THE TEMPTER
 It was nearly 9:00PM when I returned home. A long day. Protestors had picketed the ministry again. They brought a police observer this time and so we were unable to turn the hi-pressure hose on them. There'd been a ton of paperwork to do and I could barely think over the folksy din of their protest songs. And the day got worse! Our cleaning lady—an illegal Mexican immigrant—finally figured out what our organization did and she quit immediately. And who do you think vacuumed the carpets and emptied the trash cans? Mistress Debbie? Dark Father Chris? Nope. The Reverend Charles Gurtien: satanic prophet, chairman of the board, and today, janitor. Our message is spreading. My influence is growing. Unfortunately, so is my waistline. With success comes long hours and my gym time has suffered. What were once tight ribbons of sinew are now fatty dough-balls. I've love handles to rival a Louis Vuitton carryall. My once-sculpted pectorals have bloomed into mantits. I disgust myself, and so have begun a strict dietary regimen. A glass of V-8 for breakfast. A large garden salad for lunch. Dinner: a broiled chicken breast and brown rice. There was a time when my body could stop traffic. I would draw catcalls from women and men alike! In fitter days I would often tear my shirt off in the middle of a sermon, just for dramatic flair. I wouldn't dare try that stunt now. I've considered showering with my shirt on, so deep is my self-loathing. My spirits couldn't have been lower as I returned home that night. Already I was dreading the next day. I badly needed a beer but I'd forsaken it. But what was this? As I opened the front door a pleasing aroma met my senses. A steamy smell. Starchy. Oniony. I knew the smell at once. Someone had boiled up my favorite (and now forbidden) dish—Poppy's™ Polish Style Potato and Onion Pirogues! Saliva flowed from my glands as if through a broken levee. My cravings might as well have been for meth, so deeply did they shake me! I entered my home on quiet tiptoes, like a tiger stalking prey. I set my briefcase down. I loosened my tie and removed my jacket and all of this I did while creeping towards the source of that heavenly smell. A pair of fine French doors separate my living room from the dining space; through the panes of glass I could see my table, set grandly for one. My secret chef had spared no effort. There were candles. A linen placemat and napkin. The centerpiece of the setting was a china plate piled high with pirogues, with a small crystal bowl of sour cream beside it. To top it all off—a German beer stein. A thick, foamy head peered out over the lip, revealing its contents. |
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