Farmer Bob

T H E C U P A N D S A U C E R
A C T I O N N E W S

A little girl named Ashley fell down a well in North Kansas City in the Summer of 2001. It was all over the news, and suburban evangelicals headed up to the northlands — first, to help rescue Ashley, who, in accordance with FCC regulations, the media had renamed “Baby Ashley.” Then, when they found actual, professional rescue crews already on-site for the toddler-hoisting operation, they opted to pray loudly in front of the TV cameras. Christians sure like babies. It was “SAVE BABY ASHLEY” week.

All of which played right into Jill’s summer project. As a business-building venture, she had started hitting local megachurches, which meant getting baptised 2 or 3 times every weekend. Some car salesman had told her that church attendance was a good way of drumming up business, which gave her a lot to think about. “How far am I willing to go for my business? Would I kill a man?” she said. “Or would I be willing to, oh, I don’t know… hey, name something that isn’t subtle, Chris.”

“Um, would you drink a glass of snot for one million dollars?” I asked.

“I’d have done that to get out of class,” said Jill.

So she started going to church. After each Baptism, she’d hand out business cards, and attempt to quote badly-remembered passages from the Bible: “Thank you,” she’d say, shaking someone’s hand. “And, uh, therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men shouldst do, verily ye shouldst looketh toward Damascus. Come to the Cup and Saucer!” All of these weekend baptisms meant that Jill’s sins were being washed away almost as fast as she committed them, which did nothing for her mood.

One of the upshots of our new designation as a “Christian hang-out” was that our regular Saturday night death-metal band, Satanicide, gained a new following amongst all the Christian teens that discovered the Cup. It was really confusing for the band, because their whole nascent image was wrapped up with Jesus hatred.

I tried to explain it to Cole Digby, the lead singer: “Sure, on the surface, ‘Satanicide’ seems like a good name for a Jesus-hating death-metal band. But it does not actually mean ‘killing for Satan,’” I said. “It literally means, ‘the act of killing Satan.’” This just confused him.

So the Christian teens were really confused by the band’s name; Their confusion was compounded by a lot of Satanicide song titles, which were adapted from Biblical passages, like “Revenger of Blood” (Numbers 35:19), “Smite with Pestilence” (Exodus 9:15), and the band’s encore favorite, “Murder the Innocent” (Psalm 10:8). I tried to explain it to the kids: “‘Satanicide’ doesn’t mean that the band wants to ‘kill Satan,’” I said. “I think they’re conflating ‘Satan’ and ‘homicide’ because it sounds, y’know, evil.“

The kids said they’d pray for me. Thanks, young Christians! Too bad the Bible didn’t teach the rules for gratuities. The band and all their new fans developed ever-tighter bonds of mutual misunderstanding. Jill, observing this new music dynamic at the Cup, told Diana to book Satanicide Thursday through Saturday, and start charging a cover.

My brother T.J., an avid consumer of beer, was already a regular, but he started spending more time at the Cup hoping to shepherd some of the Christian jailbait away from their purity vows. One afternoon at the bar, he said, “How are your liquor control officers doing?” As I’ll explain for the last time, two morbidly obese liquor control officers, in the act of being enormous fatties, had broken through the floor of the bar and become trapped in the basement.

Chico and I had gone out one night and taken one of the metal plates the Missouri Department of Transportation used to cover up the potholes on Delaware Street, and we would ordinarily use it to cover up the hole in the floor of the bar. But those fat fuckers had to be aired out every now and then, so we’d slid the plate away from the hole, and Andee Hindery was sitting cross-legged, staring down into the basement.

“They’re fine, all things considered,” said Andee.

“What are their names again?” said T.J.

As it turned out, they did have names: Gary and the other guy. I had a tendency to forget the second one’s name, for some reason.

Andee knew why: “It’s because he’s diminished by comparison with Gary.”

“What do you mean?” asked T.J.

“Well, it’s hard to tell through all the blubber, but Gary has really amazing charisma.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s true! He’s so totally revolting that you can’t tell just by glancing. You have to stare at him for, like, fifteen minutes, until your mind is completely emptied of all aesthetic preconceptions. It’s like saying the same word over and over again until it loses its meaning. Then you all-of-a-sudden notice that Gary is like the gluttonous, depraved version of George Clooney. And the other guy is just a big, slobby fucker.”

