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xp_logsHaving arrived in Lancaster, Arthur and Beatrice attend a service to get the lay of the church…
At least 700 people must have filled the auditorium, a small band on stage and a slick slideshow lighting up the screen behind the stage. Catchy music invited the people to sing along which the crowd easily did.
"Is it," the dapper blond said as they surveyed the crowd, "Sunday best if it isn't Sunday?"
The two of them did, fortunately, blend in well with the Lancaster crowd. Friendly smiles and laughing in all the right (and wrong) places went a good mile with this sort of thing, as did adopting a sort of magical thinking from every pulp mystery and church movie that Arthur had ever seen. The kind of thinking that put a Lot of Capitals on Important, Godly Topics.
Yet the pair was an ideal mark: two blonde, perfectly coiffed and conveniently white targets. Hallelujah. They practically blended in merely by looking like they came from central casting.
Still chipper, Arthur added, "And did you see the tarps in the parking lot? Someone's building."
"I think it’s called church clothes if it’s not Sunday because it’s still supposed to be your best,” Bea chirped beside him, though her voice dropped in uncertainty as she watched worshippers mingle.
She tilted her head curiously at an elderly woman, whose choice of said church clothing was obviously well taken care of despite the age of her blouse, buttons replaced at some point, chatted with a woman who seemed to have just left the boutique.
“You know, I hadn’t, but, with people wearing Tiffany, I imagine the donations are quite nice,” she commented softly before she looked to Arthur with a slight panic, “are we supposed to donate?”
"Now, I'm not an expert on churches," Arthur said. "'But I think I've only got two fives and some gum in my pocket. Serves them right, though. Should have charged at the door if they're expecting deep pock –"
It was then that a cheerful woman with a nametag materialized with a wide, welcoming smile. Worse, she came bearing brochures. Arthur immediately flattened his accent to proper east coast wealth mixed with just a touch of good church folk.
"– and that's why it is good God loves everyone, like I always say." The laugh he supplied was more of a guffaw, but he turned to match the new woman's smile with his own. Like it was a contest. "Ah, wonderful. Hon. A volunteer."
The nametag did, in fact, boast that that woman – Cindy – was with the foundation. "How right that is," she chimed in, "and we always can find strength in the lord. Even in these trying times." Her smile grew wider as she spoke, exposing more teeth. "I just wanted to see if you had any questions before the sermon began and make sure the two of you received a program."
"Oh thank goodness, Cindy, that's actually what I was wonderin’ about but didn’t wanna bother anyone to ask,” Bea smiled brightly at the woman, arm closest to him instinctively going to loop through Arthur’s as she held her hand out for the service program.
After the very obviously thumbing through, she gave an approving nod as she passed the man the paper. “Have you been with the church long, dear?” Her voice took a hopeful air as she looked at the volunteer.
"Oh, not that long... but once I came and heard Reverend Metzger speak, I was sold..." She fell silent, starting towards the stage where a portly, older man had appeared. The music seemed to hit the endnotes and slowly died down. "Well, look like you'll have the chance to hear for yourself. Come find me afterwards if you have any questions!"
Reverend Metzger looked over the crowd, waiting till he just hit the right moment in the audience's attention span. Suddenly his voice rang out: "My dearest brothers and sisters...
We live in a time of great confusion, a time when the very fabric of our world is being tested. Today, I stand before you to speak a hard truth—but one that is necessary. We’ve all seen them: the mutants, those who possess powers and abilities beyond human comprehension. And I know many of you have wondered, “Are these beings truly made in God’s image? Do they share in this special distinction with the rest of humanity?”
In our first reading the Holy Scriptures tell us, in Genesis 1:27, that “God created mankind in His own image.” But look at these mutants—some with wings, others with scales, or eyes that burn like fire. Some with the ability to take away our God-given free will. Do they reflect truly the divine image of our Creator? Or do they represent something else entirely, something beyond the natural order God intended?
Some may argue that these individuals are simply another part of God’s creation, that their differences are just as valid as our own. That we cannot know what God’s purpose is with them. But I ask you to consider: if these mutants were truly created in the image of God, would they be capable of such destruction, such chaos? God’s image is one of order, of peace, of love. Mutants bring the opposite, sowing only hatred, fear and division. Is that what we want for ourselves, for our children?"
