Free Messi@ by Andrei Codrescu Page A

deathbed in front of doctors and nurses. She may have been in a category all her own, a sexual deviant with a reserved spot in the Lake of Fire.
    But something was bothering the reverend. His followers had become restless of late, impatient for the End, eager for the Rapture. He had to give them dates for the End events, but he wasn’t going to do it until all his schedules were met and Lord Jesus spoke to him.
    As the flaming towers of oil refineries flashed past, Reverend Mullin savored the brilliance of his plans. He would eventually give believers the date by which to put their affairs in order and give themselves wholly to Jesus. After that, in a matter of days, God’s plan would unfold as foretold.
    Mullin maneuvered the Caddy into the parking lot of a shabby motor court and beeped his horn. A girl-child sauntered out of a doorway, looked casually around, and then got in the car. Innocence had mostly fled the world, but here it was, in the depths of this cauldron of vice, shining unbent and unbruised.
    â€œDid you bring me rock?” asked the girl. This was the third time that the preacher had sought her out. The first time he only wanted her to take off her shirt, and he’d paid her $10. The second time he had asked her to masturbate. After her awkward performance he patted her head and said, “Don’t fear me, child. I am the rock,” And she, in her innocence, had said, “Then bring me some rock next time.”
    But Reverend Mullin had forgotten. “I’m no purveyor of drugs, child,” he said indignantly. “I’ll give you a healing rock instead.” He reached into the glove compartment and took out a Mexican marble egg he had bought in the French Market.
    â€œCarved straight from the rock at Mount Golgotha!” he assured her. “Filled with the Lord’s healing spirit.”
    â€œBless it,” demanded the waif, laying her palm on his thigh.
    He mumbled a few words and passed the silver cross over the egg.
    â€œShow me before I give it to you,” he demanded.
    She showed him. No more than thirteen, fresh as a dawn over the bayou, with skin as smooth as an unshelled pecan, she pulled up her dress and showed him the smooth horizon of a hairless mound. A thin fissure ran from the top of it to the dimples in her ass.
    She reached for the egg.
    â€œFind it, child,” he asked.
    The girl touched herself clumsily, and desire and gratitude surged through the evangelist. He felt his hardness through the black gabardine of his trousers. I am watching a doe munching on a sapling, he thought as her long fingers pulled back the flesh of her tiny pirogue and tossed about the little seed of her pleasure. Oh thank you, Lord, for the flower before me. And for the flower in me.
    When the girl made a little moan of pleasure and withdrew a moist finger from her innocent film, Mullin leaned forward and took that finger in his mouth. With his other hand, he dropped a business card between her legs.
    The girl picked it up and read: Angel Choir of the Heavenly Abode of the Utmost Deity and Paradisiacal Tabernacle, Inc . And there was a phone number.
    â€œCall, child,” he said, “and you’ll get singing lessons and a job in the world’s greatest choir. You’ll sing the world to a beauteous and fiery end.”
    He was ready to pay her the usual ten bucks—the most he ever allowed himself to spend—and go off without complaint. He had recruited another soul among the fallen and was a little more like Jesus, therefore.
    The girl was actually grateful. She did have a nice voice and wanted to sing. She did not want to be a whore. In gratitude, she wanted to give her benefactor something extra. She asked to “see” his. It was so innocent a request, so filled with the sticky memory of childhood, Mullin was flooded with sweetness. He unzipped his fly and extended his engorged member to the girl’s gaze. She lay a hand upon it.