, dad,” he said with a snort. “Riley wants to get paid, so you’re a nothing to him dead.”
“No argument from me,” I whispered carefully. The blade was cold inside my nose.
“However, you can still pay while maimed. “
I nodded very carefully.
“Two days,” he said. “Forty-eight little hours.”
His free hand gripped my left ring finger before I could contemplate moving it out of range, and with a crisp yank upward he broke it, pain lancing from the joint up my arm and flashing into my brain as he bent it back over my wrist and then twisted it sideways. He cut off my croaking scream with his hand.
“Work your little scam, dad. I’ll be watching you from real close, and if you try to skip I’m going to take particular pleasure in breaking every one of your fingers, and then stuffing your dick down your throat. Then maybe I’ll put you out of your misery, or maybe not. You got that, dad?”
I nodded through the tears. His repulsive face cracked into a brown smile and pulled back, and then I slid to the floor while he slammed the door.
No respect for a man of God.
I lay there a while, then crawled to the lectern and drew myself upright. I ground my teeth to keep from screaming again while I splinted and taped my broken finger, feeling the knuckle bones scrape together like shards of glass.
Sweat trickled off my brow as I checked the longbox, just to see the movement inside. The diamond shapes oozed wetly past the opening. I listened carefully, almost not breathing, but no sounds came from the serpent. No sounds except the gentle slithering of scaly skin on rough wood. No voices. I put the longbox down on the pulpit and scrabbled about for my bottle. Two long pulls dulled the pain a little. A third almost killed it.
“What the hell’s happening?” The occupants of the trick longbox ignored me and my strangled wail. I drank more. Maybe it was time to pack it in. Maybe Indiana wasn’t the best place-back to Kentucky, where women were unlikely to worship my groin before I said a word, or spent a dime.
Riley and his money. Fleece the natives, as planned, or meet the beatnik’s blade one last time? I drank some more.
An hour later I felt little pain. Still no sign of Molly. But I sensed visitors. Or maybe the longbox was feeding me images like spoonfuls of sugar.
You see, I was soon to understand that there was not a woman who could resist the call of the serpent. Young and old, pious and fallen, the lookers and the ugly-the serpent spoke to them all, and he spoke in a tongue they heard well.
How did I know?
Yes indeed. So thirsty. Let me have some of that water, would you? Thanks so much. And a cloth to wipe the sweat from my eyes. It’s sure as hot as an open bonfire, ain’t it? Maybe that fire’s just for me.
Molly’s unusual behavior was just the start, you see. The spreading news brought more visitors from around the county. That’s what I wanted. At least, that’s what I wanted before the serpent went and started speaking to those that came by to see the new preacher boy.
F
irst was another matron, perhaps a neighbor of the minister’s wife. Mrs. Alma Wellers, she told me in a hoarse whisper as she reached for my withered manhood when I could back away no longer, smacking her dry lips and draining me once again despite my previous exertions. Then Sue Ann Barton, a young and untouched maiden who left still unblemished and yet very, very worldly-her pink cherub lips and chin spotted with my thinning seed. And Mabel Smyth, who came to curse but knelt instead to pray at my flesh altar, drinking the milky wine of lust even as she stuttered answers to questions only she could hear. A fat and hairy farm wife named Hildie, who might have practiced swallowing whole kielbasa all her life, but who now found my aching flesh barely enough of a meal. My tears deterred her not a bit.
At last I pushed two lusty cross-eyed, farm-bred teenagers and their lustful mothers out and locked the door, but I could sense them and others outside, waiting. A line of celebrants, apparently called - to punish me? - by something I could not fathom.
Today, the same. Another mother and her full-figured daughter, maybe one of those from yesterday, stopped to pay their respects, so to speak, kneelin’ down together to pray at the organ.
You like that?
And then a steady stream of wives and sisters and girlfriends, and even some nuns from the next town over, come line up at the door, pressin’ the flesh in just the way the serpent said they should, and me dryin’ up like a prune and lettin’ Molly witness for my failures as well as my successes.
Yea, I say unto thee, my children: listen to the voice of the serpent, for he hath spoken. I feel the bite of insanity comin’ on, I do, and there’s nothin’ to be done about it.
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