A sharp wailing cut over the pastor's words as a babe cried out as if in answer. Well, no. Crying would be generous. The sound that filled the church chamber was most decidedly the high-pitched bawling unique to fussy, sleepy toddlers. The sort that only grew worse as they ran out of air to cry more. Hundreds of heads turned to look at the baby, who was conveniently seated right behind Bea and Arthur.
The blond man, perhaps in an attempt to help, turned to see what he could do to help. Instead, his phone began to ring in what empty pace wasn't filled with crying.
A startled craning of the neck to find the source of the ringing was fallowed by the tittering of nervous laughter as Bea’s face flushed. “Oh, hon, I told you to turn off your phone,” she faux whispered, knuckles almost white from the grip she held his sleeve in.
While looks had turned their way, most were the curious eyes of those who wanted to point and whisper to themselves all about the disturbance. A handful showed signs of clenching their teeth behind their lips. And of course the soft empathetic embarrassment from some.
Unperturbed by the interruption, were volunteers making their way through with donation baskets. One perfect brow rose just a tad before another giggle slipped out. “Babe.”
Arthur took the basket while withdrawing his billfold in a move so laissez-faire it could either have been stolen from a movie. Or Warren. Luckily, this was the kind of discreet audience that made their donations in tiny, blank envelopes. "As the good lord said, don't let the right hand know when the other left out the back," he whispered in high notes as he went through the motions. Said left hand, unseen, folded a spare receipt into something resembling an envelope. A smile and a shuffle of the basket in passing shifted their donation right to the bottom.
With 700 people it took a while to pass the baskets and on the stage (and the large video screen) Reverend Metzger was gesticulating more fiercely.
"As we reflect on the differences between humans and mutants, it becomes clear that we are dealing with two distinct natures. Humans, created in the divine image, possess a soul that aligns with God's will and purpose. Mutants, however, are the result of something else—an aberration in the natural order, a deviation from the sacred blueprint that was laid out for us.
In this church, we are committed to restoring the balance. It is our sacred duty to ensure that mutants are placed in their rightful position, where they cannot disrupt the harmony of God's creation. But such a great task asks for more than just our prayers and good intentions. It requires resources—resources to fund the programs, the outreach, and the interventions necessary to fulfill our mission.
As members, friends, even visitors of this congregation, it is your divine obligation to support this holy work. The practice of tithing is not just an old tradition; it is a covenant with God. By giving generously, you are not only sustaining the church; you are actively participating in the mission to preserve the sanctity of humanity as God has intended it.
A small cheer rose up at those words, though it remained fairly subdued for 700 people. The baskets however were passing quicker and a larger amounts of money were being dropped in.
Eyes darted between the man on stage and the baskets being passed with wide-eyed curiosity. A well off looking couple dropped an envelope that looked to be filled. A frail looking elderly man passed a thin one with a shaky hand. It was as if they were all giving this church, this man, all the money they could spare. She took a quick note of the contents sizes to come back for the mental math of what could be inside. Focusing back on the reverend, Bea cleared her throat and straightened her posture even further. "Why, he really is gonna take us closer to God, isn't he, darling?" She chirped, suggestively nudging his arm with her shoulder. "Oh, do you think we could meet him? Just for a second?" Her smile easily matched the adoring crowd around them.
The momentarily look that crossed Arthur's face was amateur, at best. Discomfort. A drop in character. It was, however, immediately gone as if it had never been there. "If only we'd be so . . . lucky, darling." He delivered the last part like a man wishing for something he didn't entirely want. Arthur shook his head, and the act was back. "The good reverend's got enough on his plate. Best we can do is share his ministry with our friends."
Friends who could hopefully use something from what the two had witnessed today.
… while Warren and Sam try to figure out what the neighborhood thinks about this religious community.
"... and that's really all I can tell. Draws a lot of people, but got some real weirdo's. It's a big place though..." The older woman let her voice trail off, unlocking the breaks of her walker.
Sam nodded politely and put on as much southern charm as was polite without being flirtatious. "What sorts of weirdos? If you don't mind my asking ma'am, I'm sure you're awfully busy."
