I try to be polite to missionaries.

I grew up in a small town dominated by a major religion. We were all so used to roaming pairs of suited missionaries, that if they’d have suddenly stopped riding by on their bikes or if countless doorbells fell silent, all of us unsaved would have thought that the End had actually come, and we were doomed.

Year after year, missionaries rang my family’s doorbell in vain. They should have flagged our house as Don’t Bother long before they did.

By the time I was a teen it was fun to torture the poor suits who showed up. They were kids barely older than me, far from their homes, wondering what the hell — excuse me, what the heck — they were doing in some podunk town in Idaho.

I finally wondered the same thing and moved away. Now when I answer my door to a familiar pair of smiling suits, I tell them where I grew up and they pretty much know right away that I’m not gonna bite. I haven’t seen any from that particular group in years. They must have tagged my house.

There have been missionaries from other religions to drop by now and then.

I’m always nice to them. I listen to what they have to say.

Our meetings usually end with missionaries walking away shaking their heads at my crazy ideas, and I don’t see them again.

Maybe one will come back a few days later and bring some totally hot religorobot with them to try and convince me that if I join up, women like her will sit beside me in church. I let them know I’m not fooled.

I thought I’d seen it all.

But not long ago, a pair of missionaries showed up at my door and proved that I definitely had not.

I answered the door and found two beautiful women. They were mostly naked — bikini tops, sheer skirts, and tall boots.

“Hello,” one said, “we’re missionaries. Can we come in?”

Do you think I hesitated?

Once they’d introduced themselves and slid beside me on the couch, the missionaries got down to business.

“We’re with the Incredibly Hot Chick Universal Church of Sex, and we want a bunch of cute guys to join our religion so we can have a huge orgy all Sunday long, every Sunday. Wanna join?” asked Veronica, the one I’d started thinking of as the most incredibly beautiful woman to ever grace my eyes.


Veronica said, “We want you to join our church.” She pulled at the top of my shirt and took me deep into her eyes.

Lori sauntered to the bar and poured a gin. She said, “We can get you in right now. I mean, by baptizing you.”

They both giggled.

Veronica ran her hand over my thigh.

I tried to be cool.To explain my position. “I — I — I’m atheist. I think religion is outdated.” Her hand reached higher — fingernails on jeans. “It’s — silly. A control. It’s evil.” A sip from Lori’s glass. Her breasts in my face. Veronica scratching over the edge of my pants. “It’s… It’s a waste of — of — Yes! Baptize me!” I reached out for those bouncing breasts before me, so nearly free of clothing, so close to my touch.

And Veronica handcuffed me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Lori elbowed me in the mouth. Twice. Veronica produced a gun.

They tied my ankles together with a lamp cord while I was dazed.

“We know who you are and what you think, fuckwit,” said Veronica. “We read your books.”

“And took your class. Told you he wouldn’t recognize us, Ronnie.”

They picked me up off the couch. The dragged me into the bathtub.

Veronica put the gun to my ear. She said, “You asked a question in your second book. ‘You hear about dying people begging God to save them. They still die. If God hears them, He ignores them. Do you want to believe in an ignorant God? Do you want to beg to deaf ears?’ Well, who are you gonna beg?” She cocked the gun. Dug it behind my ear. Lori started moaning.

Fanatics. I pissed my pants.

Utterly despite myself, I screamed, “Please! God!”

Veronica pulled the trigger.

I’ve become a bit of a missionary, myself. Nothin’ pushy. I tell them my story.

Veronica’s gun backfired. She was horribly disfigured.

Lori died from a white-hot chunk of metal to her heart.

I got burns on my back. Nothin’ serious.

Veronica will die in prison.

I read that she’s a devout Atheist now.

Kevin Shamel is in his thirties, married, has two kids, a dog and a cat, and lives in an old haunted house in the Pacific Northwest. He spends his days playing with the aforementioned critters, practicing joyful oddness, and writing. You will rarely find him speaking (or writing) about himself in third person because it’s a very odd practice, even for him. Visit his blog at Shameless Stuff for links to more of his stories and whatever else is going on.

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Every Day Fiction