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This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people, places, and events is incidental. 

The Book of Chubs
Volume I: “Losing Touch”
A book for the losers who just haven’t won, yet

© One Soul Productions 2026

Chapter 1
“Peter, My Rock, Awake.”

Chubs’ phone alarm cut through the dark at 5:30 a.m. He groaned, shook off the fragments of the dream he’d been stuck in, and swung his legs over the bed. His first act of worship: earbuds in, Spotify open, thumb pressing play.  “Losing Touch” by The Killers filled his head as he muttered,  “Okay Lord… what do you have for me today?”

He hit his vape pens, first the weed, and ripped the pen hard.  Coughed like hell.  Good start.  Then the nicotine, deep lungfuls of smoke and vapor curling in his chest. He coughed, tried to keep it quiet so Tina and the kids wouldn’t wake.

The Keurig hissed to life in the kitchen, filling the house with the smell of coffee. Chubs fed the dog, scooped the cat’s litter box, let the dog out to the back deck, then knelt in front of his recliner, his makeshift altar.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
Deliver us from Evil.
For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory forever.”

He hit the weed pen again, this time harder. Held it. Coughed again.
Then, breathing easier, he prayed the prayer that had become his morning mantra:

“Father, make my job easy. Stressful if it has to be, but easy. Don’t let me waste time today. Don’t let me take crap from anyone as I work to achieve your will.  Let EVERYTHING I do be worship to you.”

He stood and wandered to the window, coffee in hand, looking out at the still-sleeping town of Staggerford, Minnesota. Junkyard lights glowed faintly on the edge of town like a weird little constellation.

This is where You put me?

The thought made him laugh. Staggerford, population 1,500, economic powerhouses: one junkyard, two bars, and a handful of farmers on the outskirts. Halfway between Minneapolis and lake country, which really meant middle of nowhere.

He didn’t like this town. Not really. He’d moved here for his now ex-wife, her family had been “ever-present” (and now, ever resentful).

Still, Chubs stayed. Because he was sure, almost painfully sure, that God had stationed him here on purpose.

He just had to be patient until the work was revealed.

It was 6:15am Saturday, time to finish the 1st cup of coffee and get in the shower.  Tina and the toddler had woken, Chubs skillfully changed a wet diaper and got the toddler milk.  Chubs had made Tina a coffee (with way too much creamer- the way she liked it),and gotten his clothes ready. 

He visited with pregnant Tina and checked the morning news.  The crawler on the screen described more violence in Gaza and Ukraine.  Chubs took a shower and kissed Tina and the Toddler.  He was anxious.  The family was celebrating the 2-year-olds birthday by going to the outdoor waterpark in Nisswa MN.  Chubs older two kids from his previous marriage were still upstairs sleeping, but he would get them moving soon enough.

The crew loaded the car and was ready to roll.  Chubs got behind the steering wheel, and they were off.  A quick pass by the junk shop with a pirate outside the store and they were on their way.  Chubs visited with Tina for a while, but when she got quiet his mind wandered.  He thought about the world outside of Staggerford.  Events shaping up for war.  Chubs knew the end was coming distantly into view.  The Holy Spirit had told him as much.

Chubs had learned about The Holy Spirit in church, but it wasn’t until he read “The God I Never Knew” that he got an idea what to do with it.  Unfortunately, the author is an alleged sexual deviant, but with spirituality comes stronger demons. 

After Chubs’ divorce, when he was older than 40 and started smoking marijuana for the first time- the gears of his mind finally lined up.  Who would have thought that marijuana was what was missing from his worship?  It’s a sin, right? 

Chubs chuckled to himself at that one.  He believed Christ gave us marijuana as a gateway to the spiritual.  Really the Bible speaks to drinking and says we shouldn’t get drunk by alcohol.  Instead get drunk on the Holy Spirit…  hmmm.

Upon arriving at the water park Chubs found a pair of picnic tables with umbrellas for shade, near a grill.  Got the kids on to waterparking.  Then Chubs scanned the area, always mindful that there are plenty of weirdos out there. 

He began discussing the day with Tina, and how much fun the kids were having.  Chubs tried to relax, but he was consistently anxious- vigilant of all threats micro to macro.  Real or imagined, present or future.  The meds he took helped, but he knew everyone was whistling through the graveyard on societies current path.

