Page 56 - Billy Graham in Heaven

The Promised Land Pub
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ESP hoo-doo.”
“Newt, drifting off into haze alcohol,” pouted Greta.
“We trying to be serious and you play ball in hole.” She pointed her finger at Newt. Her arm rolled out in front like time-lapsed photography of an unfolding fern.
“Yeah, yeah,” replied Newt. “Theorize some more if you want.” He turned to the TV. “Magnificent!” he shouted, clenching a fist as Jordan sank a double pump off the backboard from fifteen feet. He turned back to the table. “Well, what pisses me off the most is that we consistently got hundreds of people to rallies, even in nasty weather. Then one man, Billy Graham, living twenty miles down the road, flies to spend the night with the President when the bombing began. He said in effect: `George, you’re cleared to bomb by God.’” He took a large gulp of beer leaving a foam mustache doubling his mustache.
“I used to have to swallow that guy as a child,” Newt continued. “Four times a year an entire week of TV down the tubes as Graham tried to get me to walk down those football-stadium stairs to glory. And now, when I’ve been showing my ass like an over-the-top peace fundamentalist, he makes us seem demented as snake handlers. Yet he was the one endorsing human sacrifice.”
Newt slammed his glass down, flexed his jaw muscle and raised his fist above his head. “I’d like Graham to fall hard from grace and face the Christian free market, friendless and homeless, during a grotesque Great Depression.”
“Here here!” Jake enthused, and clinked his glass against Newt’s. Then Jake froze. Graham did live just down the road from Asheville. It meant something, but what? Jake began to stare into space, oblivious to conversation and