“Jesus! Did one of them do that to you?”
“Yes.” He let his sleeve fall again. “Tommy Twitcher. Right over there. The one in the dark green jacket.”
“Which one in the dark green jacket?”
“The one brandishing his spork at that other man.”
“He stabbed you and you still come back?”
Jesus chuckled. “I would hardly call it a stab. More a defensive swipe. In his defense, the drugs he was on caused him to truly believe in his heart that I was a zombie.”
“Well, he wasn’t far off, was he?”
Jesus’s eyes lit up. “Ah yes, I hadn’t thought about that! Perhaps the Twitch is a prophet!”
Jessica watched the man in question. Could he be a prophet? But she didn’t have to wonder about that long, because Twitch dropped the spork, jumped up onto the bench, and whipped out his dick. To what end, she wasn’t sure. But it was out.
“Did you ever hold him?” she asked.
“Oh, heavens no. He would have killed me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
347:09:25:31 until Doomsday
Wendy Peterman had the AC in her Mercedes on full blast as the audio from her phone fed through the Bluetooth. Jessica watched the screen closely. Apparently, whatever Jameson Fractal had organized with his buddies in his free time between projects had the publicist’s stamp of approval, so it must be good.
The ad was similar to the NFL PSA Chris had spearheaded, except it wasn’t horribly written. The format was much the same, though.
Face after famous face flipped by, each reading from the same sappy script. She even recognized a few of Jameson’s friends from the Dark & Dirty franchise, the ones she’d spent a lovely autumn day with at the music festival the previous year. There was Bolt Stevens and Valerie Villarreal and also Jon Damien and a few more she recognized from movies but had no idea Jameson knew. But of course he knew all kinds of famous people.
There was no equivalent of “Women are people, too” in this one, and in fact, the messaging seemed rather bland to her. It didn’t even mention God.
Mostly, it was filled with statistics that made an argument against men. She wasn’t exactly sure how that was pro-women. But she trusted Wendy. This was likely just phase one of a longer process of indoctrination.
When it was over, Jessica had hardly gotten out, “That’s great, but will it work?” before an ad began to autoplay.
The sounds of oinking filled the car, and Jessica and Wendy exchanged a confused look before turning their attention back to the phone.
“Oh my …” Wendy breathed.
The screen showed a happy farmer overlooking his pigs, who snorted and rooted in their pen. In the distance, a vivid Texas sunset. The farmer turned to the camera. “My girls are my livelihood. I want to make sure they live a good life before their time comes.” The screen cut to one of the surfaced clips from Jimmy’s rogue congregants. The brunt of the image was blurred, and it only stayed on-screen for a second, but the squealing carried on into the next shot: the farmer again, shaking his head. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t abide that sinful behavior. I don’t think most people can.”
The farmer’s wife appeared in the shot, and he put his arm around her as she said, “And yet, what’s being done?”
He pulled his wife closer, planting a kiss on the top of her head before asking the viewer, “What if that was your pig?”
It cut to another pig farmer on a sunny day with a blue sky stretching on behind him. “You think it’s no big deal until it happens to your pig.” The shot switched to another pig abuse video and the loudest grunting in this one wasn’t coming from the victim. It was hardly more than half a second, but Jessica felt her stomach lurch, like intestinal whiplash, before it cut back to the second farmer again. His face was determined, his jaw firmly set, when he said, “That was my pig, and I’m here to tell you, it could be yours next.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jessica said, as the commercial ended with a quick announcement that it was paid for by the Coalition for Chaste Farming.
“Who in the hell started that?” Jessica asked.
Wendy opened her mouth to say something else before she looked through her windshield and said, “Oh! He’s here.”
She spotted Jimmy Dean walking down the sidewalk in front of the tall row of multiuse buildings heading for their designated meeting spot.
“And he’s brought Eugene Thornton with him.” Jessica groaned.
“That’s not unexpected. He’ll want an ally. I don’t blame him. He’s in a tight spot if he’s trying to get your help.”
