"I don't know why you talked me into staying until this morning. This is crazy, Stan: you're skipping a class you need this morning, and if I don't get back in time for lab at 3, I'm done as a pre-Med major."
"Shut up, Willie. We gotta see if she was serious about what she said yesterday morning."
"I think you heard it wrong. I know you heard it wrong. Nobody would say that on a Sunday morning in a pulpit, much less Easter."
Stan Brown held up his tablet and tapped a couple of times. A thin, tiny voice came through the small speaker: ". . .And it's up to me to protect you from evil, in Jesus' name. I'm your pastor, I'm your guardian angel. I would give any young girl here my advice and help if she's tempted, and I'll give any man a big, sloppy gummer to keep him from defiling any innocent young girl."
Willie Zimmerman shook his head, and looked out the window. The view was lovely: a graceful hill sloping down to a little lake with a dock, three swans undulated gracefully across the warm April morning. The Parsonage was right next door to the Victory Temple in Christ in Wheatland, and both boys had helped build it ten years ago. "Sister Aura Lee's been around here all her life. My Grandpa used to check where Grandma was when he talked about her."
"Yeah, my Grandpa and Grandma went to school with her, too. My Dad used to get a funny look every Saturday night before I started noticing it. Look, we gotta see if she was serious about them big, sloppy gummers."
Willie whacked Stan on the back of his head. "You moron! Because of you, Jolene's not talking to us anymore. Because of you, the cheerleaders of Southwest Baptist have all blocked both of our numbers. Because of you, I have to pass up every decent party around Bolivar every weekend and come home because you've pissed off all the people we want to hang with. I'm about ready to give up on you."
"Oh, shut up. I bailed you out a few times, you owe me. Who else talked to you in High School when your face went spotty? Who stood up for you when you couldn't get a date for the Prom?"
"Shut up. All right, we'll find out Sister Aura Lee meant something else and get the hell back. What preacher offers all the red blooded men in her church a free blow job on Easter Sunday morning?"
There was a pause. "That was a wild title to that Sermon: How To Live Among the Walking Dead."
"You idiot, it wasn't about the Zombie Apocalypse. You know she thinks most of the people in this world are damned and only the people of the Victory Temple in Christ in Wheatland Fricking Missouri is going to heaven."
"I don't think she means that," he murmured. "After all, most people in the world never heard of Wheatland."
"Wish I didn't."
Willie Zimmerman and Stan Brown were two young men freshly turned 21, juniors in College at Southwest Baptist, average height and weight; Stan had blond hair and blue eyes, while Willie's brown eyes set off his head of red hair. They wore sweatshirts and jeans, Stan's flip flops contrasting with Willie's black leather shoes. Willie looked off into the distance at the wonderful view while Stan flipped from on music video to another on his tablet, absorbed in the music blasting through his ear buds.
After a long pause, Martha Charles came from down the hall and beckoned to them. "Sister Aura Lee will see you boys now. Remember your manners when you talk to her."
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am," they chorused.
"And Stan, you did an awful thing to Jolene Saturday night. I hope you see the error of your ways. Have you apologized yet?" Martha was Jolene's grandmother, an short woman of 70 with ambiguous lumps around her waist, a big butt that made her walk a waddle, close cut grey hair and steely blue eyes.
"No, Ma'am," Willie murmured. "She won't answer our calls or texts."
"Good thing!" Martha concluded, and scowled as she showed them into the pastor's study.
Sister Aura Lee Whitherspoon was looking at a book from the top shelf of her library. She stood on a mobile step stool, her half moon glasses pulled down her nose. She was a relatively short woman: about five feet tall, slightly heavyset, wearing a silk white blouse with a grey, knee length skirt and brown sensible shoes. Her grey hair was in a huge bun on her head, held by a huge black stick that stood up from a leather sheath. Her sky blue eyes were her most captivating feature: they held a listener close and never let go, conducting praise and scorn with equal voltage. Their entry into the room didn't faze her; she didn't acknowledge their presence right away and gestured them into seats in front of her desk. After a moment, she put the book down and sat heavily. "Well, what can I help you boys with today?"
"I dunno," Willie mumbled.
"I wanted to if you were serious about what you said in your sermon yesterday," Stan said eagerly, tapping his toes.
She pulled a mobile phone from her drawer and pulled up a picture of a young woman with her shirt pulled up around her shoulders, exposing almost everything above her navel. "This look familiar, Stan?"
He squinted. "I think so."
She tapped a couple of more times, pulling up other similar shots. "I know so, Stanley Bryce Brown. This is Jolene Charles, who you went to High School with. She's home this week from Mizzou and wanted to catch up with you. Since you're two years older than she is, and can legally buy alcohol, you proceeded to get her drunk and talked her into giving you this little show. Do you deny it?"
Stan grinned and shook his head. "You know it, Sister. Jolene's cute."
"Not only did you talk her into this, but you posted this on the Internet, Stanley Bryce Brown. You have no idea what this meant to her."
"She didn't look at me all the way though Church," Willie said sadly, and Stan nodded.
"No wonder. I'm amazed you were able to make it to Easter services at all, given how drunk you were Saturday night. How's your heads today, boys?"