During the drive home Chubs put in one earbud as the rest of the crew slept.  He listened to some more Killers; “Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf”.  I’m not satisfied the lyrics agreed.  Chubs let his mind wander to his longing for this world.  Chubs believed in the Bible, both literally and figuratively.  He had to.  If this world was all there was to life?  Pretty miserable experience for most.  At least for those awake enough to see how the world operated. 

But Chubs was optimistic, that the lord was about ready to move, and believed some of the spiritual awakening to come would be coming through him.  The Bible- our rulebook and cheat code to this game.

Chubs didn’t go to church.  He felt The Holy Spirit operated just fine outside of there.  His strong faith made it difficult to act “normally”.  What society considered normal anyway.  His mind was consumed with the vastness of The Father.  He perceived this world and reality as a Christ centered Simulation.  When he questioned the bounds of reality…  Chubs ran into problems.  But never anything that The Holy Spirit didn’t lead him out of.  Made him better for it.

When Chubs had read and studied The Book of Enoch it tied the bible together for him.  He recognized that humanity and people are always being observed by watchers.  Looking for us to fail or fall.  Chubs wanted to show these watchers something interesting.  He planned to show them a human who succeeds in faith.  It made him very…  Strange.

You see Enoch exists in the regular biblical timeline.  The author one of three who ascended.  Him, Elijah, and Jesus.  Should give him some credibility for canon.  But he was black so… 

Job on the other hand is a book that seems to exist on its own.  Chubs knew we all live the life of Job in our own way.  How do we handle it?  That is the test that Chubs wanted to pass.  He didn’t look at material wealth as success.  The Father had never blessed him with too much money.  But always blessed him with enough.

One more song- The Killers “Miss Atomic Bomb”.  That was his nickname for the girl on the way.  Chubs was much older than Tina, and she wanted children of her own.  Chubs blessed her with the first, then the second… 

The second took some consideration, but Chubs ultimately thought of the atomic bomb.  The first hit Hiroshima to let them know we could do it.  The second hit Nagasaki to let the world know we could do it again.  That’s how he felt about the child in Tina’s belly.  Miss Atomic Bomb.

Once home they hosted burgers and chips at their house.  Chubs’ parents were in town from North Dakota, Tina’s dad, brother, and sister-in-law came.  Also, her mother and mother’s boyfriend Randy.  Auntie Anne and her boyfriend Jaime joined. 

Once everyone was fed, the guests filed out.  The evening routine wrapped up with everyone taking showers to get the chlorine off. Chubs enjoyed hitting the weed vape pen and watching the local news before heading to bed.

Chubs looked out the window of the rusty tin can he traveled through space in.  Vast, open, but full.  Filled with the spirit.  Every last ounce of space, occupied by grace thanks to the plan put in place to save us from ourselves.  He was all alone out here, how long had it been?  When will he be home again.  “Why has The Father abandoned me out here in a rusty tin can in the middle of outer space?”  He had accomplished every mission so far.  What will be next? 

Then Chubs awoke from his recurring dream.

Sunday was a day of rest.  Chubs preferred to keep it that way.  He started the day the same, as he did on weekends, with a rip of the weed pen to get the spirit moving and music to move the body. 

Chubs entered these early morning sessions with worship in mind.  For an audience of one…  “Well maybe its just The Father that sees, LOL?” he thought.  The earbuds played “Exo-Politics”, by Muse on the Spotify playlist.  Waiting patiently for the sign?  He was. 

Chubs considered what he and all of us are doing here in this world if not the great commission, then what? 

Chubs prayed and reflected, and this morning the Spirit told him to rest, so he went back to bed until Tina woke at 6:00.  Then they had their morning coffee and watched the news together until the little one woke. 

The big kids slept late, ate and then went with their mom at 3:30. Tina and Chubs managed the toddler, while getting extra naps.  Good thing, Monday would be a busy day for Chubs.  Sunday was usually his night to manage his meds, but he hadn’t been taking his medicine for a few weeks because it had been making him throw up.  Luckily he had a doctors appointment soon.  He could tell that he was getting a bit more aggressive than usual.

Chubs was back in the spacecraft, reading a manual on system restart from null as he had 100 times before.  He was starving to death, no more food.  Thank the Father there were still some THC capsules.  Chubs prayed that the Father would see him in this situation and lead him out.  Somehow. 

