In Laymon's Terms

Holly Newstein & Ralph Bieber II

OUR PRAYERS CAN be answered, my friends. Your fondest dreams, your heart’s true desires can be yours,” said the white-haired, well-dressed man on the TV screen. His sonorous, seductive baritone voice dropped, becoming lower and more intense. “He is all-powerful. He can make it happen for you, and I can help Him help you. I, the Reverend Paul Swann, will personally deliver your plea to Him. Just send a letter and your contribution to...”

“Yeah, right,” Ernie said from his battered recliner. He scratched the stubble on his chin and yawned. “Jesus, there’s nothing on at this hour but crazies and salesmen.” As he reached for the remote, Reverend Swann leaned forward into the camera. His eyes, dark and compelling, stared intently. Ernie’s hand froze in midair, his fingers hovering over the remote.

“What have you got to lose, friend? Your loneliness? Your illnesses? Your powerlessness? Your poverty? All it takes is a few minutes of your time and a modest contribution, and you’ll be well on the way to the life you deserve. What is the price of success, love, and peace of mind? You can have it all, right now. Right now, Ernie. Send your contribution to the address on the screen...”

“I need more coffee. I swear that guy just said my name,” Ernie muttered. But instead of getting up and refilling his cup, Ernie found himself scribbling the address on the back of a week-old TV Guide.

Then he got up and stumbled to the bathroom. The dawn streaked the sky with pink and purple bands of light. He flipped the light switch, and the harsh fluorescent bulbs popped and hummed before they flared with their greenish white light. A thirtyish, balding man with a nondescript face stared back at him from the mirror. His skin was gray and his eyes ringed with shadows—a side effect of stress-induced insomnia. His body was soft and paunchy. He saw a corporate drone that worked twelve-hour days for a soulless conglomerate that barely knew he existed, and did slave labor for a supervisor who chewed on his ass just for fun. He hadn’t had a date in eight months, and the woman of his dreams barely acknowledged his existence.

“What the hell have I got to lose?” he said to himself, frowning at his reflection. “Man, I am fucking sick and tired of waking up at three in the goddamn a.m. I am sick of chewing antacids like they’re breath mints. I’m sick of that asswipe Witkowski. And most of all I want Beth to...” He sighed. “I just want Beth.”

He wandered out into his dreary apartment and rummaged around until he found a pen and a legal pad. He put them on the kitchen table, poured himself a bowl of cornflakes, and began to write.

“Okay, Mr. Preacher Man, let’s see what you can do.” He wrote down everything he wanted—from the material to the carnal—and wrote out a check to Paul Swann, Inc. for a thousand dollars. Then, before he could think too much about it, he showered, shaved and dressed, and dropped the letter and the check into the mailbox on his way to work.

“Well, Davis, there goes your hard-earned money. Might as well have bought beer with it—then you’d have at least enjoyed pissing it away.” He shook his head at his own idiocy. Still, a sense of expectation filled him. He got into his ten-year-old Honda Civic and turned up the radio. “Hotel California” was playing, and Ernie sang along with Don Henley:

“You can check out anytime you like

But you can never leave.”

In spite of his early start, the morning’s commute was even worse than usual. Along with the roads choked with trucks and school buses picking up kids, there was the added attraction of an accident on the expressway. Ernie was ten minutes late for work by the time he pulled into the parking lot of Bardwell Foods Corporation. He had to park at the far end of the lot and sprint through the rows and rows of cars toward the employees’ entrance. The security guard didn’t even look at him as he threw the door open and ran, gasping as he took the stairs up to the Customer Service Department.

He pushed open the door, hoping to slide unnoticed into his cubicle. But Witkowski was waiting for him.

“Glad you could join us, Davis,” he said with a sneer.

The Reverend’s voice echoed in Ernie’s head. You can have it all, right now, Ernie...

Two weeks passed, and nothing much changed. Witkowski was still an asshole, and Ernie still went home alone every night to his ugly little apartment. He searched for the Reverend Swann on early morning TV once or twice when he couldn’t sleep but never found the program again. He told himself he’d been monumentally stupid and tried to forget the whole thing. Yet, the feeling that something was about to change persisted.

One morning, late again, he tiptoed through the maze of beige cloth cubicles that made up the Customer Service Department, expecting to hear Witkowski bellowing for him at any moment. As he approached his own cramped cube, he saw the CEO of Bardwell Foods—Walter E. Bardwell himself—standing by his cubicle. Ernie had never seen Bardwell and recognized him only by photos he’d seen in the glossy business magazines. Witkowski stood next to Bardwell. Ernie noticed that Witkowski looked very unhappy. His face was pasty, nearly green, and he was sweating profusely.

