Something that one loyalist fellowship dude says about those of us who expose Wayman's World on the internet is that we are inventing conspiracy theories. He further challenged us to go ahead and write our fiction.
Now there is a certain kind of fiction called historical fiction. This is where the story is based on actual facts but the author takes the liberty to fill in a lot of details.
So, I thought I would try my hand at it a bit and see what you think.
Lord Compost was at repose in his comfortable chair. He was finishing his sixth meal of the day, which he foundly called a snack, and getting ready to dose off into a pleasant nap. He was thinking about how he was indeed the spiritual overlord of the entire East Coast of the United States and Canada. After all, had not Pope Wayman O. I declared it so. He thought of the day when tens of millions would thank him for their salvation and deliverance from horrible lukewarm chuches. Just as he was about to drift off, the phone rang.
He groaned within himself, "Can't these people ever let me have any peace?"
He picked up the phone and a voice said, "Pastor, I am so glad I caught you home."
Lord Compost recognized the voice as one of his disciples, John. He was a fairly obedient and submitted fellow, so Lord Compost decided to hear him out rather than tell him he was headed out the door.
"What's up?" said Lord Compost.
"Well," said John, "you know I just married Suzy back about six months ago. I am having some real problems with her. She refuses to kneel on command, if you know what I mean, and also refused to strip naked when I told her to just two days ago."
"Those are some serious violations before God," said Lord Compost. "Your wife needs to be in perfect submission in those areas or you will never fulfill your destiny in God. It will cause you to stumble."
"I know," said John. "She is also complaining that I am not loving enough when we have relations and says I am a selfish pig. I was going to ask if we could come in for some counseling sessions as soon as possible. Are you free tonight?"
Lord Compost sighed. In just three hours he was planning to take his own wife out to dinner, right his nap. Talk about a high maintenance woman. Besides, he really didn't want to bother about this at all. And then it hit. It was pure inspiration, and he remembered something that he could use to get out of this mess.
"Well, you don't need counseling, brother," said Lord Compost with renewed enthusiasm. I can tell you what the problem is right now. You borrowed some furniture from that sister, Mary, I think was her name, and then she backslid. Do you still have that furniture?"
"Uh,yeah, but I think she is still a Christian, just goes to another church," said John. "You know she had a tough time after the divorce and all, so she goes to a church where some her family goes."
Lord Compost became annoyed. When will these guys learn? "Listen, brother," he said with his voice growing stern, "her real family was the church where God placed her. She is in rebellion, she is not saved, and she has demons of religion for sure. Not only that, but anything she owns, including that furniture that you have in your house, has a spirit of rebellion on it. Don't you see? It is affecting your wife!"
"Wow, I never thought of that," said John. "You have such great insights, pastor. What should I do?"
Lord Compost felt the victory. "Ok, here's what you do. Call that backslidden witch up and tell she has 24 hours to come and get her wretched furniture or you are going to put it out by the curb. Don't let her give you any of this she's a Christian sister crap, either. She's a devil and you need to treat her that way. Once you get the furniture out of the house, then I would bet money that your wife is going to be a lot more submissive and godly."
"All right, pastor. I will do it," said John. He thanked Lord Compost and said goodbye.
Lord Compost hung up the phone with smug satisfaction. Not only had he avoided some counseling sessions but now he had inspiration for this Sunday's sermon. The Curse of Backsliders, he would call it. He would put a special emphasis on having nothing to do with them, not even their possessions.
Lord Compost began to drift back into a pleasant nap. He turned off the phone just in case. He was simply contemplating which fine restuarant he was going to take his wife to. Soon the ruler of the East Coast was snoring, dreaming about his great glory.