Date: Thu, 11 Jun 2015 17:05:28 +0000 (UTC) From: Macout Mann Subject: Satan's Work 9 Unless you have already read the precededing chapters of this story, please read no further. If you are reading further, please contact me, let me know how you like the story and make suggestions. All your mail will be answered. macoutmann@yahoo.com. Places in this story are real, but the characters and events are totally fictional. The stories published on nifty.org are made possible by the contributions of readers like you. Please make a donation to keep this service viable. Copyright 2015 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved. SATAN'S WORK by Macout Mann Chapter 9 It was dark. It was raining. It was a chilly October night. Harold wore only jeans, a flannel shirt, and a denim jacket. He had no idea what he was going to do. In a daze he started walking along U.S. 64 toward Cleveland. He had reached the outskirts of Springsville--such as they were--when a Chevy pickup pulled to a stop. The grizzled, middle-aged driver had a couple of day's growth of beard and wore beat-up coveralls. "Goin' to Cleveland?" "Uh...yes sir. Missed my ride." Harold climbed into the truck. "Good thing I came along," the driver said. "Goanna get cold tonight." There was almost no conversation. Toward downtown Cleveland the driver pulled over at a corner and said, "Well, this is my turn. You have a good night, boy." "Thank you, sir." It was still drizzling and getting colder. Harold found himself on a street corner next to a church. He knew it was a church, but it was like no church he'd ever seen before with arched windows and gothic spires. A figure emerged from the building, noticed the shivering teen, and came over to see what was what. "Hello, young man." Harold looked. The speaker was probably thirty. Dressed in black trousers with a tweed jacket and a round collar. "Are you a Catholic priest?" he hesitantly asked. To a boy like Harold, being one of those was almost worse than being the devil. "No, I'm not a Roman Catholic. I am the rector of this church, though. You can call me `Mr. Whitlock.' And who are you?" "Harold...Harold Baxter." The clergyman sensed that here was a boy in trouble. He smiled reassuringly. "And what are you doing out in the cold and rain tonight, Harold?" he asked. Several seconds passed before Harold answered. "I...I don't have any place to go." A tear rolled down the boy's cheek. "Well, I'm out because one of our people had surgery. I've just come from the hospital, and my wife's waiting supper for me. There will be plenty for three. Come and join us." "No...I..." "Nonsense. You've got to be hungry. Come along." Whitlock gently took Harold's elbow and guided him up the block to the rectory. There he was introduced to a lovely woman, Mary, who seemed quite used to having strangers descend on her without notice. She was very welcoming. She put another plate on the table, and served up a meal of Italian Spaghetti for the three of them. Coffee afterward. During dinner, Mary Whitlock kept the conversation flowing but said nothing to indicate that her husband hadn't known Harold forever. Harold warmed to the two of them and became more and more comfortable. After dinner Mary excused herself, saying she knew "the men would want to talk." Whitlock said that he usually had a scotch before bedtime and asked if Harold would mind. Harold was surprised that a minister of the gospel would drink, but said no, he wouldn't mind. He was offered a soft drink or hot chocolate and chose chocolate. Comfortably seated in the Whitlock's den, the clergyman spoke as if being a waif was the most normal thing in the world. "So how is it you have no place to go, Harold?" For some reason the boy felt that here was someone he could be honest with. "My daddy kicked me out," he admitted, "and I guess I deserved it. What I did was an abomination." "Abomination," rang a bell of course. Whitlock gently responded, "So you had sex with another guy? Not the worst thing in the world. "You know something? The Bible lists over a hundred things as abominations, like false weight on a scale, being prideful, lending with interest to your brother. You look like everything you're wearing may be made of cotton, but me? My shirt's made of more than one kind of fiber. According to the Bible, that's an abomination too." "But that's not all," Harold exclaimed. He then recited the whole litany of his sins, including the one that bothered him the most, his killing of the stray dog. "I've violated all of God's Commandments," he said in conclusion. "That may be," Whitlock answered, "and we certainly can't condone that. But you know something, Harold, we have all sinned. I can't count how many times I've probably sinned today. And there is no sin that God will not forgive, if we are pentinent and try to sin no