Read Online Run For the Money by Eric Beetner - Free Book Online Page B

lightly, like a raccoon had gotten trapped in the confessional somehow, not that a person was calling for help.
    He padded quickly down the aisle, bringing a candlestick with him which he held like a club, ready to swat any wild animals in his way.
    Then he smelled it.
    “Did you take a shit in my fucking church you little son-of-a-bitch?” he said to whatever rodent waited behind the door. Slick loved hearing a man of God curse and fart like anyone else.
    The Priest opened the door, candlestick at the ready like Hank Aaron.
    The brass column fell to the floor when he saw the nun, bound and gagged, inside the booth. Using the clatter of the candlestick as cover, Slick jumped up and moved quickly behind the Priest, grabbing up the club as he passed.
    The Nun’s eyes widened as she saw Slick raise the weapon behind the priest.
    “Sister Angela—” was cut short by a swat to the back of his head.
    Streaks of red stained his white hair as the Priest fell to his knees and reached out for support. The Priest grabbed the door to the other side of the confessional and pulled the door open as he fell. The smell trapped inside from what Slick left there the night before exploded out into the sanctuary.
    Slick stood over the Priest as he rolled onto his back. He looked up at Slick seeing the Devil come to life. From the floor, Slick stood ten feet tall. His face was a demon for sure. The Priest mumbled to himself some well-practiced words for just such an occasion.
    “Stand up Father Farts.”
    The old man rolled about, a turtle on his back. Slick reached down and pulled the man up, deposited him in a pew. Behind him, the nun kicked and screamed a muffled cry for help beneath the gag.
    Disoriented and bleeding heavily from his head wound, the Priest looked around for more demons or for angles to help him fight.
    “Settle down there, padre. I don’t want to hurt you.”
    Slick took off his damp trucker outfit, looked at the holy man. “Strip.”
    The outfit was too small. The pants were a no go, but Slick took the collar and black jacket. The old man stood in the aisle, white hair a matted blot of red in back, tight white underpants and black socks pulled up to his knees.
    “Get in.” Slick pointed to the open confessional door. The old man turned, but didn’t appear to understand. Slick raised the candlestick above his head, threatening. “Get in.”
    The Priest stepped up the side normally reserved for parishioners. He balked at the smell and the drying brown stains coating the seat.
    “Your choice, padre. Makes no never mind to me.”
    The Priest mutely turned to the side he was used to taking, but stayed outside, confused about how to fit with the nun splayed out – hands bound, mouth covered – inside.
    The nun let loose with a flurry of kicking and writhing like a rabbit caught in a snare, ready to chew her own leg off to be free. Slick waited for her to settle, but the tantrum continued. He stepped up and pushed forward with the flat end of the candlestick and it crashed into her face. Blood flowed from her nose to soak the torn piece of curtain gagging her mouth. Tears followed.
    “You made me do that, sister.”
    Slick pushed the old man’s back, feeling his soft flesh like uncooked dough. The Priest stumbled into the booth, trying not to step on the nun. The door would not close with both of them inside. He stood awkwardly over her with his belly slouching down over the waist of his briefs. They looked like a kinky role playing couple gone wrong.
    Slick had an idea. He set the candlestick down, the priest in too much shock and too weak to pose any threat, he reached out and tugged down on his tight white shorts.
    A tiny cock flopped out, bouncing as it was freed from the fabric. He was completely shaved. Meticulously. Smooth as a baby.
    “Holy shit.”
    The old man was lost. He looked down at his own penis as if he’d never seen it before. Jesus on the wall wasn’t helping and the priest was