Post by LankyLefty17 on Sept 8, 2020 9:50:06 GMT -8
THE LORD'S FORCE HEADS NORTH
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LAST SUNDAY
The rusty old Ford Bronco idled in the gravel parking lot in front of an inauspicious church. A clever sign out front read “CHOOSE THE BREAD OF LIFE OR YOU ARE TOAST”. The parking lot was packed with vehicles; a sermon was in session.
“J.C., I’m tellin’ ya right now this is an awful idea and I’m not gonna let ya go through with it,” Hoss Haskins said gruffly, punctuating the sentence by pounding a meaty fist against the steering wheel.
In the passenger seat, J.C. Lamb looked offended. “Oh, so worshipping our awesome God is ‘an awful idea’ now is it, Hoss? It’s ‘an awful idea’ to give praise to the J-Man who sacrificed His life for our eternal salvation, hey Hoss?”
Hoss glared at him and spoke firmly. “Yes, J.C., it is. Under the current circumstances, it is a terrible idea. These social distancing orders have been put in place for a reason, and clearly the people in this here church are not following them. It’s just too risky, J.C.”
“Wow Hoss, when did you convert to the religion of atheism?” J.C. said sarcastically. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to socially distance yourself from The Savior. So when are you moving to San Francisco, buddy?”
The beet redness of rage flushed across Hoss’ face. “Stop acting like an idiot.”
“I can’t go another week without attending church, Hoss! I feel like I have bugs crawling under my skin,” J.C. went on, scratching at his neck for emphasis. “If I don’t get a heaping helping of the Holy Spirit sometime soon, I’m going to lose it.”
“Well today ain’t the day,” Hoss said. “We got a wrestling match to get to, and I’m not about to let you screw that up for us. If you’re not fit to fight on Thursday night, we’ll need to forfeit our match against The Reeds. And I’d like to remind you: this is the only paying job we’ve been offered since all this coronavirus business kicked off.”
“Remember Mark 8:36, Hoss?” J.C. said. “‘For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?’”
Hoss rolled his eyes. “But what about Proverbs 10:4, J.C.? That says: ‘A slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich.’”
J.C. seemed a little annoyed by how easily Hoss had come up with a contradictory Bible verse with which to counter his. Instead of arguing any further, J.C. decided to simply make a break for it. He heaved open the passenger side door and bolted across the lot toward the large double doors of the church. Hoss had a feeling he might do exactly that, and was only a few steps behind him.
Hoss caught up with him about halfway up the stone front steps of the church. J.C. tried frantically to evade him as Hoss ran up from behind, but he couldn’t avoid those big burly cowboy arms that clamped a crushingly airtight Sleeper Hold onto his neck. J.C. struggled and fought, tried to elbow Hoss in the gut or deliver a back-kick low-blow to his prairie oysters, but this Sleeper was a technique Hoss used on his partner so frequently that he was prepared for just about any eventuality. Before losing consciousness completely, J.C. made one last lunging, dramatic reach for the church doors before his arms went limp at his sides.
Hoss hoisted J.C. up onto his shoulders as though he were a passed-out drunk being ejected from a saloon - nothing but deadweight now - and lumbered back down the steps and across the parking lot to their vehicle. He plopped his lifeless partner into the backseat of the Bronco, climbed back in behind the wheel and peeled out, heading northward in the direction of Alaska.
“J.C., I’m tellin’ ya right now this is an awful idea and I’m not gonna let ya go through with it,” Hoss Haskins said gruffly, punctuating the sentence by pounding a meaty fist against the steering wheel.
In the passenger seat, J.C. Lamb looked offended. “Oh, so worshipping our awesome God is ‘an awful idea’ now is it, Hoss? It’s ‘an awful idea’ to give praise to the J-Man who sacrificed His life for our eternal salvation, hey Hoss?”
Hoss glared at him and spoke firmly. “Yes, J.C., it is. Under the current circumstances, it is a terrible idea. These social distancing orders have been put in place for a reason, and clearly the people in this here church are not following them. It’s just too risky, J.C.”
“Wow Hoss, when did you convert to the religion of atheism?” J.C. said sarcastically. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to socially distance yourself from The Savior. So when are you moving to San Francisco, buddy?”
The beet redness of rage flushed across Hoss’ face. “Stop acting like an idiot.”
“I can’t go another week without attending church, Hoss! I feel like I have bugs crawling under my skin,” J.C. went on, scratching at his neck for emphasis. “If I don’t get a heaping helping of the Holy Spirit sometime soon, I’m going to lose it.”
“Well today ain’t the day,” Hoss said. “We got a wrestling match to get to, and I’m not about to let you screw that up for us. If you’re not fit to fight on Thursday night, we’ll need to forfeit our match against The Reeds. And I’d like to remind you: this is the only paying job we’ve been offered since all this coronavirus business kicked off.”
“Remember Mark 8:36, Hoss?” J.C. said. “‘For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?’”
Hoss rolled his eyes. “But what about Proverbs 10:4, J.C.? That says: ‘A slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich.’”
J.C. seemed a little annoyed by how easily Hoss had come up with a contradictory Bible verse with which to counter his. Instead of arguing any further, J.C. decided to simply make a break for it. He heaved open the passenger side door and bolted across the lot toward the large double doors of the church. Hoss had a feeling he might do exactly that, and was only a few steps behind him.
Hoss caught up with him about halfway up the stone front steps of the church. J.C. tried frantically to evade him as Hoss ran up from behind, but he couldn’t avoid those big burly cowboy arms that clamped a crushingly airtight Sleeper Hold onto his neck. J.C. struggled and fought, tried to elbow Hoss in the gut or deliver a back-kick low-blow to his prairie oysters, but this Sleeper was a technique Hoss used on his partner so frequently that he was prepared for just about any eventuality. Before losing consciousness completely, J.C. made one last lunging, dramatic reach for the church doors before his arms went limp at his sides.
Hoss hoisted J.C. up onto his shoulders as though he were a passed-out drunk being ejected from a saloon - nothing but deadweight now - and lumbered back down the steps and across the parking lot to their vehicle. He plopped his lifeless partner into the backseat of the Bronco, climbed back in behind the wheel and peeled out, heading northward in the direction of Alaska.
