Chapter 95

1145 hours, local time,
Thursday, 17 July, 2014
Hinton, West Virginia

“So, here we are. Hinton at last. We’re rolling into town at last. This town was the county seat of Summers County. I’ve been here a time or two myself and I’ve always liked this old railway junction. It has gone downhill over the years, due to the decline of coal, but it still shows marks of its old greatness. It will be interesting to see how things go with everyone,” I announced as we pulled into Hinton, West Virginia, seat of Summers County, or at least it had been in the past.

The city fathers ... and mothers, promptly greeted us as we entered the town. Roughly twenty or so folks, the citizens’ committee or whatever. They smiled at us and even embraced us, even as several of them coughed at the sight of a very naked, drop dead gorgeous Athenais. It wasn’t every day that they saw a lovely young Frenchwoman, let alone in the nude. They also smiled at the babies, who mostly smiled back ... mostly. There were always a few moody infants and I had been one of those myself at that age, truth be told.

Roughly half of the city fathers were senior citizens, no surprises there in a state that had been steadily aging as West Virginia did. The de facto mayor, or what have you, for instance, was a man in his seventies who was also a deacon at his church and a fourth degree Freemason. He was a former mine manager, so his lungs were a bit more smoked out than some others, even if he had retired a bit early on his savings and managerial pay. He had needed to do so, judging from his chain-smoking habit, which was hardly a shock in that culture. Yes, believe it or not, in some parts, even the Baptist deacons were smokers, especially those who started before the Surgeon General’s announcement.

Next to him was the bank president, another “God-fearing man” in his eighties, of all things. Next to them stood the chief constable, the closest thing to a chief of police or sheriff or anything like that these days. He was at least sixty himself. Yeah, many of these guys were no spring chickens by any means. At least he was dressed sharply, but so were the others, even if the “mayor” still had a cigarette stench to him. Well, that was normal for Appalachia, I reminded myself, having encountered that odor so many times in the past.

In fact, the front row of the delegation was quite geriatric, no doubt of that. This included the head of the Chamber of Commerce, the local union shop steward, the high school, middle school, and grade school principals, the superintendent, the pastors of the two surviving churches in the community, one Missionary Baptist, the other Free Will Baptist (I did not make this up!), the head of the Lion’s Club, who was also the commander of the local militia. In the back row were ten junior committee members, including the two church secretaries, two respected school teachers, the chief of the volunteer fire department, the town librarian, the head of the historical society, a local barber who moonlit as a justice of the peace, the owner of a very nice fast food franchise that was so fancy that its dining room resembled a family restaurant’s, and the town’s only doctor now that Summers County Hospital closed down. These were all relatively younger than the first group, of course.

“So, this is the great Prophet Adam Clarke and his ... family, I see. We have heard rumors that you had angels with you, that you could work miracles, that you helped prepare the defense of Roanoke and Charlottesville, that you served as Sheriff of Lancaster County, that your arrival was somehow connected with the downfall of the Harmon gang in Union, that you helped drive the Nazis out of Frederick, defeated the Klan on at least one or two occasions in Maryland, and that you crushed the gangs of Baltimore. This was, certainly a man of note and importance, and so we have to meet him face to face ... and his ... family or tribe or whatever,” the leader spoke to me now.

“All that you say is true, of course. I can attest to it, for I have witnessed it with my own eyes this whole time. I am Xia Delan Clarke, originally from China,” Xia Delan spoke very boldly, much to my surprise.

“As can I. I was with him from the beginning, on Fireball Day itself, soon after learning that my parents died in Lisbon. I am Hannah Clarke, a native West Virginian, I might add,” Hannah added now.

“And indeed, so can I. I have been with him since Doomsday as well. Hannah, Delan, and I were his first three wives. I am Autumn Clarke, also a native West Virginian, born and raised in Morgantown, home to WVU and the Mountaineers. This is my mother, Bonnie Clarke, another of his wives, though she is also married to my stepfather, Ryan, who is one of our husbands, too,” Autumn continued.

“I am Ryan Clarke and this is my wife, my first wife, Bonnie Clarke, that is true. And these are my wives, just as they are Adam’s ... and Till’s ... and Barry’s and Yitzhak’s wives. It is true. We practice polygamy ... both kinds of it, and God thoroughly approves. If you doubt me, pray and see if he doesn’t appear and confirm what I just said,” Ryan interjected.

“Indeed, that is interesting, but I would like to hear the Prophet speak for himself,” the leader declared now.

“I am indeed the Prophet, Adam Clarke, son of the Archangel Raphael and a mortal woman of this Earth, a West Virginia girl, of course. I am indeed a true Prophet of Heaven, and I even baptized and commissioned one of my co-husbands, Trevor Clarke, to found a mission in Peterstown in Monroe County. Which he has, so he is now head of that congregation. Thus will begin the spread of the true faith, the true religion, in these parts, as I hope and pray will happen here in Hinton with an even larger assembly. Yes, I have many wives, including this lovely young woman here,” I pointed to Athenais, who was fully nude even now.

“Bon jour. I am Athenais Clarke. As you can see, I am naked and proud of it. I am also very French,” Athenais formally introduced herself.

“And I am Bonnie Clarke, Ryan’s first wife and Autumn’s mother as well as her sister-wife. As my surname indicates, I am also one of the Prophet’s wives,” Bonnie elaborated.

“Hola. Buenas dias. I am Raquel Clarke, another wife of the Prophet, originally from Cuba,” Raquel told the delegation now.