Oh God, I’m fired, Ernie thought. I must have screwed up totally and now I’m roadkill.

“Can I help you with something, sirs?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Ernest Davis? Walt Bardwell.” Walter extended his hand, and a dumbfounded Ernie shook it. “I’ve been hearing about what a great job you’ve been doing for the company, so I decided to come and congratulate you personally.”

“Thank you, sir. Congratulate me for what, sir?”

Bardwell grinned, his teeth large and white. He reminded Ernie of a shark, pitiless and cold-blooded. “Why, Ernie, we’ve decided to offer you the position of Customer Service Manager for the Northeast.” Bardwell gave Witkowski a look that could have withered a saguaro. “It was brought to my attention that Witkowski here has been taking credit for your hard work and brilliant ideas, Ernie—may I call you Ernie?”

Witkowski’s face crumpled like a baby’s. Ernie nodded, too stunned to speak. Bardwell handed him an envelope.

“Here’s my letter spelling out the terms of Bardwell Foods’ offer to you. But I was sure that you, with your devotion to the company, would accept the position. So I’ve taken the liberty of having your things moved into the corner office over there.”

Ernie made a conscious effort to close his gaping jaw. Faces began peering out of cubicles. Bardwell turned on Witkowski.

“Now get out of here, you damned idiot, before I call security.”

“Please don’t fire me,” blubbered Witkowski. “Ernie—Mr. Davis—I’m really sorry. Let me have your old job. I’ll make it up to you, I swear...”

“Well, Ernie, what do you say? Your first executive decision...Do you keep Witkowski on, or do you fire him?” Bardwell gazed intently at Ernie. This is happening...This is really happening to me, Ernie thought. “Security!” he barked.

In an instant, two security guards were dragging Witkowski down the hall.

“Pleeeease, Ernieeee...” The voice echoed and faded as the guards took him away.

“Let me show you to your new office, Ernie. We’ll discuss some of your brilliant ideas.”

“Yes, sir—I mean, Walt.”

He settled back into the buttery soft leather chair. His head was still spinning as he stared at the letter. Walter Bardwell—oops, it was Walt now—had tripled his salary and given him a company car. An Acura, no less. Leather and a sunroof.

Jesus, now I can move out of that crummy shithole apartment. Take a real vacation. Start building a portfolio.

How the fuck did this happen?

The words he’d written a couple of weeks ago rose in his memory. His hopes and dreams that he’d sent to the Reverend Swann. I want a promotion. I want a decent raise. I want to see my boss get his ass fired.

“Holy shit,” he said to himself.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” came a feminine voice. Beth Arnold, Witkowski’s secretary, came into his office.

Wait, no, she’s my secretary now—not to mention the woman of my dreams.

She closed the door and smiled at him. She was a beauty, with red hair and blue eyes and fine pale skin just the way he liked it.

She’s never smiled at me before. She’s never even acknowledged my existence before. Now, here she is. Smiling. At me. And all I can do is stare at her like a moron.

Her smile widened.

“I hear you’re my boss now, Mr. Davis.” She came around the desk and stood behind him. He could smell her perfume, warm and musky.

“Call me Ernest. Please.” His voice was thick.

“All right, Ernest.” Her hands came down on his shoulders. She leaned forward and pressed her breasts against the back of his neck. “What can I do for you?” she purred.

Her face, with its luscious full lips, was inches from his.

“Go out with me sometime,” he managed to stammer.

“How about tonight?” She pressed more tightly against him.

Jesus, all I want to do is whirl around and tear off her blouse, fill my hands with those ripe, full breasts. I want her right here, right now, on the carpet. But, after all, today is my first day on the job. Maybe I’d better not try to do everything at once.

“Sure,” he said. “After work? T.G.I. Friday’s, maybe?” He was pleased that his voice was almost normal.

“Sounds yummy,” she breathed into his ear. She slid her hand slowly down over his chest to his crotch and gave him a squeeze that nearly made his eyes pop out of his head.

Then she stood up and walked out, leaving his office door open.

Everyone in the department heard him moan.

