“Told you!” said The Preacherman, taking his Bible back. “Anybody else want to check it out?”
“Not me,” said Gotha.
“I’ll take Vince’s word for it,” said Cap. “He’s a TV newsman. Or was.”
“Still am,” said Vince, shaken. “Only now I know the Truth.”
ONE WEEK LATER
“How come everybody calls you the Preacher-man?” asked Vince. “What’s your real name?”
They were sitting around in the kitchen of Cap’s colonial home. The empty Kristal Kathedral was lonely, so The Preacherman had joined them.
“That is my real name,” he said.
“Huh?”
“You know how Black folks like funny names?
My Moms was down with that. She wanted me to go into the ministry so she named me The Preacherman.”
“Oh,” said Vince. He had started out as a sports reporter and he remembered a basketball player named God Shamgodd.
“But you can just call me The.”
“Cool, The,” said Vince, who was on a first-name basis with celebrities around the world.
“I just checked all the blogs,” said Gotha. She was sitting at the computer. “Looks like this Rapture business is for real. The politicians, the corporate bigwigs, the greedheads—they’re all gone for good.”
“You mean for bad!” said Cap. “No big oil CEOs means no gasoline. My SUV is just a hunk of tin!”
“That means no more global warming,” said Gotha. “Look on the bright side.”
“No government means no more wars,” said Vince, looking on the bright side. It was new to him but he was beginning to enjoy it.
“No more big wars, anyway,” said The.
“Agribiz is shutting down,” said Gotha, scrolling through another blog. “No more farm subsidies.”
“That means no Fritos,” said The.
“And what about money?” said Cap. “Once the ATMs are empty, we’re out of luck with no bankers to refill them.”
“Who needs money!” said Gotha.
“You always liked mine,” said her father. “You spent it all on tattoos and black lipstick.”
Gotha started to slug him but didn’t. “I’m giving it up,” she said, lowering her fist.
“Good. That’s the Christian way,” said The.
“The Christian Way was turning the other cheek,” Vince pointed out. “That’s why her cheeks were so rosy. She looked like a clown.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Cap.
“My knuckles are sore anyway,” said Gotha.
“I kinda miss Fritos,” said The.
ONE WEEK LATER
“I’m bored,” said Cap. “The airlines are all shut down. I’m a pilot without a plane.”
“What about me?” said Vince. “I’m a TV newsman without a network.”
“I’m a preacher, but I have no congregation,” said The.
“Quit your whining,” said Gotha. “It’s only for seven years. Then the world comes to an end.”
“She’s right!” said The, thumping his Bible. “When Jesus comes back, He’ll take us all to Heaven. Some of us anyway.”
“Don’t pack your best suit,” Cap said. “You’re going to Hell for fooling with my wife.”
“That’s a lie,” said The. “We never went below the waist, on her, anyway.”
“Seven years is a long time,” Vince said, eager to change the subject. “What do we do in the meantime?” “Let’s start a rock band!” said Gotha.
“A rock band has to have a cool name,” Vince pointed out.
ONE WEEK LATER
“I’ve got it!” said Gotha. “We can call ourselves the Tribs.”
“Good idea,” said Cap. “If I can learn to unhook a bra with two fingers, I can learn to play a strat.”
“I was a news anchor,” said Vince. “I can play bass.”
“I’ll be the drummer,” said The. “There’s a drum machine in the back of Snoop Dogg’s overturned Escalade out on the freeway.”
“If we have a drum machine we won’t need a drummer,” Vince pointed out.
“Somebody has to turn it on and off,” said The.
“And every rock band needs a niggah.”
“African-American,” said Gotha.
“Whatever,” said The.
6.9 YEARS LATER
“Another Grammy!” said Cap. “My fingertips are sore.”
“I’m getting sick of these lame award ceremonies,” said The. “No red carpet, no parties…”
“No record company suits,” Vince pointed out.
“And no TV. No Joan Rivers.”
They were in Hollywood, lounging around an empty pool filled with trash.
“Quit your whining,” said Gotha. She was not only the lead vocalist of the Tribs, she was also the manager. “We needed that award. I’m going after the biggest gig of the year.”
“Opening for the Stones?” asked Cap. “I hear they’re doing another Farewell Tour.”
“Bigger than that,” said Gotha, firing up the band’s big black BMW boxer. “Get on, or in. Let’s go!”
DOWN THE ROAD
“I don’t see why we have to drive all the way across the country,” said Cap. “Can’t we just book the gig by phone?”
“There are no phones,” Gotha reminded him. “And we need to meet personally with the World Leader. He’s planning a big to-do at Burning Man. With any luck, the Tribs will be the opening band for his first Personal Appearance.”
“First and last,” said The. “He’s the Anti-Christ! His time is almost over. Plus he’s evil.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Gotha. “He’s made the world a better place, what with World Citizenship and all. He can’t be all bad.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” said Vince. He often found himself agreeing with Gotha. They were an item. He rode on the back of the BMW, behind her. Her father and The Preacherman were stuffed into the sidecar, taking turns sitting on each other’s lap.
“What about all this trash?” asked Cap.
“And all these buffalo?” asked The.
The road was cluttered with debris, and the traffic was often blocked by herds of buffalo. But there wasn’t all that much traffic anyway.
“Buffalo are cool,” said Gotha, swerving to avoid a herd which was fleeing Indians on horseback, who were intent on eating their livers since the casinos all were closed.
“She has a point,” said Vince. “Even with the Tribulation, life is better for the buffalo, and for the Indians as well.”
“I have to admit,” said Cap, who was raised on a farm, “that the countryside is prettier without all that agribiz.”
“I miss Fritos,” said The. “But it is true that things are better for Black folks, since the prisons have all shut down. No cops, no guards, no War on Drugs.”
“And all the thug rappers Raptured,” added Gotha, lighting a joint without slowing down and passing it to Vince.
FURTHER DOWN THE ROAD
“Ow!” said Cap.
He had just been beaned by a hailstone. They were as big as baseballs.
“I told you to wear a helmet,” said Gotha. They were speeding across Indiana. It looked exactly the same as before the Rapture, except for the size of the hailstones.
“The Tribulation means terrible weather,” said The, covering his head with his Bible. “Storms and floods and plagues and fires. You can’t say we weren’t warned.”
“You mean WE can’t say YOU weren’t warned,”
Vince pointed out. “We never believed in any of it, remember?” “Look on the bright side,” said Gotha. “What about those tornados that took out all the Wal-Marts?
That was cool!”
“I could have done without the locust plague that ate up Las Vegas,” said Cap. “I had two unused buffet comps for the Flamingo.”
“I could have done without the tsunami that washed across Florida,” said The. “They had a discount for clergy at the Magic Kingdom.”