They approached Maggie’s Ice Cream, Jessica’s heart racing. She hoped it wasn’t visible through her cotton V-neck. She didn’t want anyone to know how nervous she really was.
When she’d handed Jimmy Dean Wendy’s business card outside Waverly Hills Retirement Center, she’d never expected the woman would actually arrange a time to meet and talk. But here they were.
Even though Jimmy had bested and badgered Jessica countless times over her twenty-three years, she found that seeing him now, standing there by the entrance to an ice cream parlor, stirred hardly more than a niggle of annoyance within her. Perhaps it was because Jimmy had always been a fixture in her life. Even before she’d met him as a child, there were the calls to Destinee asking for money and the subsequent blue streaks from her mother’s mouth that followed. Jimmy was like a chronic illness that flared up now and again, and perhaps on a subconscious level she’d come to accept that he would always be there, and that allowed her to feel entitled to roll her eyes at him and, if she was feeling in the mood, berate him openly. No matter what she did, he would remain an obnoxious reality, never much better or worse than the year before. Even his Doomsday proclamation, as rudely timed as it was, felt to some extent like business as usual. Once she’d had time to give it a little thought, she was a little surprised he hadn’t done it sooner.
But setting eyes upon the loathsome reporter Jimmy had brought with him made her fingertips tingle with wrath. Eugene Thornton was maliciousness embodied. His attacks on her were less personal, and that made them somehow worse. At least Jimmy cared about her in his own fucked up way. Eugene Thornton would only mourn her death once the ratings from his coverage of it started to wane. He was cold, calculated, and, frankly, smarter than Jimmy. And yet the two of them had formed a sort of alliance. She’d never wanted to see a pair destroy itself more.
What if she smote the hell out of Eugene right there in broad daylight? She already knew the cops wouldn’t arrest her for it. Her life would certainly be better off without him. Thornton News would be a mess. She’d have taken out one of Jimmy’s main allies. It was a good strategic move, and it sure would set the tone for this entente.
She tried to visualize it as they crossed the street, but a flash from the last time she’d smote a person struck her like a stale loaf of bread to the face.
No. Smiting was better in theory than in reality, it seemed.
“Remember,” Wendy said, “let me do the talking. We don’t want to give them anything they can use against us, and I’m absolutely sure Jimmy is in some kind of pinch he hasn’t told us about. We need to figure out what it is.”
They came to a halt outside of Maggie’s Ice Cream, two women squaring off against the two men. Eugene didn’t even bother to smile politely, but that was okay, because Jimmy did enough grinning for the both of them. “Jessica! My dear, sweet—” He went in for a hug, but Wendy stepped between them and put a palm in Jimmy’s face, pushing him back. “You do not touch her. Understood?”
A shadow passed across his face, but he stepped back and straightened his white suit. “I see your bodyguard doesn’t understand the history we have.”
“She does. That’s why she won’t let you touch me.”
Jimmy leaned forward. “Jessica. Come on. It’s me! Jimmy! We’re just here to get ice cream together like old times!”
No way. He was trying to be
Ice Cream Jimmy, but she hadn’t seen that man in years. She was pretty sure Church Jimmy had smothered him in his sleep and fed him to the pigs.
“Whatever,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Jimmy jumped forward to hold the door for her, and she sighed, already knowing this was not going to be a pleasant afternoon.
“Welcome to Maggie’s!” said a plump, white, brunette girl in a tie-dyed shirt and a Rastafarian beanie. Behind her, a pale and lanky teen boy with painful looking acne helped the customers ahead of them in line, pounding their toppings into a heap of ice cream with two flattened scoops like it had just pointed out his pimple in front of the entire school yard.
Jimmy stepped forward. “Uh, yes, can I sample the vanilla bean, the Mexican vanilla, the French vanilla, and the country cream?”
Jessica held herself rigidly as the four of them watched the girl painstakingly dip a sample spoon into every kind of vanilla ice cream they carried.
