Fast and Testimony & And Other Bad Ideas
written by
jaron summers © 2025
That dream again.
Always the same. Me, marooned somewhere godforsaken in the Arctic, frost gluing my eyelashes shut, cornered by two polar bears who look suspiciously like my parents, while a pack of wolves circle, snapping and drooling like creditors.
I wake up, bitterly disappointed. I’m alive. Again. Damn.
The house is dead quiet — the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums until you can hear your own bad thoughts breathing. Then: tap-tap.
Soft. Friendly. The kind of knock that says, “We brought pamphlets… and a death wish.”
Groaning, I drag on my robe — technically more of a suggestion of a robe now — and shamble to the front door. 2:57 A.M. Prime witching hour. Prime “make terrible choices” hour.
I squint through the peephole. Two Mormonettes, glowing under the porch light. Smiling the tight, desperate smiles of those who believe salvation is just a well-timed knock away.
I’m not surprised. Not after our little correspondence.
It started simple enough — they left notes tucked under my door, all urgent and breathless, about how they “needed to speak with me immediately regarding matters of eternal consequence.”
Sweet, really. Touched something in me — probably the part that likes setting ants on fire.
Naturally, I left notes back.
Notes that were…
thoughtful.
provocative.
subtly corrosive.
I didn’t tell them to come at 3 A.M. I didn’t have to. The notes did the work for me, slipping past their armor, burrowing into the parts of their minds their Mission President warned them about but couldn’t quite reach.
Curiosity is a hell of a drug. And apparently, I’m a licensed dealer.
Name tags: “White” and “Bread.” No, really. I’m not making this up. Somewhere in the heavenly bureaucracy, God’s filing clerk is weeping.
I throw the door open like I’m about to serve them an eviction notice.
Both mishies jerk back — a natural reaction to being greeted by a man who looks like he just wandered out of a Russian gulag. Their eyes, big and pretty, widen with alarm. Good. I feed on alarm.
“What are you mushies here in aid of?” I say, scratching the back of my head like I might be hiding a weapon there.
Sister Bread, the older by about two stress wrinkles, gathers her nerve. “It’s obvious you’re familiar with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Elder Summers.”
I almost salute. Almost.
Instead, I smile the kind of smile that makes dogs whimper.
“Would you like to come in? I’ll make hot chocolate. Maybe pull out the Ouija board. See if we can talk to Brigham Young.”
They shuffle backwards in perfect unison. Must be choreography lessons in the MTC now. I get it. Church rules: Never enter a lone man’s house.
Especially not one who looks like he keeps trophies.
“We’re not allowed inside,” Sister Bread says, clutching her Book of Mormon like it’s a crucifix at a vampire rave.
Fair enough.
I wouldn’t come in here either. The walls hum with bad karma and unfinished crimes.
I study them. They’re eerily similar — like God hit copy-paste.
Same safe skirts, same orthopedic footwear, same hairdos designed by Soviet engineers. Only difference? Sister White’s eyes. Green, sharp, defiant.
Like she’s thought bad thoughts once or twice and didn’t even apologize.
I like her. I might even spare her when the bloodletting begins.
“We’d like to invite you to Fast and Testimony meeting,” Sister White says, thrusting a flyer at me. “We can arrange a ride.”
I take the flyer gingerly, like it might explode into glitter and shame.
“You must be the senior companion,” I say. “Makes sense. You’ve got that look. ‘Father in Heaven will personally audit my behavior’ vibe.”
Her cheeks redden slightly. It’s adorable. I can almost hear her internal dialogue: “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t let him smell fear.”
“Shall we sing a hymn together?” I ask sweetly. “Maybe ‘I Need Thee Every Hour’? Or would ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’ be more appropriate?”
They both blink.
Then — obedient little lambs — they fumble for their hymnbooks.
Newer editions, sleeker. Sanitized for public consumption.
Nothing like the heavy, guilt-soaked tomes we used to lug around when I was a missionary.
Back when the Church still let people call us “Mormons,” before the marketing department decided “Jesus” needed a bigger font.
About then I realized I was better suited to other kinds of conversions.
More permanent ones. Strictly theoretical so far. I have standards, after all. You can’t just go around murdering people like it’s a hobby.
No, you wait for the right ones. The ones practically begging for it.
It’s a matter of professionalism. Of pride.
Still, nights like this make me sense the clock in my chest. Tic, toc, tic, toc.
Soon, I’m going to have to start my life’s work.
For now, though, I stand there in the cold, humming a hymn under my breath, while two oblivious sisters sing sweetly and perhaps wonder why the hairs on the back of their necks stand up.
