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Kevin Wood
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@KevinStphnWood
10:20 AM 27th November 2020
fiction

Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar - Part 3

 
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The process of being accepted for training as a priest is very tedious. There are meetings, application forms, selection committees… One striking omission from all this, is that they don’t ask if you’re a sociopath. They ask your gender – a question added by a man before women priests became an issue – but they are remarkably silent on the issue of sociopathy. I see this as being God’s will at work.

This quirk of my personality enabled me to remain polite and calm when I opened my door to three Hells Angels. Incidentally, note that the absence of an apostrophe in “Hells” is deliberate. That is how they write it, and I feel disinclined to debate the subject with them.

They looked like Russian dolls. One was immensely fat and had to top six foot four. The next was shorter, thinner, but still powerfully built. The last was at least a clear foot smaller than the largest, and scrawny. I found myself peering around them to see if they had brought two smaller colleagues with them.

When they asked if I was the vicar, I smiled politely, and said, “Yes.”

“Do you do funerals?”

“Yes.”

“One of the brothers died.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Would you like to come in?”

This seemed to shock them, but they permitted themselves to be ushered into my study. For reasons of brevity and taste, I will omit some of the more colourful language they employed

“We’ve seen three other vicars today, but none of them would talk to us,” said the middle sized one. “How come you’re talking to us when the others wouldn’t?”

“I believe in treating all people as human beings, regardless of intelligence or ability.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be stuff like sex and colour?”

“After a few years in the Church of England, stupidity and incompetence become the deciding factors. Providing you treat the church with respect, I don’t see any problems. Now, why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

“I’m Al, that’s Psycho,” he indicated to the smaller one, “and that’s Porker”, pointing to the largest one.

“And you said one of your brothers had died?”

“Yeah, head-on with a truck a couple of days ago.”

I vaguely recalled a bike accident, but it had been off my patch, so I hadn’t paid much attention. The interview followed standard lines, with me eliciting information regarding Smiffy, the biker who had died. It is important to get this for the eulogy, although his life mostly seemed to have consisted of run-ins with the police, and cruelty to small animals. Everything went smoothly until it came to the choice of music at the end of the service.

“And we want ‘Highway to Hell’ at the end of the service,” said Al.

“No,” I said.

“What? Why?”

“It is not appropriate for use in church.”

Psycho leant forward, stuck a knife in my desk, and slapped his hand down next to it. “We want ‘Highway to Hell’,” he said.

I pulled the knife out the desk and stabbed it through his hand, pinning him to the desk. Keeping a hold of the hilt, I looked him in the eye, and said, “No.”

I watched him with some curiosity, as first surprise, then pain crossed his face. I was aware that his friends were laughing. After a while, he stopped swearing at me and became quiet. His friends were still laughing – Al had fallen off his seat with the hilarity of the situation. I raised the index finger of my other hand, and said, “No ‘Highway to Hell’.”

Al stopped laughing long enough to agree.

I released the knife and called Abigail. “Mrs Horton, would you be so good as to come in here a moment? One of my guests has injured his hand.”

She came in and pulled the knife from Psycho’s hand. “Now, you just come with me, poppet, and I’ll sort you out”. She left with Psycho and the knife, completely unfazed. She seemed more comfortable with the situation than might be expected.

“Think I’ve wet meself,” said Porker, still laughing.

“Reckon Psycho has too,” said Al, and they burst into fresh laughter.

We had just finished on the details for the funeral when Abigail returned with Psycho, his hand freshly bandaged.

“She stitched it and everything,” he told his friends.

“Well, if we’re finished here, I’ll see you soon. Naturally, if you have any questions, then please call me.”

As they left, I heard Psycho saying to his friends, “Man, he’s stone cold! I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

“Hey, Psycho! Want a Malteaser?”

Psycho made an obscene reply as he climbed onto his bike.

The press was still hanging around, and one, who I recognised as a sound engineer wandered over.

“What were they here for? Anything to do with the murder?”

“No, just making arrangements for a funeral.”

“Really? Seemed like they were enjoying themselves.”

“I try to establish a good rapport with the bereaved.”

He nodded and wandered off again. As he left, a thought occurred to me.

I’ve only been in the parish a couple of months – St James was my first parish – but, one of the ways a priest is judged for advancement, is the size of their congregation. If it goes up, you are perceived as effective and worthy of advancement. There is supposed to be a Diocesan Evangelism Officer – think of a diocese as the church version of a county, run by a bishop - to help the locals up the numbers, but no one knows who they are. Which tells you all you need to know about the diocese. Perhaps it was time to start demonstrating that I had “Vision for St. James”. And, “reaching out” to everyone, including Hells Angels might be a good starting point.

A parish evangelism officer would be a good idea. And the ideal candidate would be Mabel, my fiancée. Not only was she of an evangelical persuasion, but it would demonstrate my respect for her, with the added advantage that our relationship would make it easier to direct activities.

While I was thinking of how to bring the matter up at the next church council, the phone rang again.

“Hello, this is the Diocesan Finance Office. We’re rather concerned that St James has not paid its Share this year. Or last year. Or even attempted to talk to us about it. Would it be possible to arrange a meeting?”

Disclaimer: The Church of England does not advocate stabbing the bereaved through the hand during a funeral interview.
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