Monday

Chubs woke at 4:20 a.m., an hour before the alarm.  No weed today, that disappointed him.
He’d come to believe that the vape pen invited the Holy Spirit to sweep through the room like a cleansing wind. But it was a workday.

Something from a dream had him buzzing, maybe it was the time of year, maybe the ex-wife messing with the big kids’ schedule.  Whatever it was, Chubs was amped.  He slipped in his earbuds and hit play.  Radiohead’s “Creep”.  Perfect.

Chubs knelt on the living room rug.  He loved praying to this song.  He was the creep.  Or had been.  The divorce years, the blackout drinking, the nights he shouted at God.  He asked forgiveness again, even though he was sure the Lord had already wiped the slate clean.

The locals of Staggerford hadn’t.  They never would.  He had trouble forgiving himself.  His behavior had been awful.  Of sinners, he felt he was the worst.

When the track ended, Chubs swapped “Bling” by The Killers, a little more pep.  He finished the dishes, dancing while he worked.  He wasn’t dancing for himself, this was for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Chubs wanted them to know he was faithful; he wanted to show The Trinity worship.

Worship is what The Father desires.  All gods he believed were fed and strengthened by worship.  The bible mentions lower case gods, and Chubs figured there were many who still followed the old religion.  Those that gained favor through worship, incantations, witchcraft, and magic. 

Obviously, those that worship Baal for example would conceal it, and anyone who suspected them of Baal worship would be considered insane.  Besides, people can worship who they want, but play stupid games, win stupid prizes…

Chubs was sure The Trinity watched him but knew he had a more natural audience.  AI could recognize every syllable he spoke, microphones, cameras, Wi-Fi routers.  Whoever patched into his network of home camera feeds could see all of this: the prayers, the music, the weird dances.  He hoped it worked like evangelism.  Maybe some homeland security analyst, Amazon data tech, or other agent looking out for threats to the status quo would catch a glimpse of something true.

Coffee prepped for Tina, too much creamer.  Milk in a sippy cup for Maggie.  Chubs showered, got dressed, kissed Tina and the toddler, and left the house.

7:05 a.m. – Holiday Station Store
Large dark espresso refill. $1.59.  Katie and Dottie manned the counter, as always, and Chubs joked with them nearly every weekday morning.  They often teased that they would much rather see Tina every day. 

Back in the car, time to get ready for work and “Avatar Country” blasted through the stereo.  It didn’t matter that the band wasn’t exactly singing to Jesus.  It was worship, misdirected maybe, but still worship. 

Chubs imagined redirecting all that energy toward the rightful King.  He wasn’t afraid of what may or may not be “devil music” Chubs just listened to what he liked and directed the spiritual energies to Jesus.  He figured everything belongs to Jesus, and Jesus has heard “Thunderstruck” before.  Its okay to praise him to it.

Chubs prayed in tongues for five minutes straight on the drive, a rolling, Middle Eastern-sounding chant that filled the car.  His private time with the Spirit.  He pictured stepping out of the way and letting the grown-ups, Father, Son, Holy Spirit, handle the conversation.

As he neared work, Spotify queued “The Man” by The Killers.  Chubs grinned.  Right song for today.

7:46 a.m. – Work
The office already bustling with activity, had about 70 employees playing trucks.  Chubs logged in, the weight of the day settled on him.  The weeks were flying by and he still hadn’t done much for the Great Commission.  Home life was finally in order, but that wasn’t enough.
The Spirit had promised his ministry would begin with a miracle.  That gave him patience, but watching the news was unbearable.  School shootings, Gaza, Ukraine, earthquakes, signs everywhere.  When would it start?

Chubs clicked through his load boards, jotted some theological notes in a hidden Word doc, and wondered just how closely IT monitored his machine.  Weird things always happened there.  That morning a coworker he hardly knew walked over and placed a tiny plastic Jesus on his desk.  Didn’t offer them to anyone else, just him and the two nearest cubes.  She didn’t even explain why.

When the office went quiet for a few minutes.  Chubs opened YouTube and played “Human” by The Killers, quietly humming along while clicking through shipments.

He tried to honor Ephesians 6:5, work as though working for the Lord.  At least if the requests didn’t contradict His will.  Truck brokerage was as honest a job as Chubs had ever held. 

No scam, just a straight rate agreement.  He couldn’t always pay carriers more than other brokers, but he treated them well, with respect.  The Christian thing to do.

