Free Scarecrow Gods by Weston Ochse Page A

opened, all chances of worship were shattered. “Stupid motherfuckers! What the fuck do you think you’re accomplishing with your pathetic prayers to a pedophile God? Do you think he even fucking cares about your own pissy little lives?”
    Everyone, Simon included, reeled with the strength and animosity of the verbal assault.
    “Butt-fucking, pussy-eating Father of raped sheep, come down from behind that pulpit where you’ve been ejaculating and kneel before a real man.”
    Simon leapt and grabbed the man by the shoulders, but was thrown back by a surprising strength. Simon hit the floor hard, his head bouncing off the hard granite.
    “Simon, no! The house of the Lord is no place for violence,” said the Padre.
    “That’s right, Simon, you pretty bitch, stay on your knees and I’ll let you suck me off once the Padre’s done.”
    Simon rose, but came no closer. He wasn’t used to losing fights. This small man had tossed him aside like he was a child. The brother swallowed his outrage and planted himself squarely in front of the door. When it was time for the man to leave, they’d have a conversation outside—a bloody conversation.
    The man spun as three large men stood and formed a protective arc in front of the Padre. Even though their large hands seemed capable of dismantling a charging bull, fear flashed in their eyes.
    “You worms of the earth, fornicators all! You can’t stop me.” Then, his voice changed to that of a beaten child, “help me.”
    “You need to leave, Mister,” said Simon.
    The man jerked a knife from his pocket. With a flick, a rusted four-inch blade sprung to life. Those who hadn’t yet been standing jumped to their feet and surged back towards the walls creating a circle of empty pews with the maniac in the center.
    “All of you will die.”
    And the man lunged.
    Before he could get three feet, however, six strong arms grasped him from behind and threw him to the floor. The knife clattered across the granite and disappeared beneath a pew. He was a fury of arms and legs as he fought, desperate to free himself from the farmers, but they’d have none of it. It was nothing to hold him until he became too exhausted to continue.
    The Padre descended, moving swiftly through the crowd, smiling and grasping hands. He motioned for the congregation to take their seats. Slowly, casting concerned and fearful glances towards the man upon the floor, they cooperated.
    The Padre placed his hand upon the sweaty forehead of the young man. He stared deeply into eyes that switched from fear to anger and back again in an internal emotional strobe. Spittle flecked the young man’s lips. His chest heaved violently.
    “Have peace my son, we are here for you. God is here for you.”
    “No. No. Fuck you. Help me,” rasped the man, his voice changing in octave and tenor with each word.
    “Join me in prayer,” said the Padre, indicating that everyone else should join him. “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
    As the people chanted the ancient words, the man began to shake and quiver, the earlier strength returning to exhausted limbs.
    “. . .on earth as it is in heaven. . .”
    A pining scream soared to the vaulted ceiling, stilling some of the voices as the man’s soul sounded its agony.
    “. . .and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Deliver us from evil. . .”
    He gagged and choked. A thick lump of vomit poured from his mouth and onto his chest. The stench made the farmers turn their heads, but the Padre remained steadfast.
    “. . .the kingdom and the power and the glory. Forever and ever, Amen.”
    As the prayer ended, the man screamed again, the painful pitch rising and rising then dropped into the whimpering cry of a child. The Padre held the man and rocked him, sobs filling the inside of the church. Simon’s own anger had dissolved, replaced by a hard lump in his own throat. He rushed to the Padre’s side and helped him to his