Read Online Kate Fox & The Three Kings by Grace E. Pulliam - Free Book Online Page B

“Enough with this shit!” growled a lanky man with leathery olive skin. The man’s five-o’clock shadow was at about half past eight; he looked as though he hadn’t slept for several days. Although, his lethargic state was hardly noticeable as he lunged forward, ripping Essie’s yellow sign from her hands and shredding it to bits. I watched the flamboyant neon fragments float to the concrete in my practiced state of indifference. Of course, I sided with him, but there was nothing I could do to convince W.H.O.R.E. to turn around and leave.
    The man’s lapel read “L. Stanley,” I noticed, as Joy spat in his face, hollering: “God hates y’all. Nothin’ would please Him more than y’all to join your friend in Hell.”
    L. Stanley was hardly fazed, as a man on a single mission. He marched toward David, standing sheepishly behind his own orange sign, trying his best to concentrate on the ground. L. Stanley snatched the orange sign from his grasp and tore it in half, throwing the pieces at Joy, who was still blubbering on. I half-expected the situation to escalate to violence, as it so often tended to at W.H.O.R.E. pickets, but L. Stanley turned on his heel and marched back through the church doors his uniformed friends held open. Joy insisted we continue our protest, but relocation was necessary for optimal television coverage. Of course, everyone, including the news crew, thought W.H.O.R.E. was a crazy cult, which was spot on.
    Onlookers gathered along the streets to protest our…protests. More often than not, bystanders responded with violence, throwing sodas, rocks, or whatever blunt objects they deemed chuck-able. I didn’t blame them. I understood the ludicrous nature of W.H.O.R.E.  I hated myself for being a part of the toxic message, the damning, the same folks who probably nailed Jesus to the cross, laying a crown of thorns atop his head. I passively complied with W.H.O.R.E.’s ways. In a way, my compliance proved me worse than any other members of Blood of Christ Baptist Church—at least the other members believed in something, enough to take a stand against whatever they translated as unholy. Self-preservation stood as my only motivator.
    Walking over to the Channel 6 Action News cast, I recognized Gideon’s voice before I spotted him, preaching God’s hatred with all eyes and cameras on him. His appearance was rather unusual; Gideon’s unruly, mousy blonde hair was slicked down, by product or perspiration I could not be sure. A crisp polo shirt clung to his back, and as he arched his spine in a confident display of posture, he read approachable and friendly to anyone who couldn’t see beneath a perfectly straight smile and fresh pressed khakis. Friendly and approachable was who Gideon used to be – but now he was a stranger, who reveled in my hesitant gaze and grinned through clenched teeth.
    “Tell us what the purpose is in protesting a military funeral,” the pretty blonde news anchor shoved her microphone in Gideon’s direction, which he hastily snatched from her hand and climbed on top of the fountain to gain vertical advantage over the crowd.
    “Blood of Christ Baptist Church has one purpose, ma’am. That’s to spread God’s message. Sin is the enemy. Faggots, towel-heads, soldiers, the filthy perverts of the television—just to name a few—they’re all livin’ in sin. They’re goin’ to hell,” Gideon paused to stare directly into the camera, a maniacal smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “God is angry. He’s angry with all of y’all, raising your children in sodomy-acceptance, with worldly desires and feminism. The end of times is comin’. Y’all should be shakin’ in your boots.”
    Gideon handed the microphone back to the news anchor and stalked off.  Soon, the funeral ended and puffy-eyed silhouettes clad in black filed out of the wooden doors. I watched the crowd embrace; the uniformed men shook hands. Like an itch, I sensed a pair of eyes on me. They