It was a majestic day in Weaverton, and little Mikey Nitrous (to be known to the world one day as Mr. Michael Nitrous of West 43rd Street) had just set the last mouse trap in his tree house, kissed his pet turtle good night and pulled his angora blanket tightly up around his ears. The stars outside of his treehouse window winked ever so softly and quietly at him. All except for the one large bluish one near the constellation known as “The Newt” that hollered like an angry trucker. Little Mikey raised his middle finger at the star, closed all three of his eyes, and drifted off to slumberland, aided by only two pints of raisin vodka.
Little Mikey had not been sleeping long when he arose with a start. Was that a prowler he heard beneath his treehouse? He quietly removed his crossbow from its wall-mounted scabbard and flicked off the safety. Getting up from his bed and tip-toeing to the open window, he could see a shadowy figure on the lawn below. He shouldered his crossbow, so as to gain a better view of the intruder using his bow-mounted infra-red scope. He had just trained the ocular on the figure when a 'SNAP!' and a dagger of pain in his right big toe caused his trigger finger to jerk suddenly and release the bolt. In but a split-second he heard a cry of pain and more wretched, vile, foul, blue-throated cursing than he had heard in one place since his mother had taken him to that longshoremen convention in rural Utah. He wrenched the offending mousetrap from his foot, slipped into his steel-toed stiletto sneakers and slid down the firepole to the ground.
Why, it was Pastor Weejus Preyzims, the pastor of the local Church of the Sanctified Nutcooker! Everybody in Weaverton absolutely loved pastor Preyzims, and he was well known for holding forth for hours on the topics of piety and colon health! No one could combine the ever-lovin' word of the Sanctified Nutcooker with a discourse on bowel cleansing in quite the way that Pastor Preyzims could! From the top of his halo-enwreathed, grey-flecked mane to the bottom of his squeaky-clean anus, Pastor Weejus Preyzims was a study in all that the Church of the Sanctified Nutcooker stood for, and then some. There were some who wondered if Pastor Preyzims wasn't scheduled for elevation to minor diety in the sect, in fact.
This evening had cast a new, dubious light on everything, however.
“Whatcha' doin' snoopin' 'round my freakin' yard?” shouted little Mikey Nitrous, waving the cocked and loaded crossbow just inches from the pastor's genitalia.
“Uhhm...nothing, my child...nothing!” cried back a frightened Pastor Weejus Preyzims, backhandedly clawing at the well-manicured lawn.
“Were ya' lookin' fer one a' them commie meetins'? My old man sez you might be a commie!”
“Heavens no, child...I'm not a communist!”
“Don't 'child' me, you scalawag!” shouted Mikey, “Maybe you were you tryin' to go to one a' them right-winger meetins' then? My dad sez you don't like the president!”
“No, ch..I...no!” cried the frightened cleric, wetting himself.
“Then I bet you were gonna' try to sneak inta' that house and steal all of old lady McGillicuddy's whiskey! My old man sez you men o' the cloth all drink too much, and yer' all a bunch of thieves, t' boot!”
“Listen, please, young man, I...”
“Shaddup already! cried little Mikey, pushing the crossbow hard up under the pastor's scrotum. “You tell what you were up to, or I'm gonna' give you the kinda' piercin' you ain't gonna' be able t' tell yer congregation about! Got it?”
“I was just going to go watch Miss Flapjack the school nurse get undressed! I confess!” The pastor broke down in a fit of tears, and slumped to the cool, green lawn at Mikey's feet.
Oh,” said little Mikey, withdrawing and uncocking the crossbow. “Is that all?”
“Uh huh,” sobbed Pastor Weejus Preyzims, visibly shaken and now gently rubbing a very, very private area.
“Well, why dintcha' say so earlier?” asked Mikey. “C'mon, it's almost time!”
Mikey led the incredulous pastor by the hand...away across the suburban landscape toward Miss Flapjack's bungalow and the wide-open, exposed rear picture window.
“”Y'know, my old man sez yer OK for a sky-pilot,” said Mikey as they found a secluded spot in the bushes. “After this, I'll show you where old lady McGillicuddy hides her spare key.”