Act 1, Scene 3 – Monday Night Home Life

The drive home was always a test.  Chubs hit play on Spotify and let “When You Were Young” by The Killers fill the car.  A bittersweet song, full of longing and nostalgia, and it hit him right in the chest today.  He thought about his children Derrick, Alexus, and Maggie.  They were still young, but not for long.  As the world continues down its current path they’d be draft age right as the war machine hit full throttle.  The thought twisted in his gut.

He scanned the traffic automatically.  Not paranoid, just aware.  Silver SUV with tinted windows three cars back.  White van in the right lane with no company logos.  He’d seen them both near the Holiday Station this morning.

Sentinel Agents.  He was sure of it.

The Sentinel Agency had been around since the Civil War, a private detective and security firm that used to hunt train robbers and union agitators.  Now they were mercenaries with badges.  Corporate muscle-for-hire.  Big business used them for everything from strikebreaking to private investigations.  They had databases and connections that even local cops couldn’t touch.  And Chubs was sure they were watching him.

He pictured some conference room in Kansas where a middle manager sat at the head of the table, reviewing a file with his name on it.  Chubs could almost hear the mocking laugh. Good. Let them watch. Let them see how a man of God lives.

He cranked the volume.

Evening at Home

When he pulled into the driveway, Maggie was in the front window with her sippy cup. Her little face lit up when she saw him.  Chubs grinned despite the tension in his chest.  That smile could burn off almost anything.

Inside, Tina had dinner half-prepped.  She was beautiful, even in an old hoodie with her hair up in a messy bun.  Chubs kissed her on the cheek, grabbed a cutting board, and helped finish the vegetables.

But he was distracted.  The news played low on the TV in the living room.  More shelling in Gaza.  New drone strikes in Ukraine.  Inflation- stocks hitting records while unemployment explodes.  The world’s fuse burning shorter by the hour.

After dinner, Chubs sat on the couch scrolling headlines on his phone while Tina tried to coax him into watching a show with her.  “You’ve been wound tight all day,” she said gently.  “Come sit with us.”  “I can’t,” Chubs snapped.  He hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharp.  But he couldn’t shake the sense that something big was moving just out of sight, that someone needed to keep watch.

Tina didn’t push.  She’d seen this before.  She wrangled Maggie through the bedtime routine while Chubs took a long shower, trying to wash off the day, trying to quiet the static in his head.

Later that night, as the house went silent, Chubs stood by the front window, lights off, watching the road.  The silver SUV wasn’t there now, but it would be again.

Sleep came, Chubs was adrift, alone, in space.  He remembered why he signed up for this suicide mission.  Christ wanted him to do it.  That was all he needed to know.  But his remaining time was short.  He drank some water and took another THC pill.  Once his headspace was right he looked out the window, and he could see more than regular eyes could see.  He saw infinite parallel universes.  Like infinite virtual machines on a server.  He was stuck in this one.  For now..

Act 1, Scene 4 – Tuesday

Chubs woke at 4:20 again, on purpose this time.  No alarm.  He lay there in the dark for a moment, listening to Tina’s breathing and Maggie’s quiet snore from the baby monitor.  The house was still.  The city was still.
Perfect.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake anyone, and padded to the kitchen.  Vape pen in one hand, phone in the other.  He queued up “Uprising” by Muse.  He let the bass thump through his earbuds as he raised his hands in praise and danced in the living room.  Half prayer, half rebellion, all worship.

“Let the dead bury the dead,” he said out loud between exhales.

The phrase had been sticking with him lately, like the Lord Himself had etched it into the inside of his skull.  Let the world worry about its own problems.  Chubs had marching orders from higher up.

He finished the dance sweaty and grinning, then moved to the recliner, knelt, and prayed.  Some of it in English, some of it in tongues.  He prayed for Tina’s pregnancy, for Derrick and Alexus, wherever they were right now, and for Maggie, that she’d grow up with a warrior’s spirit.
He prayed for forgiveness for the anger he’d snapped with last night.  He prayed that the Father would prepare him for what was coming.  He prayed that his enemies would be confused, confounded, and turned against each other.

By the time the Keurig finished hissing, he was ready to start the morning routine.  Milk for Maggie, coffee (too much creamer) for Tina.  He kissed Tina’s forehead gently and told her she was beautiful, which earned him a sleepy smile.