How did Warren get stuck doing canvassing in the outside world without air conditioning? This was cruel and unusual punishment. The only saving grace was all the accents. He was going to have fun telling Fi about this later.
With a sigh -- and not even letting the woman finish -- Warren pulled out his wallet. He'd been told that a bigger wallet did not mean a bigger penis (lies) so he had gone for a more subtle approach -- nothing bigger than a 50$, and it would all be crisp. That way it laid flat. It was the little things in life that made it all worth while. "We can pay for your time and information -- the more you tell us, the more we pay."
The woman's eyebrows immediately rose, eyeing them suspiciously as she looked back between the money and their faces, especially Warren's. "Are you some kind of cop or something else?" She finally asked. "No, cops wouldn't go around offering money..."
"No ma'am, we ain't cops." Sam said, a pleasant smile still plastered to his face. "Please ignore my companion, it's honestly best if you ignore him completely, he ain't fit for polite company. We're private investigators and we've heard some rumors about the church in connection to a case we're workin' and are tryin' to get more information so we can determine what we oughta follow up on. That's all."
"I'm very polite," Warren huffed back. "This is why I'm saying please with money. We would like to know more about the church, because honestly -- there are so many churches. Why is this one so special?"
The woman huffed and studied their faces once more: "Not sure what you want me to say... draws a lot of folks, they keep doing a lot of reconstruction for all the stuff they do. Their pastor is a fancy dude though. That car of his looks awfully expensive."
"Well yeah, you need a good car out here," Warren responded. The amount of potholes was criminal. And it was so dusty.
"Sorry to still bother you ma'am." Sam said, doing everything in his power to not hit the man next to him. "But earlier you mentioned that the church attracted some 'real weirdos', would it be possible for you to tell us more about that? We can walk with you if yer tryin' to get somewhere at a certain time. I'd hate to be a nuisance."
"It's a big church..." The woman shrugged, rather blassee. "...parking lot is full of cars every Sunday, pretty busy the other evenings. You get your usual amount of idiots. Protesting in weird places, shouting stuff about mutants..."
"Signs about Revelations and the like?" Sam asked, nodding. All of this sounded about what he'd expected. "Would you happen to know anyone who goes there that I could talk to? Just to ask questions, we ain't lookin' fer trouble."
If people in northern states assumed he was a bigot based on his accent, the least he could do was use their shitty assumptions and his lack of visible mutation to their advantage to get some questions answered. And hey, maybe he'd get to bully Warren on the clock.
"Yeah, and something about not being made in God's image." The woman added.
"Well, that's not hard, when we don't know what God looks like," Warren responded. "Back to what my friend here said though -- we'd love to chat with someone if you have any names to give us. Learn a little bit more.":
The woman stared at them for a long moment and turned and pointed subtly: "Those three houses over there... numbers 6, 10 and 15. They all go to this place. They're good people though. Don't want them to get in trouble."
"Of course ma'am. We don't want trouble neither." Sam promised. "Thank you."
Once he was sure that the woman was out of earshot he turned to Warren with a glare. "Are you tryin' to blow this case? Cause you ain't bein' helpful, you don't know how to talk to these people, and if you keep talkin' I'm gonna hit ya. So help me God I will put you in time out in the car and call your fiance to back me up. Don't think I won't."
Warren glared and made a mental note to send Bobbi a text first before Sam reached out. "I got us addresses, didn't I? 6, 10, 15. Over there. So let's go yonder, and see what the locals got to say." He rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."
“All you did was nearly get her to shut us out and repeat what I said. People like this? Don’t take kindly to bein’ bribed. And the only rich folk they trust are televangelists, and trust me they’ll know you ain’t one. Now can you please let me handle this until I can find you some pastor or elder with a vice to exploit?” Sam sighed. “Unfortunately I was raised to be part of a group like this, so I do actually know what the fuck I’m doin’. Fer fuck’s sake, we’re in Appalachia, just let me handle it.”
Warren stopped mid step and turned towards Sam, deep in thought.
"So that's how you pronounce it? I always wondered....huh. This is a good day, Sam. Learning is fun. Appalachia...I love it."
Sam paused outside of door number six as he knocked to let out a heavy sigh. “Jus’ keep yer damn mouth shut so I can work.”