Jimmy sucked off each one, moaning his appreciation with closed eyes, taking his sweet time.
Was this a power move? If so, it was a strange one.
“I think the Mexican vanilla wins,” he announced jovially, turning to Jessica as if she would be thrilled to hear it.
“Great,” she said, “order it. I don’t give a shit.”
Wendy elbowed her, and she remembered their discussion about not cursing during this meeting.
Jimmy ordered a large with hot fudge and marshmallows, and Eugene declined any ice cream at all. The girl plopped the giant ice cream scoop on the countertop, sprinkled on the marshmallows, and began pulverizing it.
Maybe I should’ve opened an ice cream shop. Spend my days pounding on something that can’t fight back, that can’t even found a church.
When the girl was done, she formed it into a ball, balanced it on the end of the scoop, and then threw the scoop into the air, catching the ice cream in the serving cup on the way down. Jimmy clapped, and Wendy rolled her eyes. She looked at Eugene, who was eyeing Jessica like a hawk would a field mouse.
Wendy practically snarled. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get us a table?”
“Why? So you can threaten this poor man without it going on the record?”
The girl handed Jimmy his treat, and he took his first bite, a bit of the chocolate fudge sticking to his lip, and said, “You got this, right?” He motioned at the ice cream with his spoon.
Ah, she should have known. Before she could think of a suitable replacement for “Fuck right off, Jimmy,” he nodded at Eugene, saying, “She’s got this. Let’s go grab a seat.”
Wendy got a small coffee ice cream with chopped pecans, and Jessica ordered a medium country cream with peanut butter cups. She’d tried to order it with gummy bears, but Wendy’d nixed that, reminding her this was a professional meeting, and that topping wouldn’t set the right tone.
Wendy offered to pay, citing the large sum she was earning from church donations, and Jessica allowed it, albeit with a small twinge of guilt.
They slid into a booth across from Eugene and Jimmy, who was almost done with his large serving already.
Jessica knew not to be the first one to break the silence. Granted, she only knew that because she’d been told it explicitly and then reminded of it multiple times since. On the table in front of Eugene Thornton was an electronic voice recorder. Wendy eyed it suspiciously.
“I expect all of this to be off the record.”
“Of course. You have my word.” He pressed the record button with some flourish.
“Mr. Dean,” Wendy said.
“Railroad Commissioner Reverend Dean,” he corrected as a dribble of chocolate sauce ran down his chin.
“I understand your desire to have someone backing you up at this meeting, but I do believe you’ve made the worst choice possible by bringing Mr. Thornton.” She glared at the reporter. “That can be on the record.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I trust Eugene more than anyone. He’s always had my back when the mainstream media snubbed me.”
“You’re a fool, then,” Wendy replied. “And that can be on the record, as well.”
Jimmy finished the last of his treat, scraping the bottom to get every last bit. Jessica grabbed one of her napkins and handed it to him. He took it without a second thought and wiped his mouth with it, completely missing the dark blotch on the tip of his nose.
When he was satisfied, he said, “I know you think that of me, but guess what? I’m successful. Could a fool be as successful as I am?”
“Absolutely. Only a fool can have your level of success. Because only a fool would fail to see the many pitfalls of it.”
“There aren’t pitfalls to serving the Lord Our God on a mass scale.”
“Then why are we here today, Mr. Dean?”
“Railroad Commissioner Reverend Dean.” But now he looked less sure of himself.
Jessica scooped a large bite of mostly peanut butter cup into her mouth.
Jimmy sat up straighter in his seat, something Jessica had long known was a bullshit barometer for him. The straighter the spine, the heavier the load of hogwash he was about to serve up.
“I think we can help one another in a way like never before.”
Wendy smiled. “You mean you need my client like never before.”
“Not what I mean.”
“Then go on. How can we help you?”
He glanced down at the recorder then mumbled to Eugene, “This is off the record, right?”
