My orders were simple enough: infiltrate this infamous cult that was making waves across every right-wing news network. But nothing in this job was ever simple. When you embed yourself in these groups you become attached and the risks you take can be very real. I had enough battle scars to remind me of the dangers of this undercover business and the itchy trigger fingers of this militia group made me very nervous. I had to play the part - no, I had to become the part.
I hastily threw on a silver necklace embossed with a shiny and ostentatious crucifix. It was not my first choice of wardrobe but it suited the role and would have made my mother proud. It stood atop my 1950s style soft pink dress which I retrieved from the business section of my wardrobe, as work imitated life, except for the Glock hidden on my person. I prayed that I wouldn't have to use it, but the prayers of a spiritual, but not religious type weren't particularly potent. I knew that the hidden firearm went against my style of fashion but it was a necessary companion in these chaotic times. Despite the obvious contrasts, crafting an undercover wardrobe was as vital as a good cover story.
My mother would have approved of this sensible attire. Before each undercover mission, I made the effort to dine with both my parents. Don't get me wrong, they weren't the type to insist on the weekly Sunday lunch like some families do, only that I saw them again before I'd go undercover or 'on assignment' as I told them. Neither of them were particularly religious or traditional but this was one tradition I would ignore only at my peril. I always joked that this was the last supper, to which neither of them ever laughed at, only to tell me that if ever I were to have children of my own I'd understand. I would still joke and laugh anyway to which I was met with the almost reflexive rolling of my Mother's eyes.
In terms of my assignment, the Agency informed me that I needed to go along with whichever sermons they had in mind, no matter how bizarre. I reminded my supervisor that this wasn't my first rodeo and the mansplaining was unnecessary, I knew what the job required and had often gone beyond duty to gather evidence. Stepping foot inside a church again was like entering an alien world these days. Each of their hymns and gospel readings was like trying to transcribe meaning from a foreign language. The syntax was there but the context was almost unassailable to the true non-believer. I would feel very much like an outsider and the very thought of having to indulge in prayer was making me cringe. I had my values - I was shaped by values but I didn't need some book of mythical fables to guide me into being a good citizen- my parents took care of that for me. If it was a fictional book that would make me go to church every Sunday then maybe it could be the Lord of the Rings or the Harry Potter series. I would sit loyally in a pew every Sunday if I was about hear the gospel according to Aragorn.
But in any case, I was tired of being cooped up inside this almost 2 star motel. I was glad I didn't have a blue light to run over the mattress or anywhere in the whole sordid microcosm of the entire bedroom. I'm sure the whole thing would have dribbled with promiscuity like a melted vision of Salvadore Dali's Persistence of Memory. I was reticent to sit on the bed without all of the covers on but the agency would not have cared for my plight. I was on tender hooks sitting on instructions in standby mode and patience was stretching into translucency. While I waited for my next pick-up, I decided to field-strip the glock, retrieving my kit next to the makeup bag and never failing to smile at the less than subtle contrast. In amongst the lubricant were my trusty gloves and bore snake (The gloves kept the nails looking stylish while you perform routine maintenance) and once fully equipped with solvent and a trusty spare toothbrush, I got to work. Once I had the frame assembly scrubbed, I exhaled deeply and finally started to relax. Not that I was a gun nut but these things became your best friend on operations. I sighed - still had a portable kick ass wardrobe and a firearm, bottle of Moscato in the fridge - it truly was the little things sometimes.
There were few links between the agency and myself, which was necessary to staying covert. It also allowed me to stay independent and prevented a few rogue middle management types from cluster fucking the whole operation; this didn't have to become another Waco. A few details needed to be aired out and I had to get used to my cover name, going along with the blandness of being called... Sarah. I couldn't use my real name, Chivonne, as it was far too unique, so I had to opt for a complete name change so as not to arouse suspicion. Besides I doubted I was the only one to use an alias in this cult of robotic personalities.
Just when I suspected it could be another day of waiting for further orders (which meant reading the latest John Grisham novel and looking for a 24 hour gym) my cell rang. 'Make contact and infiltrate'. Once more into the breach....
***
So here I found myself in a bar in the middle of bible belt territory, Texas. At least there was alcohol. I tried a Napa Valley Moscato but it was quite flat and lacked that inherent explosion of bubbles, so it wasn't long before I was just having shots. If I was going to play the part of the alcoholic turning to Christ, at least I could get into character. Mind you it wasn't too far removed from my actual persona. I'd tried to go on the straight and narrow a number of times but the nature of the beast dictated some fluid therapy. It was like the cops telling each other bad jokes at crime scenes. You did what you could to get by.
Speaking of bad jokes, the barman was full of them tonight. He made sure that I wasn't a prude before he dished out his adult material, mostly consisting of sex and bears, occasionally I would chuckle along with him. He had to ask one more time, "Are you sure you're not one of those religious types?"
To which I replied: "Dude, I'm in a bar downing shots. What the fuck do you think?"
"Okay, okay." He laughed, reassuring himself.
"Besides, what if I was?" I asked.
"well I guess you're going to hell now." He said.
"You and me both." I replied.
"And if you were, you picked a doozie of a religion to continue your life's journey." He commented.
"What does that mean?"
"Well in this place, you have your latter day saints but the big one is called the Guardians of Christ."
"Sounds like the KKK." I quipped.
He laughed "not far from it, well except they have a few non-whites in their ranks.... Woo." He scanned the room.
"What?" I asked.
"You never know who's listening." He said.
"seriously? I'm new to town. Come on, forewarned is forearmed as they say." I pushed further.
"Well, they used to be run by Father Brian. They still have the main church in the centre of town, but lately they've been getting bigger and bigger. They're even expanding their compound to fit in all the new recruits."
"You said used to..."
"Well they have this new guy... Abraham I believe. Since he's taken over, the Guardians have been expanding." He said.
"Sounds like a place I'd rather avoid." I replied.
"You and me both." He poured us both another shot and clinked my glass.
Almost on cue, the dilapidated jukebox in the corner started playing The Parting Glass. Hybrid waves of Celtic nostalgia and euphoria washed over me, enveloping me with warm currents, though the slightest tinge of my residual spiritual self informed me that this was more than just an alcohol fueled burst of serotonin.
The voice in my head started to whisper comments of positive reinforcement. This seemed like more than conscience talking, with each syllable a burst of inner light would shine forward and consume me, my mouth smiling reflexively at this action. These moments of bliss were rare, like a freak wave on an tide of uncertainty, but I would enjoy these moments as they washed towards me.
As I let the whisky pour down my throat and emit a slight burning sensation, I felt like I was back at home and glimpses of my ancestral plains flowed into my conscious. Passing joy was fueled by nostalgia. Before I would set foot in the wolf's den, I would embrace the light one more time.