The community hall in Derry was a cavern of dim light and stale air, the kind of place where the scent of damp wood and desperation clung to every surface. Rows of mismatched chairs creaked under the weight of the congregation, a small gathering of locals who’d rather be anywhere else on a dreary Tuesday evening. At the front, Pastor Rob droned on, his voice a monotonous hum about the virtues of restraint and the perils of temptation. His wiry frame hunched over the podium, his beige clerical robe hanging off him like a sad, wrinkled curtain.
In the third row, Gerry, a burly man with a beer gut and a perpetually annoyed expression, shifted uncomfortably, muttering curses under his breath. Beside him, Joe, a cranky old codger with a face like a crumpled paper bag, chewed on a toothpick, his eyes half-closed in a battle against sleep. James, the shy English lad who’d only moved to Derry a month ago, sat at the end of the row, his pale hands fidgeting in his lap, his cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of simply existing in public.
“...and so, my flock, we must resist the devil’s whispers,” Pastor Rob mumbled, his voice as exciting as a tax audit. “We must—"
A low, static hum cut through the air, a sound so subtle at first that it seemed like a trick of the mind. It grew louder, a vibration that seemed to crawl up the spine, emanating from the ancient church speaker mounted on the wall. The device, unbeknownst to the congregation, wasn’t just a speaker—it was a covert government prototype, a relic of some bizarre experiment, now activated by forces unknown. It pulsed with eerie, hypnotic rays, invisible but potent, seeping into the room like a toxic fog.
Pastor Rob froze mid-sentence, his watery blue eyes glazing over. His hunched shoulders squared, his chest puffing out as if inflated by some unseen force. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave, a sultry growl replacing the timid whine. “Oh, my sweet, sinful lambs,” he purred, his lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Let’s talk about... indulgence.”
Gerry, slouched in his seat, blinked rapidly, a strange orange glow spreading across his ruddy skin like a cheap spray tan gone wrong. “Like, totally, bro,” he mumbled, his thick Irish accent morphing into a lazy Californian drawl. “This is, like, next-level vibes, ya know?”
Joe, who’d been on the verge of a nap, slumped forward, only to jerk upright with a dazed, cross-eyed grin. His wrinkles seemed to smooth out, not from youth but from a bizarre, artificial sheen, his face now sporting a tech-bro smirk. “Disruptive innovation,” he slurred, his gravelly voice tinged with a Silicon Valley lilt. “Gonna pivot this whole... salvation thing, ya feel me?”
James felt a tingle race down his spine, his body shuddering as his hips began to sway of their own accord. His hands instinctively tugged at his trousers, revealing a flash of bright red thong peeking out above the waistband. A nervous giggle escaped his lips, high-pitched and utterly unlike his usual stammer.
All eyes turned as Pastor Rob, with a dramatic flourish, ripped off his clerical robe. Beneath it, he wore a tight, cum-stained black top that clung to his unshaven chest and a tiny speedo emblazoned with a gold cross right over his crotch. He flexed, his scrawny frame somehow looking predatory now, and growled, “Bow before the Top Pastor of Sin, my naughty flock!”
The crowd—or what remained of their sanity—gasped, though some part of them, influenced by the rays, felt a bizarre thrill. Gerry stumbled to his feet, shedding his flannel shirt to reveal a stained, too-tight tank top and an American flag speedo that left little to the imagination. “Like, I’m the governor of hotness, bro!” he drawled, drool slipping down his chin as he struck a pose.
Joe wasn’t far behind, staggering forward as his old man clothes seemed to morph mid-step into a disheveled, cum-and-beer-stained grey suit. The zipper was undone, showcasing a garish money-print speedo underneath. “Gonna short the market on virtue,” he muttered, adjusting himself with no regard for decency. “Disrupt the bedroom industry, ya dig?”
James, meanwhile, had somehow produced a tube of bright pink lipstick from nowhere. He applied it with a trembling hand, his voice now a breathy, whorish giggle as he shook his newly plump rear at the room. “Oh, Pastor, am I your favorite lamb now?” he cooed, batting his lashes.
Pastor Rob’s predatory gaze locked onto James, and in two strides, he was there, grabbing the lad by the waist with surprising strength. He leaned in, his hot breath against James’s ear, whispering, “I’m gonna shepherd you straight to hell, sweet thing. You’ll be bleating for mercy by dawn.”
The other men cheered, their voices a cacophony of brainless frat-boy hollers. Gerry slapped Joe on the back, nearly knocking the old man over. “Totally gonna rail our lil’ stepson, bro, like, teamwork!” he slurred, his orange glow practically blinding now as he leered at James.
Joe, drooling with a dumb smile, nodded enthusiastically. “Synergy, bro. We’re scaling this sin startup to the moon!” He gave his speedo another shameless tug, oblivious to the horrified—and oddly intrigued—stares from the few unaffected congregants in the back.
From the shadows near the door, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the chaos. It was Maeve, the no-nonsense church secretary who’d been late to the sermon, untouched by the rays due to her fortunate timing. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her green eyes blazing as she crossed her arms over her black blazer. “What in the bloody hell is this circus?” she snapped, her tone icy enough to freeze the room. “Rob, you daft eejit, put your damn robe back on before I drag you to confession myself!”
Pastor Rob turned, his smirk widening as he licked his lips. “Oh, Maeve, darling, care to join the flock? I’ve got a sermon just for you.”
Maeve’s lip curled in disgust, but her eyes glinted with a dangerous edge. “Keep talkin’, Pastor Pervert, and I’ll shove that cross where the sun don’t shine. Now, the lot of ya, sit down before I call the Garda—or worse, your mammies.”
Gerry, oblivious to the threat, swaggered toward her. “Like, chill, babe, wanna be my first lady of hotness?”
Maeve’s hand shot out, grabbing his ear and twisting hard. “Call me ‘babe’ again, Gerry, and I’ll tan your hide worse than any spray bottle ever could. Move it!” She shoved him back toward his seat, her dominance cutting through the hypnotic haze just enough to make him stumble.
But the rays still buzzed in the background, their static hum a constant reminder of the chaos they’d unleashed. Pastor Rob, Gerry, Joe, and James, still under the spell, stumbled out of the hall, laughing and groping each other with reckless abandon. Maeve watched them go, her jaw tight, already plotting how to wrangle these idiots before they turned Derry into a public orgy.
As the door slammed shut behind them, the speaker’s hum grew louder, a promise of more absurdity to come. The streets of Derry weren’t ready for what was about to hit them.
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