Scrambled Hard-Boiled
Page 8
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I wasn’t all that surprised to see a man of the cloth coveting his neighbor’s wife. I was raised Southern Baptist. It’s a damn tough life for the ordinary lay person, much less the preacher. you aren’t supposed to drink, smoke, cuss, dance, have pre-marital fornication and practice birth control (pre or post marital).
On top of that, you’re supposed to give up ten percent of your pre-tax income for the privilege of being a member of God’s chosen congregation. Your social life is expected to revolve around the church and let me tell you, you don’t know what hell is unless you have been served up some of the nasty, soggy green beans that they feed you at a typical Southern Baptist pot-luck dinner.
It’s a hard, disciplined way to live, especially if you’re like me; partial to drinking, cussing, fornicating and wanting to use a rubber so you don’t catch the clap from the whore you’re screwing. (Face it, for the average white guy, the no-dance restriction isn’t that big a sacrifice). It’s even harder for your average Southern Baptist preacher, because of all the women throwing themselves at him.
“What!?” you say. “Women throwing themselves at a man of God?”
Damn straight. Your average holy-roller reverend is tempted with more pussy than a rock star, in my opinion.
If a preacher is not so old that he can’t hear and walk, he must contend with the female members of the congregation routinely throwing themselves at his feet, pleading for saving and asking for that touch of personal grace that only he can provide.
The worst ones are the old maiden virgins, who, because of personality defects (or being hit over the head with an ugly stick) have never kissed a man, much less slept with them. The Church is full of these gals, and they’re just yearning for the right man to set them free. Their life revolves around the church and nine times out of ten they’re in the choir.
There they will sit, with this rapt look of adoration on their face, secretly hoping that one day the man they worship, the preacher, will see their inner beauty and sweep them off their feet, even if it means abandoning his wife and kids. These women are crazy and most preachers stay away from them, a lesson they must teach in divinity school.
The second category of babe that bangs the preacher is of the type that our dear Mrs. Randall fell into. The bored, middle-aged housewife, trapped into her everyday ho-hum existence. These women are itching for some excitement in their lives and just love the idea of sinning with the padre. And, to give the devil his due, they’re usually much better looking than the old maiden types—and non-virgins to boot.
If the preacher is looking for a “strange” piece of ass with no strings attached, this is it.
So, I sat in the motel parking lot for a couple of hours, ruminating on sin, marriage and sex, while the Reverend and Mrs. Randall broke a few commandments. Finally, around one o’clock in the morning, the light came on in the motel room. I figured they were getting ready to leave. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the couple exited the motel room and started whispering their goodbyes.
I’m sitting in the back of the car, snapping away, thinking about getting home and getting to bed myself. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a man in a long white coat stride around the motel building corner making directly for Rev. Leo McLardy and Gloria Randall.
In a flash, I recognized the man as Dr. Randall, lab coat and all. With a chill, I realized he had a small pistol in his right hand and a look of murder on his face. The couple turned toward the oncoming husband, and both immediately realized whom it was, and that he had a gun.
“No, Elmo, No!” screamed Gloria as she rushed toward her husband, “Don’t—don’t!”
Dr. Randall slapped her aside with his left arm and started to run towards McLardy.
The Reverend Leo realized by now that he was really close to finally getting to meet St. Peter and not wanting to explain that he died at the hands of a cuckolded husband, did the smart thing and tried to run away.
Too late.
The Doc raised his arm, and I heard two sharp cracks as the gun went off.
Leo went down to the payment with a grunt. Gloria got up and ran between her husband and the preacher. By this time, I’d gotten out of the car and was running towards the Doc and his wife.
When I got beside them, Dr. Randall was just standing there with a dull look on his face and was murmuring “Oh shit, Oh shit,” over and over. I reached over and carefully took the gun from his hand.
It was a .22 automatic.
Gloria had squatted next to McLardy and had started moaning. The good preacher, in turn, was clutching his ass with both hands and had begun praying to Jesus to save him.
It seems that the Doctor had capped the Preacher in the ass, and I immediately saw the opportunity to make some real money as long as we didn’t get the cops involved and McLardy didn’t bleed to death, at least not right away.