A/N: I spent a lot of time on this, mostly during the conceptual phase but also in the writing process as well. If you've read my other story currently up (The Perfect Son), or are willing to, I'd love it if you could compare the two.
Preacher Man
"This is what the Sovereign Lord says: On that day thoughts will come into your mind and you will devise an evil scheme."—Ezekiel, Chapter 38, Verse 10.
"…When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies."—John, Chapter 8, Verse 44.
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John Beazel, or Johnny Beazel as he liked to be called, was a man of God.
He came from humble roots, the son of hard working parents living in a small farming town in the American South. But he was a boy with ambition, ideas, and would certainly not be content staying in that small town all his life. When he was 18 years old, he announced to his family that he would teach others the word of the Lord. Back then, he was just a brown haired, handsome and charismatic country boy with nothing but a dark blue suit on his back.
By his mid 30's, he had created an empire.
He had become a televangelist with both a Sunday morning and evening timeslot that reached out to all of North America. And his program was constantly being translated and brought over to countries in South America and Europe; it was even being considered for introduction into parts of Asia.
He had written five books, currently had two more in the works, and wrote a monthly column for various big name city newspapers.
He traveled around for weeks at a time, visiting churches and spreading his particular brand of worship (that God was among them and he loved each and every person and other such gooey sentimentalism).
He sent missionaries to Africa and other third world countries in his name to convert the pagan masses.
He raised money for dozens of charities and for himself (all in the name of saving people's immortal souls, of course).
It had become a veritable fact of life that his almighty prayer machine had grabbed, and would continue to grab, more and more people's minds with each passing day.
His parents loved to boast about him back home. They were so proud to have such an accomplished boy. It was better than having ten lawyers or doctors for sons.
He had become a man with incredible influence and power. A newscaster, during one of those "wake up in the morning" broadcasts, summed it up best:
"If the President of the United States asked a citizen to kill a man because he was a suspected terrorist, that citizen would say he or she needed more proof than just the President's word that the man was dangerous. If Johnny Beazel asked one of his followers to kill a man because he sinned against God, that follower wouldn't think twice about it. Hell, they'd probably ask him how he'd like it done."
A few calls from Johnny's publicists three days later saw to it that the newscaster was promptly fired for his comments on the air.
It was how Johnny had always wanted it.
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It was another lovely and bright Sunday morning. Johnny was on the road again and happened to be finishing a sermon in a local church. After the usual hour long drivel ("Praise God" and "Worship his name"), he stepped out of the church, a Saint Mary's of something or other. He pushed through the noisy throng of worshippers that followed him. Some of the people were thanking him for his presence in their lives, others praising him for his wonderful works and deeds and still others asking him for favors or advice. As Johnny made his way through, a teenage boy came close by. The boy put a hand to Johnny's shoulder, as if he would draw strength and guidance from doing so.
"You made me believe again," the boy simply stated, with a slight hitch to his voice.
Johnny turned to face the boy and grinned, his wide and gleaming smile that surely involved some professional whitening process. "You're quite welcome my son. And if you ever start to doubt again, just read the good book. It always helps me through my hard times."
Johnny had never touched a Bible in his life.
The boy and the rest of the crowd were held back by Johnny's bodyguards and he joked with the big burly men to be gentle with them. He got into his limousine and was whisked away.
When he traveled, Mr. Beazel went in style. He had never been partial to flying and instead chose to lead a caravan of expensive European imports piled high with his helpers. While on the road, he lived and slept in a trailer as opposed to upscale hotels, albeit a very comfy and souped-up trailer that contained all the amenities that a man could possibly need. Don't think he neglected his helpers either, for they too had lovely trailers for themselves and were given quite generous salaries for staying away from their families for such extended periods of time.
The limousine parked in the empty lot that was currently housing said trailers and, jumping out, Johnny told the driver and bodyguards to take the rest of the day off. Upon entering his home-on-the-road, he caught sight of one of his personal assistants. She was a beautiful young woman who had a reputation for being very organized, very reliable, and very…"friendly". She stared at a single sheet of paper in her slender, trembling hand.
Upon seeing her, Johnny's normally gentle face turned hard and the wide smile morphed into a contorted, almost snarling, frown. His body shook with a silent burning rage.
"Put that down and GET…OUT," he said, in a low cold voice full of malice; very uncharacteristic for him.
She did as she was told, her face ashen, and muttering apologies all the way. He breathed a heavy sigh once she left and sank down in the overstuffed leather chair by his vanity. It was the third time this year that someone had found the paper and he really liked this particular assistant; he was not at all eager to fire her too.
The paper in question now lay on the vanity's tabletop and was one he had acquired years ago, right before he started making a name for himself in the Jesus business. It was a faded white, almost grey, and slightly wrinkled from being placed in folder after folder. The black letters were in an archaic font with odd symbols and unknown words thrown in here and there.
It was a contract.
At the bottom was Johnny Beazel's signature in his flowing and elegant script, though it happened to be a tad smudged. The ink had faded to a dull maroon brown.
Any person looking at the signature could have sworn that it was written in blood.
Fin.
A/N: Please, please, please keep in mind that this was all written in good fun. I'm not trying to offend Christians or anybody else for that matter; it's just a story idea.
On a different note, if anyone could perhaps recommend quotes that might fit the story better than the two I already have at the top, please feel free to tell me.