“I am Till Clarke. My family came from the former East Germany, believe it or not. So, yes, I am of German heritage and proud of it,” Till assured them, “Raquel and I were an item before we even met the Prophet, but now we are both married to him and every other adult and adolescent above the age of fourteen in this tribe.”

“I am Becca Clarke. These are my sisters, Kylie Anne and Kelly Rae Clarke. Yes, as you can see, we’re also sistas. And we’re sister-wives, all being wedded to the Prophet and to every man and woman in this caravan,” Becca smiled with her hands on her hips as if to challenge anything racist that might escape his lips.

“That’s true. We’re sisters ... and sistas ... and sister-wives, as noted,” Kelly confirmed.

“We are, that is very true, and very proud of that fact, as we should be. We’re also his baby mamas. We gave him biracial babies, what in the old days used to be called ‘mulattoes.’ But guess what, since his blood is half-celestial or half-angelic, our babies are one quarter angel, imagine that!” Kylie spoke at great length and more brazenly, as if to test the attitudes of the men and women of the delegation.

“And I am Charity Ballard Clarke, married to one Prophet, kin to another. I’m from Frederick, Maryland myself and proud of that fact, too. The Prophet here helped rid us of our Nazi infestation, if you will. Just to be clear, all Prophets, male or female, and yes, there are some lady Prophets, are sons or daughters of an angel of some kind. Let that sink in, if you will. As you can see, I am a black woman, too!” Charity confronted the delegation as well.

“I am Stacy Keibler Clarke. Yes, that’s right. I am a former professional wrestler in the WWE. You might have heard of me, in fact. And yes, I am proud to be among his wives,” Stacy perked up now, making at least half of the delegation really take notice.

“I am Sardha Clarke. Yes, I am of Indian ancestry and very proud of this as well. Not American Indian, mind you. Indian as in from India. That kind of Indian. Dot, not feather, as some of you white people say behind our backs. I am proud to be among the Prophet’s wives, though the other four men are equally our husbands and these women are all my wives and sister-wives,” Sardha proudly informed the crew.

“Wow ... a lady wrestler, of all things! Quite ... impressive! I am ... not that impressive. I’m Walt. Short for Walter Reiner. Family came over from Darmstadt many generations ago, of course. Yes, I grew up Lutheran, Missouri Synod. I went Free Will Baptist later. Long story on that. I smoke, I still drink now and then, though Christians aren’t supposed to do either, especially not deacons like me. I’m a Freemason. I’m a former manager with the local mining operation. Or what was left of by Doomsday. I’m retired from that business, anyway.

“I’m seventy-four years old. My wife, Nina, died three years ago of a heart attack, rather suddenly in fact. Thank God that He spared her Doomsday and the aftermath. I was sad at the time and I miss her, but I’m afraid that she never had to witness any of the horrors that followed Fireball Day, or the day itself. Look, we don’t want any trouble with your kind, any of you. Just pass on through as we’ve been led to believe, and we’ll do our best to make this as pleasant as we can,” Walt lit a cigarette now, being a bit nervous around all of us.

“He’s a bit uncomfortable because he finds Sardha especially attractive, don’t you, Walt?” God announced himself as he stepped from among us.

How long God had been there, I had no idea, but there He was. Walt stared at him in shock, maybe because he had no idea who this was that could read his mind and declare them to everyone else. Sure enough, Walt was as erect as a septuagenerian with constricted arteries caused by cigarette smoke was likely to be. He blushed, tried to look away from Sardha, who he had indeed admired, and coughed awkwardly. She simply smiled at him and disrobed in front of him.

“Look as much as you wish, mister. You don’t have to avert your eyes. In fact, please don’t. I’m not ashamed of my body or of my sexuality anymore. I have nothing to hide. It’s okay to lust after me. I won’t get offended by that. I’m flattered, in fact,” Sardha told Walt, “don’t avert your eyes, Walt. Go ahead and look at my breasts, my bush, the swell of my hips, my belly, my legs and thighs...

“Hey, want to see my ass? Here! Look at my big, brown Indian ass! It’s taken many a finger, a cock ... and a tongue back there ... even some dildoes! Here, I’ll spread my cheeks for you to get a better view of it!” Sardha challenged Walt by bending over and indeed spreading her buttocks apart to show off her anus.

“Okay, I admit ... I ogled you a bit. I’d never met ... a live Indian woman ... in person, in the flesh. Looked at plenty of naked pics of Indian women, rubbed it off to Parminder Nagra in Bend It Like Beckham, especially to fantasies of her getting all lezzie with Keira Knightley. So what? I might be a Christian man and a widower ... and a father and grandfather, but I’m still a straight man with a straight’s man ... natural desires,” Walt stumbled through his excuses, not that he needed any, but old habits died hard.

He was well aware that the other city fathers ... and mothers were now privy to his kink for Indian ladies, which was no cause for shame, but might still be embarrassing. Several of them fought their smirks as they watched it all, even as Sardha remained bent over with her cheeks spread apart. I chuckled, several people chortled, and Sardha looked back at us with a seductive wink. She knew exactly what she did.

“Take a picture, Walt. It will last longer. Or, who knows, I might start walking around Hinton in the nude. Would you like that? I’ve done it before in other places, you know. I like going around naked. It’s such a liberating feeling, you know. Would you like to see me prance around in the buff, my lady parts on full display? Maybe you want to meet me somewhere and rub it out all over my skin? I can’t promise that I’ll let you inside me. Maybe, maybe not. Time and events will tell.