more. `To sin in human, to forgive divine.' Pray for forgiveness, and the Lord will forgive." "My old man sure doesn't think that. He says I'm going to hell for sure, for screwing around, and especially for worshiping Satan, and I didn't even believe that stuff about Satan." The clergyman mixed himself another drink. "I'm sure many members of your church think I'm going to hell, because I relax with a couple of ounces of whiskey most nights. I don't even think I'm committing a minor sin. I think everything that was put on this earth was put here for man's use...in moderation. That includes sex. Someone who eats so much that he becomes obese is just as sinful as someone who becomes an alcoholic. That is if either of them are sinful. Most often they may just have an illness. We can't be the judge. "I've known many rabbis in my ministry. The Jews did write the Old Testament after all. I've never known a rabbi that thought the world was created in seven calendar days. The Bible was written for people who lived thousands of years ago and who understood like people did back then. It's up to us to see the truths in the Bible in the light of what we know now. If we look at the first chapter of Genesis, we can see that everything that happens there happens in the same order as science tells us creation occurred. Just not the same way. "When `Joshua fit the battle of Jericho,' the Bible says `the sun stopped.' If it had said `the earth stopped in its rotation,' no one would have understood. And you know, if the earth had stopped in its rotation, cataclysmic earthquakes and tidal waves would have occurred. So something else must have occurred. All we need to know is that the Israelites won the battle because of some kind of happening they didn't understand." They talked for hours. Whitlock suggested that the prohibition against homosexual acts in the Bible may have been because life was perilous in ancient times. To increase the population was a paramount goal of society. When men get together they don't creating pregnancies. "I'm not saying, `go out and mess with your buddies whenever you feel like it,'" he counseled. "I am saying that sucking your buddy is probably not any more sinful as telling a fib." Harold had never heard such language from a minister. "I gotta go," he finally said. "No. You'll stay here tonight, where it's warm and dry. And tomorrow I hope you'll head back to your family. I'll bet they'll welcome you back. What your dad did, he did in anger and in haste. I'm sure you'll be forgiven, even if they feel you must be punished. "And you should be," he smilingly added. Whitlock led Harold into a bedroom, where Mary had already turned down the covers. Next morning, they had a sumptuous breakfast, and Harold was sent away with a box lunch. He was once again urged to return home. As he was leaving, Mr. Whitlock asked, "Will you pray with me?" Harold had never knelt in his whole live, except to suck dick. But he joined Mary and her husband on their knees. ""God, who knows the weakness and corruption of our nature, and all the temptations that we daily meet with," he recited, "have compassion on our infirmities, and give us the constant assistance of thy Holy Spirit, that we may be kept from sin and led to our duty." "Amen," said Mary. "Amen," echoed Harold. It was nine o'clock when Harold stood at Highway 64. He pondered which way to turn. Mr. Whitlock made a lot of sense. Harold so wanted to follow his advice. Then he remembered all the things his father had said. He remembered the fire in his father's eyes. He turned west to the intersection with U.S. 11. Once there he decided to go south. He stuck out his thumb. A half hour later, a traveling salesman driving a late model Buick Super pulled to a stop. Harold climbed in. The driver seemed pleasant enough. They chatted about this and that. After about a half hour, Harold's benefactor clawed his crotch suggestively. "I've got to stop over in Chattanooga," he said. "If you're not in a big hurry, you can hook up with me. We can have some fun, if you know what I mean." Harold cupped his balls. "Why not?" he said. At the same time, back in Parksville Curtis Parrish sat in his office wondering what he should do. Finally he picked up the phone and dialed zero. "Sheriff's office, please," he said. THE END I have the feeling that many readers will be surprised at how this story ends. It's certainly different from most of my stories. So I'd appreciate it if you will let me know what you think of the ending. And tell me how you would have liked to see it end. Reach me at macoutmann@yahoo.com. If you'd like to read more of my stories, check me out in the Prolific Authors list. Just click Authors on the nifty home page. My next story will be my only story about long-term relationships. It's called "At First Sight." --Macout Mann