Yee Haw Imagines

Holy Water - Michael Ray

You and your boyfriend sit in the second pew from the front of the small white church in a small town in Florida.

"It's eerie here." You whisper, fidgeting with the hem of your white dress.

"Just wait until you hear todays sermon." Michael nods to the verse on the chalkboard behind a cross.

John 2:1-11 (KJV): (1 And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there:

2 And both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage.

3 And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine.

4 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come.

5 His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.

6 And there were set there six waterpots of stone, after the manner of the purifying of the Jews, containing two or three firkins apiece.

7 Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled them up to the brim.

8 And he saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it.

9 When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the governor of the feast called the bridegroom,

10 And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now.

11 This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested forth his glory; and his disciples believed on him.)

As the other guests start sparsely filling in, you watch the preacher greet everyone who passes through the threshold, his scarred up hand shaking everyone's outstretched one. Your eyes stick to a shiny watch peeking out of his black sleeve.

That seems out of place.

Podunk town with a wealthy pastor?

Hmm.

The sermon starts and the words he reads from the Bible have thoughts rolling through your head.

Turning water into wine.

Your sight shifts through the small cracked stained glass window to your right and you see a brand new shiny Lincoln Continental sitting right in front.

That's the preacher's car.

You saw him pull up in it.

How can a preacher in a rinky-dink church afford a car like that?

+++

A bead of sweat rolls down his flushed forehead as he adjusts the wood beneath his still. He glances over his shoulder, worried someone might be watching him but there is no one around. Not at this time of night.

He checks his watch, quarter til One, and decides to start closing up.

Carefully, the Pastor shuts down his still and caps the bottles of clear he's produced in the last few hours up, setting them in a wooden crate to the side with a satisfied smile on his face and a lit cigarette between his fingers.

He picks up a fresh jar of clear and holds it up to the single light bulb above him, the shine glowing in the rising curls of his cigarette smoke. He twists the cap off and take a swig, the heat filling his mouth and body.

That's some good shit.

He picks up a crate, flicks his smoked out butt to the side and heads outside, dropping it in the trunk of his brand new Lincoln, slamming it shut before locking it. He padlocks the cellar door behind him before heading to the drivers side and slides in, lighting another cigarette.

He shakes out the match he used then tosses it out the window before driving off to his home.

The following morning, the Pastor is awoken by angry pounding on his screen door.

He grunts as he gets to his bare feet, sliding of the couch he sleeps on to light his morning cigarette.

With his breakfast between his fingers, he makes his way to the door where his screen door is being incessantly abused.

It's two deacons from the church and the Pastor's heart leaps into his throat.

They tell him they saw him locking a door that leads to a room downstairs at the church.

They knew something was up when they saw him roll into church in that brand new Lincoln Continental.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, taking a deep drag as he looks from side to side, a small knowing smirk grazing his thin chapped lips.

He motions them to come in closer.

The preacher tells them he can cut them in, make a little more money like him; kick ass car, shiny new watch.

Just a little more work that needs to be done.

He calls it Holy Water.

The two men glance at each other, weighing their options then they nod.

They're in.

He says they have to keep a secret and they're in.

He flicks his cigarette away before heading back inside of his trailer, the two men behind him.

That night, the Pastor has a fire going.

Someone spilled his secret and he's getting rid of anything that'll get him time. He sent the Holy Water across the states above Florida; from Bama to Kentucky, his brother has been his runner since he got busted for illegal moonshine making a couple years ago.

He got the still torn apart now he's got the shed burning- all evidence gone.

He reaches his arms out and drops his head back, the smoke rising to the heavens above, the nearly empty jar of clear light in his hand.

There's a shine of blue and red lights that highlight his silhouette against the side of the church.

Shit.

Coppers.

The Pastor pours the leftover contents of the jar onto the roaring flame in front of him, the orange licks growing more unruly at the newfound fuel addition.

He turns to face the cops, his arms still stretched out as the flame spreads to the connecting building- the little white church.

The Pastor cackles, looking up so the last thing he sees is the stars above.

He lets himself fall back into the flames, succumbing to the price of his decisions.

Burns like Hell, get you high like Heaven

+++

You look to the right through the stained glass, the cars in the lot are visible through the clear but that brand new Lincoln Continental the pastor is driving highlighted in a bright orange square.