You wanna know about this here bumper sticker?
That Sunday the congregation had no idea what they were in for.
Their normal pastor was a month into his well-deserved sabbatical, and the seasoned alternate pinch-hitter – retired from regularly ministering, but called back with great enthusiasm and firm grounding, to with great satisfaction apply talents he at present had not enough outlets for demonstrating – himself had been forced to bow out for one reason or another, and being somewhat in a bind they’d had little choice but to tap in the next best option on their bench. For someone had to step up to that pulpit, the repentant needed saving, and their coffers craved means of financing fresh floor coverings. The young man who answered this distressed call for support spoke with a distinctive twang that telegraphed his Southern heritage, through much passionate gesticulating in the old style, and those attendant found themselves hanging on his every word.
He spoke rapidly in elevated language, spitting scripture at a fever pitch, working himself into a foaming gospel lather, and every single person there from the most decrepit fossil to the gurgling babes listened in rapt silence, keenly focused on each pause and bullet point, more so than ever when he got on about Calvary and how the Baptist recognized their fated lamb immediately at a glance, how he knew from the first such blood’s sanitary properties, that in spilling should wash all their sins away in its great tidal wave of absolution.
This all seemed so good and right and just, downright logical that not a one thought twice or batted an eyelash when the young spitfire pulled his tin container of kerosene out from where it had been concealed behind the altar, plunked it there upon the counter before him and kept right on preaching without missing so much as a beat. He was on parables then when he began unscrewing the cap, and as the pungent fluid drenched his suit – white but well cut, cleanly put together with a tie pin, like some evangelist on the television set in a great big megachurch might be styled in, by a capable professional wardrobe specialist – they could smell it all the way in the cheap seats of the back row, and up through the sparsely populated balcony above.
No one moved to intercede, though any of them might have. All preferred instead to watch, enraptured. The children had not been dismissed for their customary Sunday school coursework that day. Parents, rather than shield their eyes, instead admonished each to closely heed, bade them to pay strictest attention. When onlookers described it later to the reporters with their wireless microphones and sculpted hair, accounts would differ as to how he’d started the conflagration. Some said a Bic ignited it, others that he used a cheap disposable or candle lighter, a strike-anywhere kitchen match. But somehow like a July sparkler up the cleric went in blazes, ostensibly for their benefit they explained to the confounded pundits and authorities trying to make heads or tails of the mess, and almost as quickly the flames exhausted themselves of material which could no longer sustain their fury, left a charred cadaver resembling an over-baked Brussel Sprout to contend with. It took a few blurry moments for the excitement to falter, its spell be worn off and someone get the presence of mind to smother the smoking remnants with their coat, another to find the good sense to telephone fire and rescue.
The fill-in was pronounced deceased at the scene by a coroner, upon assessment his slight scorching caused to the lectern was deemed superficial, smoke damage upon their ceiling insignificant and trifling. The rug was ugly and ancient already, worn with widespread staining, and this only expedited the urgency of plans to replace it already in motion. The donations that week trebled their average weekly take, and more than covered the additional deep cleaning the stunt obligated; their quarterly window wiping had already been scheduled for a few weeks hence, and required just a smidge more determined elbow greasing, chemicals, and scrubbery.
Sermons to come were not lacking in material or vivid imagery for many months, and tithes that year were unprecedented in their generosity, and indeed their virtual subscriber base – tuning in from all over the world, beaming to the most distant outposts of humanity – increased astronomically, some plausibly hoping for a repeat performance. Video of the entire ordeal went immediately viral in memes, Snaps and animated gif, was broadcast in excerpts with some blurring and many trigger warnings sandwiching it, and they always included a part at the end when some codger breaks the long silence following by lifting her hands in the air and testifying to the overpowering holy spirit filling up their chamber, crying out ‘Hallelujah!’
Anyhow, they printed ‘em up before a fortnight had passed, and anybody who’s anybody just had to slap one on their clunker’s bumper. I hate to get caught up in the crazes, but it seemed like the least we could do to honor the kid’s memory and all, his sacrifice and whatnot. Tax-deductible with proceeds going towards a good cause obviously. They’ll get that ugly old carpet removed and renovated yet...
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You can read other frightful and fantastic tales Jerome Berglund has previously published in Stardust, Martian Chronicle, and the Watershed Review, a dystopian play of his in Iris Literary Journal, and surreal poetry in Hey I'm Alive Magazine and Fauxmoir. You can find his horror allegory "A Progress", as well as his illustrated collection of grim fables "Later Days: Children's Stories for the Last Generation", on Amazon.