Ding dong rang the bell. A pair of young men stood close together on the peeling and dilapidated porch. Stacks of old toys and bikes cluttered around them. The shorter rocked on his heels and reached again for the doorbell. The taller blocked the finger.
“Calm yourself, Elder Janowitz.”
“I’m sorry Elder Grant, I’m just so eager to share the word.”
A lock turned, scraping against wood and metal. The door creaked open and a man stood in the threshold. He held a shotgun on his bare shoulder over a tattoo of a skull.
“You boys are a bit lost,” grunted the armed resident.
“No, sir,” cheered Janowitz. “We’re here to share the good word with your neighborhood!”
“Have you heard the good word, Mister?” Grant asked, expecting a name as a response.
The man sneered at the gleaming cheery faces on his front porch. “How’s Mr Go Fuck Your Word.”
The elders turned their heads and nodded to one another. They returned their gaze to the shotgun wielding host. “Do you have a religion, Mr Go-Fuck-Your-Word?”
“Naw, never had a use for it,” he narrowed his eyes on the pair. “I swore I ran some Mormons off from here last week.”
“Oh, we’re not affiliated with them,” scoffed Janowitz. He stopped laughing. “Not anymore.”
He raised an eyebrow at the missionaries. “What exactly are you boys out here peddling?”
The short Elder Janowitz peeled his backpack off and set it on the ground. He unzipped it and reached inside.
Mr Go-Fuck-Your-Word racked a shell and aimed the weapon. “Take it out, slowly.”
Janowitz steadily pulled out a crumpled blue and white paper sack.
“Howdy do, Mr Go-Fuck-Your-Word, have you heard about the savior? Our holy Lady of the steamed sliders named Janice from the White Castle on Fifth Street?”