Improvised Folderol, the First Try
After that last chapter, I needed a day off. But I don't want to leave blank spots in the calendar, so let's have a little fun.
I've pulled up a random word generator and will generate three words: a noun, an adjective, and a verb. Then I'll type a five-hundred-word-or-so story on the spot, based around the three.
The three words are:
Noun: Religion
Adjective: Following
Verb: Scandal
...I swear to God those are the words that came up.
Three AM in the House of the Lord
Father McCartney had not expected quite the storm that came down on the local parish after the events in Cleveland. Certainly it would not go unnoticed that money was missing from the accounts, but why would they blame a church in Blue Earth, Minnesota? It didn't make sense even in the cockeyed way that this sort of thing usually worked.
The old priest sighed as he opened a bottle of sacramental wine. He hadn't blessed it yet, and so he convinced himself that it wasn't sacrilegious to do so. He took a long swig, quite glad that none of the altar boys had come in over the last few days. The last thing he needed was to be seen with a young boy in his office. That would just be perfect, wouldn't it?
As Father McCartney prepared to take another drink, his phone rang. With another long sigh, he answered it. "Hello?"
"Father?" a quiet voice said on the other end.
Father McCartney could not place its owner. Who would call at this hour? And who would know he was awake at this hour, anyway? He was only awake because he couldn't get his mind off of the accusations.
Hoping to find some answers, the priest replied, "Who is this?"
"Consider me a friend, Father McCartney. You don't have too many of those anymore, do you?"
"Have we met?" Father McCartney asked.
The voice chuckled before it said, "Once, at a church gathering a month ago. I was there to meet up with an old acquaintance of mine. We shook hands and talked for a while."
Now the priest recognized the voice - it was that man in the fine black suit and sunglasses, who had proven quite knowledgable on the Bible. But why was he calling now?
Soon enough he got his answer, as the voice went on: "I heard about the charges. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, taken from private accounts in the Cleveland archdiocese and funneled through a middle-of-nowhere parish in Minnesota... And they say you're the wicked man who took it all away."
"It's not true," the priest answered, growing ever more irritated.
"Are you sure?"
Who does he think he is? Father McCartney thought. "If you called me at this hour just to mock me-"
"But I'm not, Father. I called because you need a friend, and I think I'm just the man. Even if you didn't do it, so many people think you did, and they're the ones who count, aren't they?"
There was no reply the priest could give to that.
"Alas, I can't change the past, but I can make your future a little better," the voice continued. "All I want is a favor for a favor. Check the top drawer of your desk."
Confusion reigned on the priest's face as he pulled open the drawer. What he saw made him almost drop the phone. "What is this-"
"There should be a name written beside it," the voice went on, as if it hadn't noticed. "I think you know what I want you to do."
"I can't-"
"You will." The voice went cold. "If you thought being accused of stealing church funds was ruining your life, Father, there is no word for what will happen should you turn down my kindly offer."
The line went dead. Father McCartney took a deep, shuddering breath, and then took the gun out of his drawer.