“Aw, that’s bullshit,” said T.J.

“Oh yeah? Then, answer me this: what’s the other guy’s name?”

“It’s… OK. Wait, I know it…”

“It’s DOUG!” shouted Doug from the basement. “HE’S GARY, AND I’M DOUG!”

“Oh, right,” said T.J.

“See?” said Andee. “It’s totally subconscious. You don’t even realize what’s happening.”

At that point, a large group of the Christians who had been up north on Pray-for-Baby-Ashley detail showed up for lunch. I recognized two of them: Gerald and Helena. They were the kind of couple whose marital assets included a thirty-year accumulation of matching T-shirts, which they wore, without fail. That day’s T-shirts were some kind of “don’t get an abortion” deal, or something, but twice as powerful as the normal pro-life injunction because the message was times two!

“How’s the praying going up North?” I asked.

“The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few,” said Helena. “Therefore, beseech the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into His harvest.”

“Sounds Bibley! I bet you’ll pray that kid right the hell out of there in no time,” I said, but she had noticed the hole in the floor.

“What is that hole in the floor?” asked Helena. “What are those men doing down there?”

“We’re trapped!” shouted Gary with a fake little sob. Whenever he met new people, Gary’s impulse was to play on their sympathy to gain some sort of food-related advantage. This was a totally manipulative abuse of his weird, subliminal charisma as far as I was concerned.

The woman stared down at Gary and Doug, sitting on their Rascal scooters.

“How did this happen?” she shouted.

So Gary launched into his version of events, which I’ll spare you, but which did contain many more violations of city liquor ordinances than we’d ever heard of, as well as some wanton withholding of food.

Helena just glared at us, and by the time Gary was done telling his story, it was pretty clear that she had appropriated Gary’s pain and was now rebroadcasting it as her own. “You are all horrible people,” she said.

“That’s the truth,” said Andee. “One time, we pretended to be homeless and got free food from the Project Homeless van. It was fried chicken night!”

But Helena wasn’t listening. “Gary, I’m going to save you!” she shouted.

“What about ME?” yelled Doug.

“Thank you! God bless you!” shouted Gary.

“Hey — I think this is fried chicken night,” said Andee.

The ensuing week-long burst of Christian activity was fueled by a frustrated inability to save Baby Ashley, redirected toward saving Gary, and also Doug. SAVE GARY posters and T-shirts appeared all over Downtown Kansas City, and a film crew from the Christian Broadcast Network showed up. Satanicide staged a benefit concert out on Delaware Street, and Jill walked around like she was having some sort of dream. For five glorious days, business exploded. Best of all, Christians were hoisting the disgusting liquor control officers out of the basement for free.

“What about ME?” shouted Doug. It was a constant refrain, and I was tired of hearing it. “Jesus doesn’t love you, fatty,” I hissed down at him. Helena, who was standing right there, didn’t think to contradict me.

Fortunately, with much fanfare, and with a deafening burst of music by Satanicide, they finally winched both of those bastards out of the basement on a Saturday night. When they pulled him out, Gary was singing “The Old Rugged Cross” like the ass-kisser he was when it suited his interests — usually right around 9 p.m., after he’d digested the evening’s baloney sandwiches, taken a dump, and started getting hungry for a second dinner.

Twenty people carried him out to a waiting flatbed truck, which rushed him to the hospital. In the storage room, T.J. was making out with Helena and Gerald’s underage daughter. Jill came out of her blissful haze long enough to say, “Hey, Chris, you’re a geek — who would win in a fight? Jesus, Superman, or my foot up your ass?” I didn’t have an answer to that question. “Things are really changing around here,” I said to Diana, who had showed up for her paycheck. I wanted to have a celebratory shot with Andee, but she and Chico had seen the Project Homeless van drive by, and they left to get dinner. That same night, the North Kansas City Police pulled Baby Ashley out of the well, with a total absence of spiritual support from the Christian community, which turned out to be a major coup for the Scientologists, who had sensed an opportunity.

Doug rode away disconsolately into the night on his Rascal scooter, and we never saw him again. Fucker.