At least 700 people must have filled the auditorium, a small band on stage and a slick slideshow lighting up the screen behind the stage. Catchy music invited the people to sing along which the crowd easily did.
"Is it," the dapper blond said as they surveyed the crowd, "Sunday best if it isn't Sunday?"
The two of them did, fortunately, blend in well with the Lancaster crowd. Friendly smiles and laughing in all the right (and wrong) places went a good mile with this sort of thing, as did adopting a sort of magical thinking from every pulp mystery and church movie that Arthur had ever seen. The kind of thinking that put a Lot of Capitals on Important, Godly Topics.
Yet the pair was an ideal mark: two blonde, perfectly coiffed and conveniently white targets. Hallelujah. They practically blended in merely by looking like they came from central casting.
Still chipper, Arthur added, "And did you see the tarps in the parking lot? Someone's building."
"I think it’s called church clothes if it’s not Sunday because it’s still supposed to be your best,” Bea chirped beside him, though her voice dropped in uncertainty as she watched worshippers mingle.
She tilted her head curiously at an elderly woman, whose choice of said church clothing was obviously well taken care of despite the age of her blouse, buttons replaced at some point, chatted with a woman who seemed to have just left the boutique.
“You know, I hadn’t, but, with people wearing Tiffany, I imagine the donations are quite nice,” she commented softly before she looked to Arthur with a slight panic, “are we supposed to donate?”
"Now, I'm not an expert on churches," Arthur said. "'But I think I've only got two fives and some gum in my pocket. Serves them right, though. Should have charged at the door if they're expecting deep pock –"
It was then that a cheerful woman with a nametag materialized with a wide, welcoming smile. Worse, she came bearing brochures. Arthur immediately flattened his accent to proper east coast wealth mixed with just a touch of good church folk.
"– and that's why it is good God loves everyone, like I always say." The laugh he supplied was more of a guffaw, but he turned to match the new woman's smile with his own. Like it was a contest. "Ah, wonderful. Hon. A volunteer."
The nametag did, in fact, boast that that woman – Cindy – was with the foundation. "How right that is," she chimed in, "and we always can find strength in the lord. Even in these trying times." Her smile grew wider as she spoke, exposing more teeth. "I just wanted to see if you had any questions before the sermon began and make sure the two of you received a program."
"Oh thank goodness, Cindy, that's actually what I was wonderin’ about but didn’t wanna bother anyone to ask,” Bea smiled brightly at the woman, arm closest to him instinctively going to loop through Arthur’s as she held her hand out for the service program.
After the very obviously thumbing through, she gave an approving nod as she passed the man the paper. “Have you been with the church long, dear?” Her voice took a hopeful air as she looked at the volunteer.
"Oh, not that long... but once I came and heard Reverend Metzger speak, I was sold..." She fell silent, starting towards the stage where a portly, older man had appeared. The music seemed to hit the endnotes and slowly died down. "Well, look like you'll have the chance to hear for yourself. Come find me afterwards if you have any questions!"
Reverend Metzger looked over the crowd, waiting till he just hit the right moment in the audience's attention span. Suddenly his voice rang out: "My dearest brothers and sisters...
We live in a time of great confusion, a time when the very fabric of our world is being tested. Today, I stand before you to speak a hard truth—but one that is necessary. We’ve all seen them: the mutants, those who possess powers and abilities beyond human comprehension. And I know many of you have wondered, “Are these beings truly made in God’s image? Do they share in this special distinction with the rest of humanity?”
In our first reading the Holy Scriptures tell us, in Genesis 1:27, that “God created mankind in His own image.” But look at these mutants—some with wings, others with scales, or eyes that burn like fire. Some with the ability to take away our God-given free will. Do they reflect truly the divine image of our Creator? Or do they represent something else entirely, something beyond the natural order God intended?
Some may argue that these individuals are simply another part of God’s creation, that their differences are just as valid as our own. That we cannot know what God’s purpose is with them. But I ask you to consider: if these mutants were truly created in the image of God, would they be capable of such destruction, such chaos? God’s image is one of order, of peace, of love. Mutants bring the opposite, sowing only hatred, fear and division. Is that what we want for ourselves, for our children?"
