"Tell me, Colton. Did you see any demons in the bad people pit?"
"Think, Colton... Was Adramelech, The Chancellor of Hell, in the bad people pit?"
"Colton, what was he doing to the bad people?"
"Making them eat his farts!"
Colton chuckled to himself, obviously thinking back to the safety he must have felt viewing such horrors while cradled in God's arms. I took this as a cue that he was open to more questions, and pressed onwards. "Colton, honey," I dug my fingernails into the steering wheel. "Was anyone that mommy knows... in the bad people pit?"
Colton bit down on his adorable lower lip. "Uncle Jerry," he sputtered. Of course, Jerry had died before Colton first entered this world, though my little miracle had heard me speak ill of this former family member who left the ministry for one of Satan's greatest temptations: the secular arts. Of course, Jerry had been struck dead by a drunk driver mere weeks before receiving his certificate of demonhood.
"Tell me, Colton... How was Uncle Jerry?"
"He was sad."
"God made him live in a big puke. Then he got chased by birds."
I swerved, and the head of my dashboard-mounted Jesus began nodding emphatically. Of course! Jerry had never been fond of birds, so it was only fitting that he be chased by them for an eternity of unending torment. Truly God has a plan for us all.
Colton yawned, telling me he was just about done with this round of storytelling. He reached up from the back seat and pulled the firm fabric on my new pantsuit. "Mama," he called out to me in his precious voice. I answered, "Yes, my sweet cupcake?"
"What's a Marjoe Gortner?"
"Sounds like an evil Wiccan spell, my sweet holy baby child. Why?"
"When we were on the news the headphones man by the camera kept calling me that and laughing."
I tousled his perfect head of hair. "Don't you worry about that, my little miracle. Now, once we get home, you're going right to bed. It's a long drive to Pat Buchanan's house, and tomorrow, he's going to let you join his special little club!"
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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