by Chris Alexion, Copyright February 15, 2006, all rights reserved. 359 views
Anne related how she had been one of the nation's top classical Christian praise musicians. She had produced several platinum worship albums in the categories of strings, piano, and flute. She was at the pinnacle of her ministry, in the very center of God's perfect will for her life, when her music was ruined by the wrong houseplants.
"Hold it," broke in Forge. "I thought it was the other way around. Ungodly music can harm plants; but I've never heard of the wrong kind of plants ruining godly music."
Anne sobbed silently, her head bobbing in a vaguely affirmative manner. "I thought so, too, until I bought those wretched tiger lilies. Those flowers satisfied me at first, but then I started craving plants with louder and louder petals, and then it was insectivorous plants, and then my music just broke down. I could no longer put a simple chord together. I'm a broken artist." She trailed off as more sobs convulsed her.
Thomas shuddered. Blasted Venus flytraps. The public had to be warned. He looked up. "Hey," he said, "why don't you come with us? You can help us track down the cause of our problem, and we can help you warn other artists about the plants."
"You–you mean it?" sobbed Anne.
***
Thomas stared contemplatively through the hole of his bagel. Now that the sun was rolling over the horizon and he was enjoying a solid breakfast, things seemed more hopeful. Too, their little expedition was off to a fine start. They'd not only escaped the hospital, but had gotten in the back entrance to Anne's studio without anyone seeming to notice the arrival of two people and a guy in a wheelchair in the middle of the night. Now Anne and Wilbur were on the Web researching leads.
"Hey, Tom; check this out." It was Wilbur's voice. Stevia reluctantly set his bagel down and wheeled himself over to the computer monitor. "Since you and I were in car crashes," Forge went on, "I started checking into common threads. We both were in Christian-made cars, so that couldn't be it. Then I went through the list of parts, and the names of the dealers they were purchased from. Nothing. Then I hit something. We both filled up that morning at the same gas station."
"A Christian gas station?"
"That's just it. I couldn't get any info on this gas station. Something's up."
Thomas nodded. "Let's check it out." The group took Anne's car to the gas station, but parked a few buildings away where they'd be less visible. Trying to keep a low profile, the two pedestrians and the wheelchair headed for the back of the station. With Forge leading the way, they slipped in through a door marked "Employees Only" and entered the back of the gas station's convenience store. They saw stacks of cardboard boxes to their left, a narrow hallway in front of them, and the restroom to their right.
"Let's start over here." Wilbur was over checking the boxes for non-Christian contraband. He turned around to beckon Anne and Thomas, but froze in his tracks. He was staring at the muzzle and foresight of a Glock 9mm.
Forge slowly raised his uninjured arm. "Let me explain," he said to the thirty-something man with the weapon. The man wore jeans and a red polo shirt, a Florida State cap on his head. The man started to speak, but something happened. Just as he opened his mouth, one of the shop's long florescent light bulbs fell from its overhead socket, breaking over the man's head with a loud pop and sending white glass and dust everywhere.
When the dust cleared, the man was on the ground moaning. Forge quickly kicked the gun away. Remembering his literal interpretation of Matthew 5, he decided to see if the man was all right before doing anything else.
"No, I'm not all right," said the man, who turned out to be the gas station franchise owner. "God is judging me. That's the second dang light bulb that's fallen on my head. The first one got me over at the golf shop as I was about to buy a new driver. I reasoned that God was telling me I was getting too wrapped up in my hobby, so I didn't make the buy. But how am I going to sort this one out?"
Stevia's jaw dropped. "We're trying to figure out why we're being judged, too! My friend Wilbur and I were both in car crashes yesterday morning, and Anne here had her music ministry ruined by evil houseplants."
"I'm Tony Garcia," said their assailant, holstering his sidearm. "And if I can do anything to help clear up this mess, I will."
"We need to look at your records," replied Forge. "This gas station is the common link between Tom's and my wrecks yesterday, and we're looking for some kind of connection, something that would point us to a violation of God's will." Five minutes later they were thumbing through stacks of paper in the convenience store back office.
Stevia frowned. "Everything here checks out. Wait–look at this." The others gathered around as Thomas read off a fuel invoice. "'Crescent Oil and Petroleum Products, Qatar.' What do you know about this company?"
Garcia shrugged. "I just started working with them last week. They're kind of low-profile. We could try an online search."
Anne retrieved her laptop from her car and was able to get web access through a wireless connection. She set the computer on the desk and began typing search strings. Thomas rolled over to get some Junior Mints, but scooted back into the office when he heard her exclaim, "Got something!"
To be concluded…
1 • Chris Yokel • February 15, 2006 • 6:32 PM
This is interesting, that's for sure…