A sharp wailing cut over the pastor's words as a babe cried out as if in answer. Well, no. Crying would be generous. The sound that filled the church chamber was most decidedly the high-pitched bawling unique to fussy, sleepy toddlers. The sort that only grew worse as they ran out of air to cry more. Hundreds of heads turned to look at the baby, who was conveniently seated right behind Bea and Arthur.
The blond man, perhaps in an attempt to help, turned to see what he could do to help. Instead, his phone began to ring in what empty pace wasn't filled with crying.
A startled craning of the neck to find the source of the ringing was fallowed by the tittering of nervous laughter as Bea’s face flushed. “Oh, hon, I told you to turn off your phone,” she faux whispered, knuckles almost white from the grip she held his sleeve in.
While looks had turned their way, most were the curious eyes of those who wanted to point and whisper to themselves all about the disturbance. A handful showed signs of clenching their teeth behind their lips. And of course the soft empathetic embarrassment from some.
Unperturbed by the interruption, were volunteers making their way through with donation baskets. One perfect brow rose just a tad before another giggle slipped out. “Babe.”
Arthur took the basket while withdrawing his billfold in a move so laissez-faire it could either have been stolen from a movie. Or Warren. Luckily, this was the kind of discreet audience that made their donations in tiny, blank envelopes. "As the good lord said, don't let the right hand know when the other left out the back," he whispered in high notes as he went through the motions. Said left hand, unseen, folded a spare receipt into something resembling an envelope. A smile and a shuffle of the basket in passing shifted their donation right to the bottom.
With 700 people it took a while to pass the baskets and on the stage (and the large video screen) Reverend Metzger was gesticulating more fiercely.
"As we reflect on the differences between humans and mutants, it becomes clear that we are dealing with two distinct natures. Humans, created in the divine image, possess a soul that aligns with God's will and purpose. Mutants, however, are the result of something else—an aberration in the natural order, a deviation from the sacred blueprint that was laid out for us.
In this church, we are committed to restoring the balance. It is our sacred duty to ensure that mutants are placed in their rightful position, where they cannot disrupt the harmony of God's creation. But such a great task asks for more than just our prayers and good intentions. It requires resources—resources to fund the programs, the outreach, and the interventions necessary to fulfill our mission.
As members, friends, even visitors of this congregation, it is your divine obligation to support this holy work. The practice of tithing is not just an old tradition; it is a covenant with God. By giving generously, you are not only sustaining the church; you are actively participating in the mission to preserve the sanctity of humanity as God has intended it.
A small cheer rose up at those words, though it remained fairly subdued for 700 people. The baskets however were passing quicker and a larger amounts of money were being dropped in.
Eyes darted between the man on stage and the baskets being passed with wide-eyed curiosity. A well off looking couple dropped an envelope that looked to be filled. A frail looking elderly man passed a thin one with a shaky hand. It was as if they were all giving this church, this man, all the money they could spare. She took a quick note of the contents sizes to come back for the mental math of what could be inside. Focusing back on the reverend, Bea cleared her throat and straightened her posture even further. "Why, he really is gonna take us closer to God, isn't he, darling?" She chirped, suggestively nudging his arm with her shoulder. "Oh, do you think we could meet him? Just for a second?" Her smile easily matched the adoring crowd around them.
The momentarily look that crossed Arthur's face was amateur, at best. Discomfort. A drop in character. It was, however, immediately gone as if it had never been there. "If only we'd be so . . . lucky, darling." He delivered the last part like a man wishing for something he didn't entirely want. Arthur shook his head, and the act was back. "The good reverend's got enough on his plate. Best we can do is share his ministry with our friends."
Friends who could hopefully use something from what the two had witnessed today.
… while Warren and Sam try to figure out what the neighborhood thinks about this religious community.
"... and that's really all I can tell. Draws a lot of people, but got some real weirdo's. It's a big place though..." The older woman let her voice trail off, unlocking the breaks of her walker.
Sam nodded politely and put on as much southern charm as was polite without being flirtatious. "What sorts of weirdos? If you don't mind my asking ma'am, I'm sure you're awfully busy."
