Something Worse Than Snake Handlers
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Something Worse Than Snake Handlers
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SNAKES I WAS READY FOR. THIS WAS SOMETHING ELSE.
I grew up in churches — weird ones. The kind where speaking in tongues came before lunch, and healing oil was kept where other families might keep salt. But nothing — not one tent revival or demon-casting caravan — prepared me for Muddy Calf Gut Creek Full Gospel Church.
I expected rattlesnakes in burlap sacks.
What I got was Pastor PeeWee. Prophet Preacher Willy Nelson Jr. Esquire. And a congregation that didn’t handle serpents…
They became them.
By the time they barricaded the doors, it was too late. Eyes rolled back. Bodies convulsing. Skin tearing. A whole room of Amen-shouting saints turning into hissing, slithering things.
My mom grabbed her Bible. My dad asked me for “Dan and Smith.”
And I realized — when the Holy Ghost fails, you’d better pray your .357 doesn’t.