A month passed. Every morning he saw the same old Ernie in the mirror—well, maybe there was a little more hair and a little less flab. But then, he would drive his new Acura to work. He had his own parking space near the front door of the office building. He was Walt Bardwell’s new protege, golf partner, and best friend. Everyone knew who he was now, even the security guard at the employees’ entrance. “Hello, Mr. Davis,” he’d say every morning.

Everything he did at work was pure gold. When he sat down in that big leather chair in his office, it was as if he became a business genius. His ideas boosted productivity and sales by 32% in two weeks. The Wall Street Journal ran a feature piece on him as Bardwell Foods’ new wunderkind.

And almost every night he had the beautiful Beth with him. Just thinking about her—the way her face lit up when she laughed, the way she nestled up beside him when they watched television, the way her mouth tasted when he kissed her—made him dizzy with desire.

One night, in his new king-sized bed, she curled up against him, her fine white skin smooth as silk, and said, “Have you ever heard of Paul Swann?”

“What?” he said absently. His hand was tangled in her fiery red hair, and he breathed in her fragrance. He really didn’t feel like talking.

“Paul Swann, the evangelist. He’s on TV early in the morning.” Suddenly the memory of that fateful decision six weeks ago came rushing back. The hair on the back of Ernie’s neck prickled.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s coining to the Civic Arena tomorrow night. I have tickets for us.”

“Bethy, I can think of better things to do tomorrow night than go and see some TV preacher. Like maybe we could look at a couple of houses.” He slid his hand down her smooth, flat belly. “Besides, how do you know about this guy? He’s on at three-thirty in the morning. Sometimes, anyway. I’d think you’d be getting your beauty sleep at that hour.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Please, Ernie. I really think we should go.” Her full lips pouted prettily even as her legs parted under his touch.

He felt a twinge of guilt. As much as he wanted to deny it, part of him suspected that if it weren’t for Swann, he would not have Beth, or the job, or the car. The world would still be ignoring him, even the goddamn security guard—except for Witkowski, of course. That asshole would still be torturing him. The least he could do would be to go with Beth, maybe give the guy some more money. He could certainly afford to.

“Oh, all right. For you, honey.” He buried his face against her breasts, kissing her perfect pink nipples. His fingers found her hot, velvety center further down. He moaned in delight, wanting nothing more than Beth...Beth all the time. He kissed his way down her belly, and she stretched out like a cat on the rumpled sheets.

“Mmmmm,” she said, purring like a feral animal.

Ernie looked around the Civic Arena. The place was filled to capacity.

“Wow, there’s a shitload of insomniacs in this town,” he muttered.

“What’s that, honey?” Beth looked over at him. Her face glowed with excitement, and Ernie decided that she was more gorgeous than ever.

“I said, are you having fun yet?”

The crowd burst into wild applause when Paul Swann swept onto the stage and strode over to the microphone. He was handsome and elegantly dressed, his white hair perfectly arranged. A few of the women in the audience screamed as though he were a rock star.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” He leaned forward, scanning the crowd. “Are we ready to have our prayers answered?”

“Yes!” came a responsive roar.

As the Reverend Swann charmed the crowd with his promises of hopes realized and dreams made real, Ernie watched the crowd fall under the spell of the seductive voice that had convinced him to part with a thousand dollars. He glanced at Beth. She was on the edge of her seat, completely in Swann’s thrall. Her lips parted, and her eyes shone when Swann’s voice boomed, “I will personally deliver your prayers to Him, and I guarantee an answer.”

Ernie was struck by something. Not once had Swann said the words “God,” or “Lord Jesus,” like the other TV preachers did. It was always “Him,” or “The Mighty One.” Ernie looked at the crowd, their faces utterly and intensely focused on Swann.

If he told them to jump off a cliff, they would, he thought.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he was probably the only person in the arena not affected by Swann, and that things were getting way too creepy. Maybe he should leave before someone noticed.

“Hey, Beth, I’m going outside for some air,” he whispered, trying to sound casual.

“No, honey. You have to stay here with me,” she whispered fiercely. Ernie was taken aback at the commanding tone of her voice.

Just then Swann looked up, right at him. His eyes met Ernie’s. Swann paused for a moment, and then his voice boomed out, “Ernie Davis, come down and bear witness to the power of the Mighty One.”

“Oh, Ernie, he’s called you!” Beth said, her voice filled with delight.

“Beth, I...” His voice trailed off. The urge to get out of this place, to run away, was overwhelming.

“Ernie Davis, come down!”

Ernie’s eyes locked with Swann’s. Every face in the crowd was turned toward him, staring expectantly.