How did Warren get stuck doing canvassing in the outside world without air conditioning? This was cruel and unusual punishment. The only saving grace was all the accents. He was going to have fun telling Fi about this later.
With a sigh -- and not even letting the woman finish -- Warren pulled out his wallet. He'd been told that a bigger wallet did not mean a bigger penis (lies) so he had gone for a more subtle approach -- nothing bigger than a 50$, and it would all be crisp. That way it laid flat. It was the little things in life that made it all worth while. "We can pay for your time and information -- the more you tell us, the more we pay."
The woman's eyebrows immediately rose, eyeing them suspiciously as she looked back between the money and their faces, especially Warren's. "Are you some kind of cop or something else?" She finally asked. "No, cops wouldn't go around offering money..."
"No ma'am, we ain't cops." Sam said, a pleasant smile still plastered to his face. "Please ignore my companion, it's honestly best if you ignore him completely, he ain't fit for polite company. We're private investigators and we've heard some rumors about the church in connection to a case we're workin' and are tryin' to get more information so we can determine what we oughta follow up on. That's all."
"I'm very polite," Warren huffed back. "This is why I'm saying please with money. We would like to know more about the church, because honestly -- there are so many churches. Why is this one so special?"
The woman huffed and studied their faces once more: "Not sure what you want me to say... draws a lot of folks, they keep doing a lot of reconstruction for all the stuff they do. Their pastor is a fancy dude though. That car of his looks awfully expensive."
"Well yeah, you need a good car out here," Warren responded. The amount of potholes was criminal. And it was so dusty.
"Sorry to still bother you ma'am." Sam said, doing everything in his power to not hit the man next to him. "But earlier you mentioned that the church attracted some 'real weirdos', would it be possible for you to tell us more about that? We can walk with you if yer tryin' to get somewhere at a certain time. I'd hate to be a nuisance."
"It's a big church..." The woman shrugged, rather blassee. "...parking lot is full of cars every Sunday, pretty busy the other evenings. You get your usual amount of idiots. Protesting in weird places, shouting stuff about mutants..."
"Signs about Revelations and the like?" Sam asked, nodding. All of this sounded about what he'd expected. "Would you happen to know anyone who goes there that I could talk to? Just to ask questions, we ain't lookin' fer trouble."
If people in northern states assumed he was a bigot based on his accent, the least he could do was use their shitty assumptions and his lack of visible mutation to their advantage to get some questions answered. And hey, maybe he'd get to bully Warren on the clock.
"Yeah, and something about not being made in God's image." The woman added.
"Well, that's not hard, when we don't know what God looks like," Warren responded. "Back to what my friend here said though -- we'd love to chat with someone if you have any names to give us. Learn a little bit more.":
The woman stared at them for a long moment and turned and pointed subtly: "Those three houses over there... numbers 6, 10 and 15. They all go to this place. They're good people though. Don't want them to get in trouble."
"Of course ma'am. We don't want trouble neither." Sam promised. "Thank you."
Once he was sure that the woman was out of earshot he turned to Warren with a glare. "Are you tryin' to blow this case? Cause you ain't bein' helpful, you don't know how to talk to these people, and if you keep talkin' I'm gonna hit ya. So help me God I will put you in time out in the car and call your fiance to back me up. Don't think I won't."
Warren glared and made a mental note to send Bobbi a text first before Sam reached out. "I got us addresses, didn't I? 6, 10, 15. Over there. So let's go yonder, and see what the locals got to say." He rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."
“All you did was nearly get her to shut us out and repeat what I said. People like this? Don’t take kindly to bein’ bribed. And the only rich folk they trust are televangelists, and trust me they’ll know you ain’t one. Now can you please let me handle this until I can find you some pastor or elder with a vice to exploit?” Sam sighed. “Unfortunately I was raised to be part of a group like this, so I do actually know what the fuck I’m doin’. Fer fuck’s sake, we’re in Appalachia, just let me handle it.”
Warren stopped mid step and turned towards Sam, deep in thought.
"So that's how you pronounce it? I always wondered....huh. This is a good day, Sam. Learning is fun. Appalachia...I love it."
Sam paused outside of door number six as he knocked to let out a heavy sigh. “Jus’ keep yer damn mouth shut so I can work.”
