Thursday, March 9, 2017


They sent him a letter and told him God was fake. How could he be real when they were all sick and dying of cancer. Pastor James O’Keefe, cleaned his semi-automatics and read the letter again. He sent each a personal letter asking them to come to service one last time. There would be no scripture reading but fellowship and free food. Free for them anyway since he just maxed out his credit card for the food, money he could never pay back since there would be no one left at the church to put money in the coffers. How could they do this to him?

On Sunday,  he opened the doors to the small white church. They filed in. Once they got their overflowing plates, they took their seats. As promised, there were no prayers or scripture readings. Instead Pastor James O’Keefe chained the doors. No one was leaving.

His one begotten flock laughed and delighted themselves as he stood guard at the door.  No one bothered to talk to him or even look his way. What the hell happened to these people? First they turn their backs on God, then on him. It was not his fault or God’s for that matter that these people were sick. There was always heaven and eternal life without pain.

Pastor O’Keefe looked outside the church windows, watching two birds chase each other. A gun shot went off. People screamed. He turned his attention back. John Masterson stood on the table holding two revolvers.

“John?” Asked his wife, whom he shot without thinking twice about it. More people screamed.

“This your fault!” John screamed. “We are sick because you all didn’t want to fight the company. I told you, I told you all they were making us sick.”

He fired more rounds. People ran to the door.

Pastor O’Keefe took out his guns and the flock stopped.

“John, the lord has a plan for all of us. We will be granted the highest places in heaven,” the pastor said.

“Amen,” a couple of others agreed.

“You believe that shit, Pastor? That God wants us sick and dying. Why us? Why anyone? What the fuck kind of God is that? Why does he love the rich ones more?”

“How do you know that he does? That he loves us all equally?”

“Shoot him, Pastor,” Nancy the organist said.

“While we are coughing up our blood, they are breathing fine, some fucking god,” John yelled.

And some of the congregation gave an even heartier “Amen”

“John get down from there and let’s talk,” the pastor said.

“Talking is done,” as he unloaded his revolvers shooting people.

“Save us,” someone said.

The pastor shook his head, “I tried to save you once,  but you left.”

John stopped firing. Half the people were dead. He took the pistol turned it on himself. No one stopped him and he fired the last shot.

“Maybe you all need mercy,” the pastor said and shot the rest of them dead.

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