“Ernie, go to him,” Beth hissed. Her eyes were narrowed with anger, and Ernie thought they looked yellow and strange. He blinked at her stupidly.

“He’s called you to witness, to tell everyone all the things he’s done for you. Now GO!” she said, her voice rising. She shoved at his arm.

Ernie found his own voice. “No way,” he said.

Beth stood up. “You will if you want to see these again,” she said furiously. She tore open her blouse, exposing herself. She grabbed his hands and pressed them hard against her naked breasts. He could feel the nipples harden against his palms.

“Beth, stop it. This is crazy. He’s crazy. You’re crazy.” He struggled to pull his hands away. Then he screamed. Beth abruptly released his hands. He looked at his palms and saw deep bite wounds in them, blood running down over his wrists.

He stared in horror at Beth’s chest. Where Beth’s nipples had been there were two vicious little mouths with needlelike teeth, biting at the air. His blood smeared her white flesh. He moved his eyes up to her face. It wasn’t Beth anymore. It was a demon with red and yellow eyes and a full, toothy mouth that was a larger version of the two on her chest. She stepped away from him, yanked up her skirt, and stood with her legs spread apart. She wore no underpants. From between her legs, a long, scaly green tongue thrust out, flicking around his waist like a serpent’s. It traveled down his body and tangled around his ankles, pulling him off balance.

Ernie screamed again and scrambled backward in panic.

“Come down, Ernie Davis, and bear witness!” Swann’s voice filled the arena. The Beth-demon laughed as he stumbled away.

“Bear witness!” echoed the crowd. Hands reached out, grabbing at Ernie as he backed down the aisle, his eyes shifting wildly from Swann to Beth and back. Swann’s eyes glowed with unholy yellow flame, the pupils narrow and reptilian.

“Has your new life been so disappointing that you would turn your back on me?” Swann’s voice was suddenly low and intimate, speaking only to Ernie. “I gave you everything you wanted and more, for the paltry sum of a thousand dollars. Now when I call you, you run from me?” The sorrow in the voice was heart-rending. But still Ernie moved toward the exit, pulling back from the grasping hands. His breath came in ragged sobs.

A big, hairy arm shot out and jerked Ernie backward and lifted him off the floor by the neck.

“Let me go!” Ernie shrieked.

“The hell I will, you miserable little dick!” It was Witkowski. “YOU did this to me, didn’t you, asshole? I came here tonight to get a few of my own prayers answered, and damn if one of them isn’t answered already!”

Witkowski smelled as if he’d been living in a brewery and sleeping in a sewer. His breath was hot and foul. “I’m going to tear your pointy head off, you fucking weasel,” he hissed.

Ernie looked at the Reverend Swann, who was watching him intently. He looked at Beth, who was demurely buttoning her blouse. Her face was normal and lovely again, but she shot him a hate-filled glance.

I’ve been sleeping with a demon from hell, he thought, and shuddered.

Witkowski’s fingers tightened on his throat, and he gagged. The crowd was hushed in anticipation.

“Well, Ernie...? Shall I let you go back to being a nobody? Shall I let my friend here be avenged on you? Or will you come to me?”

Ernie flexed his hands and felt the bites bleed afresh. He flung his arms behind him and crashed his fists against Witkowski’s eyes. The pain and blood blinded Witkowski and with a piercing howl he loosened his grip on Ernie, who spun away from him.

“Fuck you all!” he screamed.

At once the crowd rose and turned, ripping the arms off the seats and brandishing them as they closed in. Ernie raised his arms in weak defense as they prepared to beat him to death.

“God, I’m so sorry. Please God, no,” he screamed.

The crowd drew back and roared as one, a surge of rage reaching a crescendo that rolled over Ernie like a wave. He fell to his knees. “Forgive me,” he cried. Then he knew no more.

When Ernie came to, he was in the parking lot of the Civic Arena. He raised his head and looked around. Dawn was just breaking. The lot was empty except for an old Honda Civic. With a start, he recognized it as his own.

“I’d have thought you’d be scrap metal by now,” he said. He felt dazed, as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep.

Beth, Swann, Witkowski—where were they? Where was his Acura?

He got slowly to his feet and walked to his battered old car. He still had a key to it on his keyring. He got in and started it.

The palms of Ernie’s hands burned painfully. He turned them up and looked at them. The bite wounds were still there, shaped like the mouths that had been Beth’s nipples.

“Oh, my God,” he groaned.

And he watched as the little mouths slowly curled into smiles.