Chapter Fourteen

Two weeks later, Reverend Cyrus Evander Milton was in Beaumont, Texas. Although he didn’t know it his neighbor, well, Joe Anderson’s neighbor, Judy was visiting her sister in Beaumont, Texas. If he had known, he would not have tried to call her, because that would have opened him up to questions he did not want to answer. Questions like “What are you doing here in Beaumont?” and “What have you done with your hair?” and “How come that lady just called you Reverend Milton?”

So it was probably for the best that he didn’t know she was in the same town he was in.

The first night in Beaumont did not vary from Reverend Milton’s normal routine. He slept in until noon, took care of the few errands he didn’t have Grace handle, then waited until about 4:30 to head to the convention center he was preaching at that night. He’d gone through his sermon notes already, made the few changes he wanted to make (based on what got the last crowd really revved up), and spent some time watching TV. He went to the convention center, preached, came back, entertained a few young ladies who wanted to share in the spirit of the Lord, and went to sleep.

The second night went much differently than he was accustomed to, however.

Around four thirty in the afternoon, he rode with Grace to the convention center again. He went in through the back entrance, to avoid the large group still waiting outside the front doors, and made his way to the green room the other preachers were hanging out in. There was a deli-tray and some other snacks, as well as a selection of wholesome, alcohol-free beverages for them to enjoy.

Every single one of the preachers in the green room wished there was a bottle of liquor or four back there, but every now and then a member of the audience came into the room, and it wouldn’t look good for them to have a stash of high-octane hooch, and highball glasses all around. Now and then, a few of the preachers would take a pull from their personal hip flask. None of them attempted to hide their drinking.

Around six o’clock, they heard the band start up, playing the classics of gospel, as well as some contemporary Christian rock, and Christian country for flavor. Reverend Milton wished he had an organist who could bust out the best of Bach, but he was reasonably certain most of his audience wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.

At about six thirty, one of the ushers came into the green room, and said “Reverend Smith, five minutes until you go on,” then left the room again.

Reverend Smith stood up from the couch he’d been sitting on, took a last drink from his hip flask, checked his appearance in the mirror, and said, “Here goes!”

One of the other preachers said, “Knock ‘em dead, Reverend!”

Eventually it was time for Reverend Milton to get out there and start preaching, and he did. He was his usual, fiery self, hitting all the key points he hit every night, making the gestures and movements that he made every night, and exhorting the crowd to give him their money, as he did every night.

After an hour or so, it was time for the laying on of hands. The members of the audience who wanted to be healed lined up, generally gave a sizeable cash donation to one of the ushers on the way up to Reverend Milton, and would then meet the Reverend briefly, who would put his hands on the person’s head, call “Be healed, in Jesus’s Name!” and give them a firm shove backwards into the waiting arms of a pair of burly ushers, who would lay the freshly healed faithful down if they needed it, or help them up again, depending on the cues from the healed.

Reverend Milton was in the middle of dreaming about laying his hands on some fine young ladies that evening when he saw a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. Judy was there in line, giving a huge handful of cash to the usher.

“Oh shit!” Cyrus thought.

Time slowed as Reverend Milton continued to heal the sick. It seemed Judy was never going to reach him, and he would have preferred it if she would never reach him. He tried to think of what he could do. He couldn’t take Judy’s money, she was broke. She needed that money far more than he could.

Later, when he’d had time to reflect upon it, he thought the smart thing to do would have been to say, “Sister, the Lord told me you need this money more than he does.” In the moment however, he was preoccupied with thoughts along the lines of “What happens when she recognizes me?”

After an eternity and a half, Judy reached the altar where Reverend Milton waited. To his amazement, she didn’t recognize him. She looked directly into his eyes, and saw only Reverend Milton.

He laid his hands on her head, said, “In Jesus’s name, be healed!” and pushed her back to the ushers.

He hated himself. This was the same shit he’d seen his pastor do when he was a kid. He’d taken her money, and given her no real help.

For the rest of the night, he had a hard time mustering the energy to strut about the stage, testifying and preaching the word of God. He didn’t say a word on the ride back to the hotel with Grace. He took his shower, and went out into his suite wearing a robe, planning to order all the comfort food he could think of from the room service menu.

Reverend Milton was looking for the folder with the room service information in it when he heard the distinctive metallic click of a Zippo lighter opening. He heard someone spin the striker, a pause, and another metallic clank as whoever had the lighter closed it. Almost immediately, he could smell tobacco smoke.

Cyrus turned around, and looked at the dining table in his room. He blinked, once, twice, rubbed his eyes, and then his mouth fell open.

Seated at his table was a very small, grey demon. The demon was looking at him, with a distinctly annoyed expression on his face, and smoking a cigarette.

“Hello, Cyrus,” the demon said in its surprisingly deep voice. There was not even a hint of friendliness, or compassion in the demon’s voice.

“Huh, what? Who are you? What?” Cyrus stammered, still staring at the impossibility sitting at the table in his hotel room.

“My name is,” and then the demon uttered a series of syllables the Reverend could not comprehend, much less repeat. Cyrus stared in horror.

The little demon sighed.

“You may call me Nubbins, mortal,” he said.

“What the fuck?” Cyrus asked, mostly to himself.

“Cyrus, I am from Hell. You might have heard of it once or twice over the course of your career. I am here to accompany you, so I suggest you stop wondering what I’m doing here, and start thinking about how you’re going to deal with me for the rest of your life?” Nubbins said.

“The rest of my life?” Cyrus asked. His eyes were open wide in terror, and he scratched compulsively at his temple.

“The rest of your life, yes. At which point, I will make sure you go straight to Hell, with no stops for sightseeing or other silliness,” Nubbins said.

“Hell?” Cyrus exclaimed. “What did I do to deserve Hell? I didn’t even believe in Hell!”

“Yes, Hell. Up until this evening, you had merely been very, very naughty. You would have gotten off with a millennia or two in Limbo. But then you ripped off your neighbor Judy. Which was, by the way, evil. For some reason my superiors have taken a particular interest in you. So, I am here until such time as you reach your final destination. So to speak.” Nubbins said.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” Cyrus asked, near pleading.

“Well, yes, there’s probably a way you could redeem your soul, except I’m here to see to it you don’t. No, you are Hell-bound, and I am here to make sure you get to Hell. And I am very, very good at my job,” Nubbins said.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Reverend Milton went to the door, peered through the peephole, and opened the door to see a young woman standing outside.

“Hello, Reverend. I wonder if you might have some time to talk with me about the Glory of the Lord,” she said, while playing with her hair.
“Oh, I’m sorry, little sister, I have another guest tonight who’s spirit is deeply tortured. Here’s a card with my phone number, give me a call sometime in the next few days and we can talk then,” Reverend Milton said, and handed here one of his business cards. The phone number actually went straight to Grace, who would dutifully take a message, which the Reverend would then dutifully ignore, unless it was someone he really, really wanted to, er, speak with.

The young woman looked crest-fallen, but smiled and said, “OK, I’ll call. Good night, Reverend.”

“Good night,” Reverend Milton said. He shut and locked the door, and turned back hoping the demon had just been a hallucination.

Nubbins was sprawled out in the same chair he’d been in before, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling lamp over the table.

“Fuck,” Reverend Cyrus muttered.

“You are, indeed, fucked,” Nubbins said, and took a drag off his cigarette. “I’d suggest you enjoy the time you have left, except I’m supposed to make sure you don’t.” Here Nubbins winked at the Reverend.

“Oh, fuck,” the Reverend Cyrus Evander Milton said, and sat down on the floor where he stood. He put his head in his hands, and did not move for a long time.