Workday

The Holiday Station stop was routine now, $1.59 dark espresso refill, say hi to Katie and Dottie, but Chubs couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder as he left the store. That white van was back.  Same one?  Could be coincidence.  It could be surveillance.  Either way, he treated it like an audience.

In the car, “Avatar Country” gave way to “Hysteria” by Muse.  He launched into his five-minute spirit prayer, gibberish syllables over pounding guitars, until he felt wrung out.  Purged.

At work, Chubs was on fire.  Clicking through rate sheets, hammering the phones, finding trucks for loads that looked impossible.  The work felt holy when he did it right.  A little miracle every time a deal closed, and freight got covered.

But by mid-afternoon, the edge came back.  The building felt full of watchers Not coworkers, watchers.  People who smiled too long when they passed his desk, or who didn’t smile at all.

He jotted more notes in his digital journal.  It was half theology, half manifesto at this point.

A record.  Proof, if anyone ever needed it, that he wasn’t crazy, just awake.

Tuesday Night

The drive home was darker tonight, not just the early sunset but the way the shadows seemed to hang.  He put on “Can’t Stop” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, loud enough to rattle the car.  As he pulled onto the highway he saw them.  A black Suburban pulled onto the on-ramp just ahead of him, and a black Challenger turned on just behind him.  Another black Suburban came up in the passing lane.  All three vehicles boxed him in.  Slowed to 65, and kept him pinned for 3 miles.  Enough to let him know they could put the pressure on him.

Once he reached Staggerford there they were waiting.  Two SUVs parked nose-to-nose at the edge of the empty lot near the junkyard.  Engines running.  Men inside.  Chubs felt his chest tighten.  Sentinel Agents.

Had to be.  They didn’t move when he slowed to look, just sat there with the quiet confidence of professionals.  They knew he knew.  He parked at home and didn’t say anything to Tina about it.  Inside his mind was reeling. 

After dinner, Tina invited him again to watch TV with her.  She was gentle, cautious, trying not to push.  Chubs hesitated, then sat with her, but spent most of the time scrolling the news on his phone, half-listening.  Another strike in Gaza.  Another cyberattack on U.S. infrastructure.  Another rumor about troop buildups overseas.

He kissed Tina goodnight but stayed up late, pacing the house, writing more notes.  When he finally lay down, he stared at the ceiling for an hour before sleep finally took him. 

Tomorrow he had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon to talk about his meds.  But if the world kept turning like this, it wouldn’t wait that long.

Act 1, Scene 5 – Wednesday Morning

Chubs woke at 4:20 again, but this time, he felt heavy.
No dance.  No weed pen.  Just a weight in his chest that wouldn’t go away.  He went through the motions, milk for Maggie, coffee for Tina, shower, but it felt hollow.

When he kissed Tina goodbye, he lingered a little too long.  Then he walked out to his car, sat in the driver’s seat, and didn’t start it.  The world felt like it was tilting.  The same white van was parked down the block again, this time with a different driver, or was it?  Chubs couldn’t tell.  He didn’t care.

He gripped the steering wheel and prayed in tongues, but the syllables felt empty this morning.  Like they were bouncing off the ceiling.  He walked back inside.  Tina was standing in the kitchen, startled to see him.  “You forget something?  “Yeah,” Chubs said flatly. “I forgot that work is stupid.”

Tina raised her eyebrow. “What?”

Chubs’ voice cracked, louder now.  “I’m not doing anything, Tina. Not for the Lord. Not for anybody. I go there every day, I move freight, I click buttons, I drink coffee, and then I come home and go to bed. I’m wasting my life!”

Tina stepped back.  “Chubs,”

“No, listen!” His voice rose again, sharp, jagged.
“I’ve been waiting for the miracle. For the starting gun. For Him to say, ‘Go.’ But it’s been years, Tina. Years! And I can’t just sit here and watch the world burn while I… I make broker calls and send rate confirmations. It’s nothing. It’s ashes.”

He was pacing now, hands trembling.  “I need to get my house in order. My soul in order. I need to figure out what to do about the big kids, Derrick, Alexus, they’re slipping, Tina! They’re getting drafted into the world while I’m just standing here praying like it’s going to fix itself!”

Maggie started to cry from the other room.  Chubs barely heard her.  He was mumbling now, talking more to the air than to Tina.  “They’re coming, you know. Draft boards, wars, famine. It’s all right there. All lined up. I can feel it. And we’re sitting here watching TV at night like it’s all just fine. It’s not fine, Tina!”