Eugene said nothing but nodded emphatically.
“Good, good.” And now he addressed Jessica. “As I’m sure you’re aware, White Light Church and its affiliated network of churches has been under quite a bit of scrutiny lately for the behavior of a few outliers.”
Finally, Jessica spoke. “The pig fucking.”
“If you want to call it that. I’ve had lawyers working on it night and day to calm the hysteria. But the videos just keep coming. I’m starting to believe those in the videos have never set foot in my holy chapels! There are just so many!” He leaned forward and whispered, “I suspect paid actors might be in play, or perhaps some sinful men who have had porcine desires for many years and have simply attended services at my church as a way to validate acting upon those desires.”
Wendy said, “If that’s not a sign to check in on what you’re preaching, I don’t know what is.”
Jimmy glared daggers at her. “We have never and will never condone that sort of conduct.”
Jessica said, “But you fetishize piglike behavior, tell everyone they’re pigs, and preach that God is a hog. Where did you think that was going?”
“Certainly not to … where we are now!”
Wendy cut in, “I don’t understand how my client can help you with that. If you think she wants to get her reputation within a thousand feet of that mess, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”
“No, no. I’ve got the pig thing handled. Or at least I have people who are handling it, and it shouldn’t last much longer.”
“Not past July seventh of next year, for sure, right?”
Jimmy squinted at Wendy. “July seventh? What’s happening then?”
She rolled her eyes. “The end of the world.”
“Oh! Right! That. Yes. I almost forgot. It won’t last beyond that.”
“Then you can easily ride out less than a year of this scandal, can’t you? Knowing it’s going to be relatively short lived.”
“Of course. But there’s something else.”
“There always is with you,” Jessica grumbled.
“I lead a busy life. Conflict naturally arises. But this one is owed entirely to you and your choices, so I think it’s only fair that you help me clean it up.”
Wendy put a controlling hand on Jessica’s knee, and she took the hint and stayed quiet.
“My client owes you nothing.”
“Ah, but she does. Because her foolishness forfeited her personal brand to another. When
that happened, I was worried how it might affect my church. After all, she plays a key role in the scripture.”
“And what is that role precisely?” Jessica blurted. “It seems to change day to day.”
“The role is irrelevant,” Jimmy said. “You represent many things to many people. But you are, and always have been, Jessica Christ.”
“I thought I was the Antichrist now, bringing about the end of the world.”
“You are. You are Jessica Christ, the Antichrist. The product of Original Sin seducing Deus Aper and spreading your swine-like filth across this great godly nation.”
“And you wonder why people are roasting pigs on their special spit,” Jessica said.
“When you proclaimed yourself God’s daughter in Atlanta, you set off a chain of legal events. Not only did you get yourself sued, but you also provided Dolores Thomas enough evidence to begin suing White Light Church for trademark infringement. Believe it or not, you openly owning your birthright was the last piece she needed before filing suit against me.”
Jessica shrugged. “I should’ve done it way sooner then.”
Wendy stepped in. “She’s trademarked it?”
“You didn’t know?” He smirked. “Ah yes, she has.”
“There’s no way to uphold that. Your use of it predates her trademark. It’s insane her paperwork was even approved.”
“Be that as it may, she is also the wife of a congressman, and Congressman Thomas has connections.”
“And you’re on the Texas Railroad Commission,” Wendy said, “you have connections, too. Don’t play the victim here.”
“Don’t you see?” His eyes jumped uneasily to Eugene for a split second. “We know the same people. And, well, they aren’t thrilled with me lately. I might have made some promises … Well, that doesn’t matter. The point is that the pig scandal can be managed, but to add this on top of it … it’s stretching my resources a little thin. You know Dolores Thomas, though. This is where I need your help.”
Jessica, who had tried but failed to follow along with his insinuations, understood this last bit just fine. She knew about Dolores Thomas, and he needed that intel. “I can’t help you, Jimmy.”
The End Is Her Page 15