Whores! 

This was Jerry’s thought the instant he strolled into Velvet Vampires, a locally-infamous strip club. Look at them! Baring breasts before lustful eyes! Those Afghanis over there–drunk!

Why are you here, Jerry? a voice in the air asked. These indentured women need saving. Rescue. From Satan’s predatory arms.

The air conditioner inside purred.

Abnormal, Jerry’s salesmanship. But the gospel requires sacrifice, a mingle with sordid secular liberalism. Selling God involves pestering strangers. Parroting scripted recruitment spiels–tossing some dirt–like a vacuum salesman on an acid jag.

Jerry and two friends strode into Velvet Vampires like crusaders.

How would Jesus sabotage a strip club? Easy. Offer a dancer $20 and demand she dance to Kansas’s “Dust In The Wind.” Jerry tried that. The lady took off her blouse and wiggled her breasts right at him!

Then some madman at another table, gave the dancer $40 to dance to the famous Beatles’ “Revolution (Number 9),” the eight-minute psychedelic collage Jerry had been infatuated with in high school, before Jesus yanked the scales from his eyes to reveal Satan calling him on the vinyl.

She wiggled. Drunks laughed and hooted. “Number nine! Number nine! Number nine!”

Next up? Neil Young’s “Old Man.” Per Jerry of course.

The Great Prostitute! Veritable Woman In Red! Prancing around, making like a rock-hard steel pole is the male instrument of ass destruction!

Jerry, ever clever, had a plan. Yes, God had a plan for Jerry–especially that night. What Jerry was about to do had been willed in Heaven before the world even existed. With his slick black satin dress shirt, a bright plaid sports jacket, and white wingtips (angel’s wings!), he invited the dancer to sit with him.

She probably thought she had a live one in Jerry. Wrong. Only God has a live one in Jerry.

Once sitting, the obnoxious strangulation of Axe Body Spray that ushered from her sin-laden body polluting his olfactory organ almost overwhelmed him with sadness. Softening up the redheaded woman who called herself Paprika–sloe gin–he got her dreamy and slid a $100 from his thigh to hers. He’d roofied her. She winked, possibly a sign she was willing to get somewhere with a Man of God. At two a.m., she literally followed him to his car. At a sort of stagger.

Jerry had a no-tell motel room waiting. The two others of Jesus’ Chosen waited to enact God’s will for Paprika.

This wasn’t complicated. Waging spiritual warfare for the Prince of Peace only seems ironic. Maybe Jerry is the only one on Earth who doesn’t know that America’s Christian fundamentalism is basically a war machine. To gain power. Make everyone dance to the tune of reactionaries who were even out-of-place in the Fifties.

Once in the seedy room with third-rate blackout curtains and a ceiling mirror, Jerry introduced the woozy dancer to Buzz and Buck. Within seconds, the three Enforcers For Christ had the poor roofied lady on the bed, clasping delicate wrists to keep her from thrashing. Once Paprika had been stabilized, Buck got busy. Out of a black plastic garbage bag, he yanked a dress in order to cover her in a gift he called her Godly gray flannel raiment, preparation for her dousing.

A wardrobe change would change Paprika. Sometimes you just know. Heaven-sent knowing, not Gnosticism.

But Paprika fiercely reacted. As anyone would.

So. Christ willed Paprika’s resistance. All over the room she wrestled with God, who strove them to get her into that dress. Like trying to get a kitten into a plastic bag or forcing your key into your door during a really heavy alcohol black-out

Sheesh! Paprika–one wild animal. Strong. Her caterwauling could chip paint. Shrieks. Echoing shrieks. Wriggled like a pissed rattlesnake. Jerked. Pulled. Arms flying, legs akimbo, weapons of Armageddon, at first futile attempts to free herself from dogmatic true believers.

Then Paprika got her right arm free and socked Buzz in his right eye. He fell backwards and thunked onto the carpeted floor that likely had seen such sinful scenes it could never come clean. Then she began kicking. Got free. Rolling off the bed, Paprika was instantly up, arms flailing, legs rapidly kicking anything, the table, mini-refrigerator, dresser, even the walls.

Half in, half out of her flannel raiment and the Kingdom of Heaven, Paprika then whaled on Jerry. Hard. Grabbed a stiletto heel, rammed her fist into it, then turned it on him. Pounded him all the way to Kingdom Come.

He kind of liked it. The temptation for her was strong.

The mini-fridge–dented. Smallish table–tumbled. Glasses, ashtrays, extra rolls of toilet paper– sprawled. White TP highway on the floor. Bang! Paprika kicked that wall and almost shook the ceiling mirror loose. All for Jerry’s special Glory of God.

How did he look, huddled on the floor? Paprika stomped around in torn, skimpy clothing, her hair a miasma of Axe Body Spray and sweat–sweat, rolling off her body in large droplets. Then she suddenly turned, bent and punched Buck out. Knocked him back against the bed. Buck was really hurt. Lip was bleeding. More flailing. Yet here Paprika came, falling atop him and just pounding and pounding. Jerry and Buzz tried getting Paprika off their Brother In Christ. No-doing. Too strong. Satan was in the room directing her.

Then the whore was gone.

Clearly, the deal was up. Literally floored, hurting, the three knew they’d failed to please the Lord. Half of Paprika’s “old dress” hung from the doorknob, mystifying them. She’d slammed the door so hard it’d loosened hinges. Jerry, Jesus and Co. were goners: bruised, bloodied, aching. And suspects.

The Whore of Babylon? Thumbs out and in her mawkish grey flannel raiment, Paprika was hitchin’ out of there. She turned, shouted FU and used the MF-word.

“Kidnap your own GD selves!” Then she caught a ride.

Sad to see someone reject Christ. Jerry had so wanted her–for Jesus, that is. Possibly for a wife.