Tina reached for his arm. “Honey, you’re scaring me.”  Chubs stopped, breathing hard, eyes wide and glassy.  “I think I need to go to the hospital,” he said finally.  Not calm but resolved.    Tina nodded slowly.  “Okay,” she said.  “I’ll call in to work for you. We’ll get you there.”

Chubs sagged against the counter, suddenly exhausted.  Somewhere deep down, he felt relief.
At least something was happening now.

Act 1, Scene 5 – Wednesday Morning (Extended)

Before leaving for the hospital, Chubs went out to the garage.  The air was still cool from the night.  He slid his earbuds in, thumbed through Spotify, and cranked “Battle Born” by The Killers until the pitched riffs tingled his mind and soul.

He packed the biggest pipe he owned with sticky green, sparked it, and filled the garage with smoke.  This was his ritual.  This was communion.

“Come on in, Holy Spirit,” he said softly between hits, holding the smoke as long as he could.

Chubs had prayed and asked when it was appropriate to smoke grass.  The answer didn’t arrive as a voice.
It arrived as a metaphor that made him laugh despite himself.

“When your beard is long enough to trim.”

That was it. Time. Growth.  Evidence of patience.

And then the phrase that followed, sharp, exaggerated, almost comedic in its intensity:

“Trim it with fire!”

When he was amped up, coffee buzzing through his veins, lungs burning, head just on the edge of spinning, he felt like Jesus was right there in the garage with him.  Best friend, Holy brother.  supreme deity, he is EVERYTHING Chubs thought.

Chubs thought of Exodus 30:22–25, the recipe for the holy anointing oil used by Levite priests in the holy of holies.  That mysterious Hebrew phrase Kana Bosem jumped off the page.  Most translations made it sound like fragrant cane, but Chubs was sure it was good old Mary Jane.  Not much cane more fragrant than that.  And why not?  Like Peter’s dream about dietary restrictions, what God has made clean, do not call it common.

Some Christians gave him side-eye for smoking, as if he were backsliding.   Chubs was confident in his interpretation, the whole recipe from Exodus was intense stuff: cinnamon, myrrh, cassia, olive oil.  The High Priest rubbed it all over themself to walk into the Holy of Holies.  A Sacred place for High Priests only.  Separated by a thick veil from the rest of the temple.  That veil tore during the Earthquake which occurred after Christ’s death, signifying literally that now- direct connection to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit was available for everyone.  Why shouldn’t Chubs worship that way, connected with the spirit. using marijuana like God gave Adam in the garden?

The Spirit always came through for him in those thoughtful moments, and this morning was no different.  Once he was fully ripped, Chubs leaned back against the workbench, staring into the garage rafters, and prayed for his big kids and even the ex-wife who still gnawed at his heart like a toothache that wouldn’t go away.

He thought of the night the marriage finally broke.  The voice of the Holy Spirit had been so clear: ask her “how many times?” and then say nothing else.  He had done it for three days.

On the third, she broke.  Through heaving sobs, she admitted to sleeping with one of his best friends.  While he had been passed out drunk.

That memory still felt like a knife in his ribs.  He had done everything he could to hold it together, stayed for the kids, tried to forgive, prayed through the pain, but eventually she left anyway.  Took the kids, tried to take the house, still trying to take pieces of him through the courts.

Chubs exhaled another long hit, smoke curling up toward the ceiling like incense.  “She’s not my favorite person, Lord,” he said hoarsely.  “But I will forgive her if she ever asks.  Take care of her, even if she hates me. And keep the kids safe, please.”

By the time the pipe was empty, Chubs felt that rare mix of fire and calm, angry at the world but ready to face it.  He walked back inside, kissed Tina on the forehead, and said quietly, “Let’s go.”

Act 1, Scene 6 – The Drive to the Psychiatric Hospital

Chubs and Tina didn’t talk much while they loaded the toddler into her car seat.  The air in the house still buzzed from Chubs’ garage session, not with anger, but with that electric feeling when you know something is about to change.  Tina grabbed her purse, Chubs grabbed his earbuds and wallet, and they stepped out into the cool morning.

First stop: Holiday Station store.  It was ritual.  Chubs filled his dark roast espresso refill, splashed in just enough cream to make it muddy, and nodded to Katie and Dottie.  They smiled politely, maybe a little nervously, Chubs had that energy again, the kind that made him talk fast and laugh too loud.  He loved them anyway, prayed for them as he walked back to the car.

