It had been touted as The Great Tamaki Tour and after two weeks on the road, the Bishop and his entourage had sailed on the Arahura for the South Island leg. There were sinners in Sydenham, murderers in Murchison, outlaws in Oamaru and the inbred of Invercargill that needed the salvation he could bring to them.
It had been a good ride down the east coast and his black leathered posse with the ape handlebars pulled into the motel of the famous whale watching town late on the Saturday afternoon. The town heaved with the influx of long anniversary weekend visitors and most seemed oblivious to the presence of Brian and his entourage as if these bikes and their cargo were just regular visitors stopping for a pee and a popsicle.
They were staying a little longer though as an invitation had been extended to the Destiny King; his advisors suggesting that getting amid the people might help his profile. The scene for the Bishop’s service had been secured and while it was a far cry from the opulent surroundings he might have ordinarily enjoyed in his Auckland base, it wasn’t a dive by any means. The conference room of the local rugby club would seat one hundred and fifty although it was unknown how many would turn up.
The sun danced upon the water and the whale watching boats were confident of another busy day taking the tourists out. Bishop Brian’s chatoyant three-quarter length coat danced beneath the static slicked-back hair as he handed down his proclamation on the hastily made platform beneath the wall displaying the plaques of the life members and club presidents of years past. There were doors to the left through which the mighty Pacific could be viewed, the sun on the solid lettering on the window casting a backwards M E M B E R S O N L Y silhouette across those on the end of the third and fourth rows. At the conclusion they filed out and some chose to greet the Bishop and a variety of responses were forthcoming:
“Interesting sermon Pastor Brian.”
“Don’t get a coffee from Bevan down at the White Gull then, he’s, well, you know, he plays for the other team.”
“My cousin was in a gay marriage and even though they split a few years later, he always told me the crack in the wall was from when his partner drove his ute into it. Maybe it really was just all that sinning and stuff.”
“Great job today Bishop”, said one of the inner circle. “I think you really gave them something to think about” he added as they retired to their various motel rooms for the night.
“I’m just looking forward to getting out of this seafood backwater,” the Bishop responded, “we’ll be gone early enough and we can leave these small-fry sinners for someone else.”
“You’re right,” another added, “there ain’t much happening around here.”
Andrew Hawkey
It had been a good ride down the east coast and his black leathered posse with the ape handlebars pulled into the motel of the famous whale watching town late on the Saturday afternoon. The town heaved with the influx of long anniversary weekend visitors and most seemed oblivious to the presence of Brian and his entourage as if these bikes and their cargo were just regular visitors stopping for a pee and a popsicle.
They were staying a little longer though as an invitation had been extended to the Destiny King; his advisors suggesting that getting amid the people might help his profile. The scene for the Bishop’s service had been secured and while it was a far cry from the opulent surroundings he might have ordinarily enjoyed in his Auckland base, it wasn’t a dive by any means. The conference room of the local rugby club would seat one hundred and fifty although it was unknown how many would turn up.
The sun danced upon the water and the whale watching boats were confident of another busy day taking the tourists out. Bishop Brian’s chatoyant three-quarter length coat danced beneath the static slicked-back hair as he handed down his proclamation on the hastily made platform beneath the wall displaying the plaques of the life members and club presidents of years past. There were doors to the left through which the mighty Pacific could be viewed, the sun on the solid lettering on the window casting a backwards M E M B E R S O N L Y silhouette across those on the end of the third and fourth rows. At the conclusion they filed out and some chose to greet the Bishop and a variety of responses were forthcoming:
“Interesting sermon Pastor Brian.”
“Don’t get a coffee from Bevan down at the White Gull then, he’s, well, you know, he plays for the other team.”
“My cousin was in a gay marriage and even though they split a few years later, he always told me the crack in the wall was from when his partner drove his ute into it. Maybe it really was just all that sinning and stuff.”
“Great job today Bishop”, said one of the inner circle. “I think you really gave them something to think about” he added as they retired to their various motel rooms for the night.
“I’m just looking forward to getting out of this seafood backwater,” the Bishop responded, “we’ll be gone early enough and we can leave these small-fry sinners for someone else.”
“You’re right,” another added, “there ain’t much happening around here.”
Andrew Hawkey
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