…Lest Ye Be Judged
I folded my wings under my trench. Walking through the wreckage I wondered how long this church would sit a derelict ruin, a reminder of the scum claiming to do the Lords bidding. I do the Lords bidding.
“Who do you think did this detective?” The fire marshal ran the scanner looking for hot spots.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know. Likely one of these nut jobs.” I lied. These people had a lot of friends, we weren’t among them.
I had to return. I couldn’t wait to see the look on the Phelps’ face when he faces his maker.
“Is this the Topeka bunch?” Seventy people stood in line, chatting and laughing, completely at ease.
“Yes your highness.” A man replied.
“I’m not your highness.” Peter unravelled a scroll. “Phelps?” He called.
A man quickly made his way to Peter’s desk. “Present.”
“I’m sure it’s merely for his amusement that we are even going through this formality.” He shot me a glare.
“After the church came crashing down on us, we were not anticipating judgement,” Phelps said. “After all we have done for the cause, I was expecting a free pass.”
Peter cocked his eyebrow. “A free pass, here?”
“Who started the fire?” I asked.
Peter’s fingers ran down the list.
A petrified man involuntarily came forth. “I didn’t…”
“This isn’t really the place to lie, John.” I said.
“I had to stop them, I’m…” tears overcame him.
“Gay.” Peter finished for him. “That’s okay. Up here, we’re very understanding.”
The gates opened, and an angel appeared to escort him through. The former congregation stared wide eyed.
“Just so you know,” Peter addressed the former congregation, “God doesn’t hate fags, God, hates bigots!”
In bursts of fire and screams, sixty-nine people falsely claiming to be Christians faced their judgement.
Alphabet Wine 