God's Will



Fucking pricks. The whole lot of them. Useless sons of whores. He looked down on the congregation before him. There wasn't a decent one amongst them. And here they all sat, staring at him fixedly, as though they were the most devout people in the world. And here he was, spewing forth the gospel to these hypocrites as if there was no tomorrow. And, in fact, there was a great chance that there might not be.
As he spoke to them, their blank faces, turned slightly upward like the proverbial turned up nose, he picked each face out of the crowd, silently ticking off each one's sins in turn. This one had sexually molested his daughter. That one had poisoned her first husband. And several had the loveliest of drug addictions.
God, he thought, these people are evil. Why do they come and falsely praise You every week? What's the point? Would not the world be a better place without them?
As he continued to speak from the pulpit, those upturned, blank faces became more of a faceless mob. A pitiable, evil faceless mob. The precher's thoughts pounded in his head like a freight train making its way through a tunnel. Absently, his hand went to the box hidden behind the podium, and his fingers grazed over it lightly.
Yes. That was it. That was the only way to take care of the situation. Not only would he be doing God's work, he'd be serving the world justly. He flipped the little latch on the box and reached into it. His fingers curled around the cold metal object inside. This was God's will. It had to be.
Casually, he pulled the compact Uzi sub-machine gun from the box and levelled it on the congregation. Some of the faces never even changed expressions as the gun began to spit fire. Bodies began to hit the floor. In a mere matter of minutes, the entire crowd was decimated. The only one left standing was the preacher. This was God's will...