"K. D. Wentworth - Tis The Season" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

K.D. WENTWORTH

'TIS THE SEASON

It's traditional, of course, for us to publish a Christmas story around this
time every year, but there's nothing traditional about the following fantasy. K.
D. Wentworth remarks that this story grew out of the observation that "in the
hands of some people, religion is as dangerous as a controlled substance. "Ms.
Wentworth lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and--as anyone who has read one of her
novels knows, and as you'll soon see--has an imagination best termed "offbeat."

It was Christmas eve and a nasty, strung-out feeling of anticipation filled the
air like a cheap deodorizer. I was cruising down the expressway in my squad car,
on my way back from disposing of an illegal manger scene erected at the river
park. Man, I hate all that insincere, pious yap about "peace on earth, goodwill
towards men." If you let those stupid carols suck you in, you might actually
believe the young turks really want to make the world a better place, that is
until a couple of rabid Episcopalians knock off a Catholic priest for muscling
in on their territory, or some Baptists torch a pile of Unitarian hymnals
because they don't have no crosses on the front. Then you understand -- it's
denomination eat denomination in this world, buddy, and every priest, shaman,
minister, monk, pope, or whatever for themself.

I was keeping a sharp eye out for graffiti, you know -- "Where will you spend
eternity?" or "Buddha lives!" -- that kind of crap, spray-painted on underpasses
right where impressionable schoolchildren could see it. Working the God-beat, of
course, I've seen it all, the pastor-snatchings, the so-called mere "moments of
silence" some closet-Lutheran announcer tries to sneak in before a basketball
game, the really nasty tricks that can be played on the unwary with a Bible
verse.

I admit, like so many others, I dabbled in this stuff when I was too young and
stupid to know any better. It all starts with a harmless flirtation, just a weak
moment of wondering "what if it's all true?" Then your average Joe smuggles home
a bit of holly, or a missal, maybe lights a candle in some illicit roadside
prayer house, and takes that naive first step down the road to perdition. "I can
stop anytime I want," they say. "I don't really believe all that stuff."

Yeah, right. Tell it to someone who hasn't cleaned up after a baptism gone bad,
or seen the havoc twenty whacked-out fanatics can wreak after a really wild
first communion. The boys in Washington can legislate against this stuff all
they want, but we'll never be free of it until we stamp out that spineless, sick
craving for "absolution" and "the other world."

The last rays of the setting sun were painting the highway a faint rose when I
spotted a broken-down van with the metal outline of a stylized fish just above
the back bumper. The short hairs crawled up the back of my neck. Them fish guys
have been some of my worst busts.
As I passed the van, I noted several scantily clad young skirts peering
forlornly under the raised hood, so I slowed down and called into headquarters.