The Jehovah's Witness Protection Program

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Where ya goin?" asks the driver.

"Pianosa," I says.

Leaning over, he opens the passenger side door. "Hop in. I ain't goin that far, but I can get you partway."

Hesitating for a second, I size him up.

I figure he looks pretty harmless.

I pull the paperback out of my back pocket, swing into the seat, pull the heavy suitcase into my lap and close the door.

"Name's Paul," says the driver, offering his right hand.

"Fredrico," I says. "Fredrico Enchilada Del Morte El Monte Pinky Tuscadero Manora."

I'm not immediately certain why I'm lying ... but the suitcase must be protected at all costs: this is the suitcase filled with issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease Chris Wood's transition into Salvation.

"I see you've got a copy of Catcher in the Rye there."

"Yeah," I says listlessly. "Want it? I just finished."

We build speed, and safely leave the I-15 shoulder into sparse traffic.

"What did you think of it?" asks Paul.

200 lousy pages. No pictures, ninjas, car chases or robots. Just some weird punk who doesn't even kill anybody. "What a turd," I complain. "This book was crap."

"It's the devil's work," Paul agrees.

"Well I don't know. I wouldn't have thought the devil would be that boring."

"There's only one book worth reading Fredrico," Paul says confidently.

"Is it Antisocial Commentary?"

"No, Fredrico. It's The Bible."

Uh oh.

"Oh yeah," I agree thinking quickly. "That's my favorite too."

"Then why were you coming out of a strip bar?"

"I was, uh, tryin to Save all those lost souls." Looking out the window, I wince as I hear my own words fall out. "I'm a missionary."

"Really?'

"Yes," I groan painfully.

"Well that's fantastic. This whole world has just sunken into a briny cesspool of sin and debauchery. There'll be a lot of blood spilled when Jesus returns."

"That's not today, is it?"

"Could be," smiles Paul. "Say, that's a pretty heavy suitcase for a missionary. What's in it?"

"Oh you know. White collars. Bibles. Holy cinderblocks-"

"Which Bible?"

"The thick one."

"No, I mean is it the King James?"

"King Jesus," I correct.

"Halleluiah!" says James, still grinning. "I like you Fredrico."

"I'm glad," I says.

"Say," says Paul. "Can you hand me that black bag in the back seat?"

"Sure" I says, struggling to twist under my own luggage. "But I don't see it. Hey, why do you have so many chainsaws?"

"I'm a chainsaw salesman," he replies.

"No way."

"Yep. That's how I lost my hand."

Drawing his left hand into full view for the first time, I see it's been replaced by a large sharp metal hook.

"Wow!" I says. "That's totally cool!"

"That bag's back there somewhere," he assures.

Twisting back again, I repeat the search. "I don't see it."

"Maybe it's under all the pictures."

"You mean the ones with all the eyes cut out?"

"Yep. I was making tiny little masks."

"You're very precise." I says. "But no bag."

"How about under the machetes?"

Grunting, I clang them about a bit. "Nope. Oh. Wait. Is it the big black one?"

"Yeah," says Paul. "The one with the gun in it."

"What do you need a gun for?"

"I'm a very successful chainsaw salesman. You can't be too careful these days."

"That makes sense," I agree. "That explains the infrared scope. You could easily be jumped by like 700 well-organized deer if you demonstrated the foliage-cutting prowess of these beauties at night. You want me to load it for you?"

"It's already loaded," says Paul. "But I wouldn't worry. I doubt we'll be needing it where we're going."

"Were are we going?"

"Someplace untouched by the sin and perversion of humanity."

"But I kinda like Earth."

Holding the wheel with his hooked hand, he cocks the rifle with the other.

"We're goin to Utah!"