Chubs pulled out onto the highway, passing the junkyard just outside town, rows of rusted metal glowing orange in the early sun.  “Whole town runs on that place,” Chubs muttered, almost to himself.

They rolled past the Catholic Church, white steeple stabbing up into the sky.  Chubs tapped the steering wheel.  “Pretty sure they have no idea who they’re really worshipping,” he said.  Tina just looked out the window.

The elementary school and high school came next, small-town brick buildings surrounded by a mix of playgrounds and half-empty parking lots.  Chubs thought of Derrick and Alexus, what they were being taught, what they weren’t.  He felt the familiar flash of anger that kids got handed to Caesar five days a week and then their parents were expected to fix them in two hours on Sunday.

Then came Pirate’s Booty, the famous junk store with the giant fiberglass pirate out front.
Chubs cracked a grin.  “Only place I know you can buy a set of fireworks, a bag of bungee cords, and a snow globe with Jesus in it all at once,” he said.  Tina almost smiled.

Once they were past Brainerd, there was nothing but three hours of highway between them and The Hospital.  The toddler napped.  Tina scrolled on her phone.  Chubs turned the stereo up just enough to disappear into his head.  “Lonely Town” played.

Chubs began thinking about the old programs that never really died, MK-Ultra, Mockingbird, Paperclip the kind of history that gets filed away as “yeah, that was bad… anyway.”  He didn’t feel panicked about it.  Just sober.

If a nation is willing to drug its own citizens, lie through every major newspaper, and import war criminals because they’re useful, not because they’re good, then the real question isn’t why did they do it?  It’s why would they ever stop?  Institutions don’t repent.  They rebrand. That was the thought that stuck with him.
Not fear. Not anger. Just clarity.

People always say, “That was a different time.”
Chubs knew better. Time doesn’t change hearts, pressure does.  The methods get quieter.  The language gets softer.  The paperwork gets cleaner.  But power never volunteers to give itself up.

He smiled a little at the irony of it all.  The same system that could orchestrate mass manipulation still couldn’t manufacture a single honest conscience. That part had to be grown. Slowly. Painfully. One soul at a time.

And that’s when Chubs felt calm again.  Because whatever shadow games men played in offices and basements, they were still small games.  Finite games.  Christ didn’t beat Rome by outspending it or out-planning it.  He outlived it.

Rome needed secrecy.  Truth only needed breath.  If they’re still playing those games, it’s because they’re still afraid.  And fear, he knew, was never a sign of control, only of something slipping.  He closed his eyes, steady now.  Let them run their programs.

Let them whisper into microphones and rewrite headlines.

Chubs didn’t need permission.  And he didn’t need instructions.  He just needed people who could still hear the note beneath the noise.

And Chubs could hear it.

The drive stretched on.  He thought about his first trip to the hospital, or The Sin Bin as he affectionately called it, nearly two years ago to the week.  That time had been worse.  Darker.  He was moved to the high security floor because of his aggressive speech.  A floor full of would-be prisoners, with no locks on the door to keep them away.  Keeps a person alert.

He’d been drunk most nights back then, lost, barely holding onto the job, the kids, his faith.  This time, he was sober...  Well Cali-Sober.

And then, out of nowhere, the thought hit him:
What if this is just seasonal affective disorder?
The question burned like acid.
He almost said it out loud but didn’t.
Instead, he prayed silently, gripping the steering wheel tighter: 

“Father, if I’m just nuts, tell me.  If I’m just broken, I’ll take my medicine and be done.
But if this is You, if this is Your Spirit, then don’t let me miss it.”

No answer came.  Just the road, stretching out straight and flat all the way to the hospital.

Act 1, Scene 7 – Intake at St. James’

The automatic doors sighed open, and that sterile hospital smell hit Chubs like a wave, bleach, coffee, and something metallic underneath.  He’d smelled it before. This time it didn’t scare him.

He wasn’t coming in drunk or broken.  He was here because he had to be, and maybe because God needed him here.

Tina signed him in at the desk, her face tight.  The toddler was asleep on her shoulder.  Chubs gave her a wink, part reassurance, part bravado.  “I’ll be alright, babe. Go get some rest,” he said.  She hesitated, then nodded.

