From Heaven's Heart I Stab at Thee;

Call me Herbert. Weeks ago I harpooned and usurped the wild and terrifying beast “The Music Minister Who Succumbs To the Worldly Pleasures of Praise and Worship Music” (It is a long name, so I gave him that nickname “Loki.”)

With a few intercepted emails I have flung my faithful spear into the heart of the wild and fiery beastly Loki Dick. He now flounders in the waves of incompetence and Herbert servitude. From the bloody waves a gurgly cry emerged from his lips: “Nay valiant Herbert, you shant take my trip for two to Jamaica! Unsheathe thy piercing dagger and let me bask on the beaches of the Dark Men with my Mims.”

“Avast” said I. “I will not. Besides Loki Dick, though you may be a lower life form, you are supposed to mate for life, and your wife, though a strange oversized fishly beast herself, should be the only one worthy of your wandering eye!”

Part II

Loki entered the stage where Blonde Bimbo was limping. “What the hell is going on in here Herbert? What did you do?”

I remained silent.

“He’s blackmailing me with some email he stole.” Blurted Bimbo.

“What do you mean by, emails he stole.”

“I mean he’s got a copy covered in plastic or something of one of my private email!”

Loki looked pale. The fear was sitting in nicely.

“Herbert… do you mean you got into our email accounts?”

“I did no such thing. As I was telling Blondie here, these emails simply turned up on the floor one day and I saved them from further viewing. Not to worry though, they are safe and sound, copied and in three locations, Mims… I mean, Maestro.”

When I said the name “Mims,” Loki looked as though he would faint. He was speechless with fear and rage.

The whale had reared his blubbery smooth scalp and I had thrust my weapon, striking true and clean.

The Lord of The Emails

The story of my Jamaican vacation must be told in three parts, for it is a fun tale, and fun tales are simply meant to be in a trilogy.

It all started when the young baboon pianist decided to accuse your H. C. of being the previous Sunday’s saboteur...

As I strode to my place of high honor, the wooden throne of Elizabeth, I heard these words come from the shadows:

“Hey, Herb, I know that was you who tore out that page. I just know it. And let me tell you, if you screw this gig up for me, I am gonna take your fat butt down in a big way.”

It was Loki's Blonde Bimbo Pianist. I replied swiftly, being well prepared for such an occasion, “Dearest imbecile. I don’t know what hair supply has polluted your reasoning capacity, but any attempt at physical or vocational harm on your part will be met with swift and terrible retribution. In fact, I have a copy of something that you might be interested in reading. I sort of floated out of the sky into my lap today and I decided to keep it handy for such a time as this. I can read it for you if you are not do intoxicated by the smell of your styling products to discern a preposition.” At this comment I swiftly pulled out a few laminated pages that just happened to be in the format of his email. He silently read his document, sealing the fate of his future in Herbert servitude.

“Dudes! I have a sweeeeet gig. I get a whopping 400 bucks a week to show up and dazzle the ladies and soccer moms with my piano stylings. This job will totally due until I get my big CCM break. The music minister thinks I am going to move into something more permanent but I got news. Nah uh. I’m out and on the road as soon as I get picked up, which should be any day. My new album “Get Spirit Baby” is gonna be HUGE.

The organist is a total goober. He has been calling me names lately and it is really starting to piss me off. He reminds me of the kind of kid that everyone crapped on in the locker room, except fatter.

I feel a throw-down coming soon. Plus I got this feeling that he did something to screw the service up last week on my first day. I’m gonna start keeping an eye on him. He is NOT going to ruin this SWEET gig.”

I am afraid that my possession of this email was too much for the young mongoloid to handle. He then made the made the fateful mistake those others before have made making a mad dash for the stage and then for my groin with his foot.

“OOOOOOOWWWWWE. Are you wearing a cup???!!! He said, the little vulgar puke.

“Either that or you are like a big Fat Jumbo Ken doll.” He said now limping. I then took a leather-driving glove out of my pocket that I keep for such occasions and I smacked him right across his rosy cheek. “Take that vermin!”

He cried out again.

He then said other curse words and tried to stumble pathetically towards me. I prepared for another strike. Loki, hearing the racket, came rushing into the sanctuary. I concealed my intercepted email and my glove of self defense to listen to the Blonde bimbo describe what had just happened...

(To be continued...)