Killing pastor Dave at my old church

I remember the very first time I wanted to kill someone. It was at church. Being forced to sit through an hour and a half, sometimes two hours of bullshit sermon every goddamn Sunday drove me completely batshit insane.

I was raised by very strict Christian Baptists. Not so much my Dad, but my mom was just obsessed with it. My sisters and I couldn't watch most tv shows, we couldn't listen to secular radio stations, and we couldn't even go to secular school. We went to private Christian bullshit school instead.

My mother dragged us to church three times every goddamn week. Three times! What the fuck? I mean we had prayer at every meal and my mother had us reading the bible every goddamn day so why go to so much fucking bullshit church?

I hated it. I especially hated our pastor for some fucked up reason. All I remember is sitting in a pew, listening to this faggot pastor preach a bunch of bullshit against my will. Falling asleep every few seconds because it was so fucking boring. Getting smacked upside the head from my mom because it was church, goddamnit. You don't sleep during church.

Fuck that. Right then and there I decided I wanted to kill someone. Not my mom, that would come later. It was that motherfucking preacher. If he wasn't so goddamn boring, I would actually enjoy the service. I wouldn't involuntarily fall asleep constantly and then I wouldn't get smacked upside the head by my fuckstick mom.

I think I was about eight years old at that point. I knew I wanted to kill that fucking pastor, but wasn't quite sure how. Then, I had a meeting with pastor Dave for my baptism. Apparently my parents hadn't baptised me when I was a baby. My mom was insisting that I be baptised, since I was such a goddamn good fucking kid. I really was. Learned all the fucking bullshit bible verses and all the stupid fucking songs. I did great at that stupid Awanas club thing mom dragged us to every Wednesday.

I was my mother's perfect little boy. Little did she know that at eight years old, I was planning my first horrific murder. I snuck out of the house at night when my parents were finally asleep and I rode my bike to the pastor's house.

His house was fucking HUGE. It had to have at least 5 bedrooms. Must have been at least four thousand square feet. Two stories and a three car garage. I had seen the car he drove to the church on several occasions. It was a very fancy car. Thinking about it now, I'm pretty sure it was a Mercedes-Benz. He got a new car every year.

Seeing all of that made me want to kill him even more. There's some bullshit bible verse about the rich not being allowed into heaven. It was funny because I didn't want to kill him just because I was a fucking psychopath. I wanted to kill him because he wasn't Godly enough. He wasn't worthy of his position of pastor. He was abusing his power and getting rich in the process.

And also, as I have already said, I just wanted to kill him because he bored me to tears during his sermons. And maybe just a tad because I'm a fucking psychopath.

Even during my baptism, he never touched me in an inappropriate manner. As far as I knew, he never touched any of the children. So, maybe he wasn't all bad. But still... A real pastor would drive a beat up old piece of shit Ford or something similar. Not a goddamn bran-spanking-new Mercedes every fucking year.

So, I decided that I would get my father's rifle and climb up into the rafters at the back of the chapel that would give me a good line of sight to the podium the pastor would be standing at.

I planned all this out. At eight years old. And now, after thirty years, I am finally going to carry out pastor Dave's sentence. Unfortunately, he doesn't work at the church any more. He has since retired, apparently. However, the church I used to attend as a child still stands to this day and it is quite vacant most evenings.

So, I drove to pastor Dave's house at about two a.m. and dragged his sorry ass out of bed. I drove him to the church and walked him up to the podium. Of course there was pleading and bible thumping words from him for a while, but I covered his mouth with duct tape because I really didn't want to hear it, after all the fucking bullshit I had to listen to from him over the years.

I strapped him to the podium with rope and kept him in the standing position, just as I remembered him from my youth. Only now he was just wearing his pajamas and not a thousand dollar suit. "Yes," I said. "That's how I want to remember you, pastor Dave. Just like that. Silent. Unable to speak and ruin my day."

He started to mumble something under the tape. "What? You trying to say something, pastor Dave?" Again he mumbled something. "What? You want me to kill you, pastor Dave? Oh, don't worry about that. I decided to kill you when I was eight years old, in this very church, sitting in that pew down there, next to my bitch of a mother." I pointed to the pew that our family almost always occupied every Sunday morning.

"Remember?" I asked. More mumbling behind the tape. "Of course you don't. You were too busy spending all that money you got from conning all those poor helpless souls that occupied those pews every goddamn week."

He mumbled again, something of a disagreement, I thought. "Oh, you're not a con man? Seriously?" Just then, I got a little angry. Tried to hold in my fury. I didn't really want to hit the old man, I just wanted to kill him and be done with it. "Seriously??" I said again, fuming just a bit.

It is true that I used to be a Christian. I fell hard for the con early in my childhood. Of course, it was near impossible to escape it considering that it was shoved down my throat every goddamn second of my childhood life.

I picked up my rifle. "If you want to believe in god, that's fine by me. I won't interfere. But when you start shoving it down people's throats, not giving them any choice in what to believe, not giving them any other options or opinions... I can't stand by that anymore."

And with that, I walked to the back of the chapel, climbed up into the rafters and shot pastor Dave in the chest. He squirmed. I could hear him screaming through the duct tape. I shot him again in the shoulder. More struggling.

I took my eyes off the sights and just cherished the moment for a while, as pastor Dave squirmed. I could have just shot him through the head and be done with it, but I wanted to shoot him like the eight year old me may have. So, I took aim and shot him a couple more times until finally he stopped squirming and was silent.

I got down from the rafters, walked up to the podium and took a picture of the dead pastor Dave. "Say 'Hi' to your sky wizard for me," I said and turned around and walked the fuck out of that place forever.

I imagined pastor Dave getting to the pearly gates and meeting st. Peter. Then, after hearing from st. Peter that rich fat fucks don't get into heaven...

Priceless.

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DISCLAIMER: This is fiction, you fucking idiots. It's just a goddamn story.

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