Warning: Parts of this story are explicit and you may find disturbing. Discretion is advised.
Life smiled a toothy grin, though mostly on Sundays, and especially in the form of “vicar” Tom Reeves.
Tom was not an ordained vicar, and wasn’t even sure if ordination was a Church of England “thing”, required to transform a normal person to a being fit to wear a little white strip around the collar of a shirt. Tom was, well, self-ordained, and those of his growing congregation that attended his little weekly sermons generally agreed that this was a wholesomely satisfactory state of affairs. Tom was unique, and as such, appointment to the position of “vicardom” by anyone but himself (or “him upstairs”) would be a nonsense.
It had started with a visit from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. That Skinny Woman smiled and asked if he had been thinking about God recently. Something inside him leapt into the ceiling with a violence such that he required a spiritual fish-slice to ground himself again.
“Er… Yes, actually. I’m thinking of quitting my job. Would you like to come in?”
She had accepted his cup of tea, and over the next three weeks he became aware of the profundity of his bible to depths hitherto undreamed. Indeed, to such intensities were his studies that soon he saw himself as quite a scholar in not only theology, but also in his favourite study, life.
Soon, the bible was cast into his river of stalemate, the banks of which he had rested upon for so many years, casting his line knowing full well the stream was poisoned. The bible became a single stepping stone to life, to his “destiny”.
And the Jehovah’s Witness woman became small. He could hardly believe his magnetic charm when he finally cajoled her to sex. She had been so bashful, so quiet. So accepting.
He soon had her reciting biblical passages on all fours as he took her, forced her, demanded her on the quiet blue warmth of the living room carpet.
His wife, Sheila, she noticed the change in her husband. She said nothing, suspected all, ignored everything.
One blisteringly fine morning, his daughter made a fateful retort to a blisteringly moralistic lecture on standards of dress. She suggested that maybe he should get himself a little congregation to appreciate his learned nature.
That day he made plans for the garage conversion, and had a good meal of steak, chips, peas, followed by a good slice of apple pie, with cream.
He placed adverts for spiritually-minded people in the local papers, and prayed to God. He noted his enthusiasm for begging God’s love and help in attracting a suitable flock peaked when he had His Skinny Jehovah’s Witness Woman reciting biblical passages on all fours, as he took her, on the quiet blue warmth of his living room carpet.
“I Would like to welcome you to the first sermon for my new church on Christian living. I hope you will feel at home. Tea and biscuits served at the end, by my fine wife, Sheila.”
His sermons grew in attendance. From four to six to eight. Soon he had to open the garage door to add seating outside.
It was his sermon on sexual morality that spread the word. He talked of the evils of homosexuality, transvestism, and child-abuse, and of how all these inflictions could be overcome. He talked of how families could be united, and (over coffee and biscuits, for his wife had forgotten to buy extra tea this week) most importantly, how sexual happiness could lead to a fulfilling life.
That night, he wearily expounded his reasoning to his wife on why she had forgotten the tea, and that she needed a little more faith in life. He led her to the bathroom and, with quiet fury, demanded she strip.
She wept in the bath as he crouched over her, seeking to replenish her faith by defecating over her breasts.
- Simon Huggins, 12th October 1992