A tech came and led him down a hallway, past a security door that clicked shut behind them with the weight of finality.  Chubs smiled to himself.  Sin Bin. Round Two, he thought.

The nurse waiting for him was tall, dark-skinned, and had a calming presence.  His accent was heavy, East African, maybe Sudanese.  “Sir, I am going to need you to remove all clothing and place it in the bin. We will inventory it and return it when you discharge,” he said matter-of-factly.

Chubs didn’t flinch.  He peeled off his clothes one by one, dropped them into the bin.  “Don’t act like you are not impressed,” he said with a grin, trying to break the tension.  The nurse didn’t quite smile, but there was warmth behind his eyes.

“Arms out,” the nurse said.  He patted him down quickly, professionally, no shame in it.  “Shoelaces too,” the nurse reminded him.  “Oh, come on,” Chubs said, mock-offended.  “How am I supposed to play basketball with no shoelaces? This is going to wreck my dunking.”  Chubs was 5’9” tall and wouldn’t be dunking any basketballs either way.

That got the nurse to chuckle, just a little.  “Safety first,” he said.

For some reason, that moment mattered to Chubs.  Most of the staff here were stone-faced, too professional to let their guard down.  But this guy, there was something trustworthy about him.
Chubs made a note to himself: This one. If I talk to anybody, it’s him.

Once he was in scrubs and non-slip socks, they handed him a plastic tote with a blanket, a towel, and a cup.  Chubs followed the nurse down another hallway, past more buzzing doors, into the heart of the unit.

Everything was bright and clean, but in that way that felt too controlled, like a school that had its soul scrubbed out.  A few patients milled around the common area, quiet, some staring at nothing.  Chubs didn’t look at them long.  He wasn’t here to make friends.  Not yet.

The nurse pointed him to his room, small, two beds, one already occupied by a silent roommate who didn’t even look up from his coloring book.  Chubs dropped his tote on the bed and sat down.

He exhaled slowly.  The hospital’s hum buzzed through the air vents.  He closed his eyes.

“Okay, Lord,” he whispered.  “You brought me here again.  Show me why.  And keep me from going crazy before the miracle.”

Act 1, Scene 8 – Day One in the Sin Bin

Chubs woke to the sound of the night shift opening doors and doing their 0600 vitals check.  He blinked up at the fluorescent light strip over the door.  The air smelled like antiseptic and whatever they used to clean the floors.  The nurse rolled in with a blue blood pressure cuff and thermometer. 

Chubs sat up, let them do their thing, sang a bit from “Under Pressure” by Queen The nurse smiled politely.  Roommate still fast asleep.  After breakfast of eggs and oatmeal, Chubs decided to move.  He traced the L-shaped hallway slowly at first, past the dayroom with its bolted-down furniture, past the nurses’ station where they tracked every twitch and shuffle, past the locked doors that buzzed when staff went through.

By his third lap, he’d found a rhythm.  The hall was about 120 feet, and every step felt like reclaiming some tiny bit of freedom.  You can lock me in, but you can’t keep me still, he thought.

He asked for ice water from the nurse’s station and drank deep.  Then another.  Hydration was going to be his discipline here.  That and prayer.  He was convinced they put saltpeter in the ice which was good while he was away from Tina.

The other residents began to drift toward him.  A lanky kid with Coke-bottle glasses introduced himself first, then a short woman who spoke too fast about her medication history.  Chubs nodded, smiled, but didn’t offer much back.  Today was for observation, not bonding.  He wanted to know who everyone was before opening his mouth.

Group therapy rolled around mid-morning, a circle of vinyl chairs in the dayroom.  The charge nurse, Mark, was running the show.  Mark was clean-cut, mid-40s, and had that permanent furrow between his eyebrows that made him look suspicious of everything.

“Alright, Chip,” Mark said when it was Chubs’ turn to introduce himself.  The name landed wrong.  Chubs raised an eyebrow.  He didn’t like that.  “Name’s Chubs,” he said flatly.  “Not Chip. Chip sounds like some guy who plays polo on weekends.”

A few patients chuckled.  Mark didn’t.

Later in the session, when Mark asked a question about coping strategies, Chubs leaned back in his chair and said, “Well, Matt, I just try to keep my sense of humor. That’s the only thing keeping me from losing it in here.”

Mark frowned but didn’t correct him.  Point made.  The nerdy residents laughed under their breath.  Chubs sat poker faced, that was part of why so few people understood his humor.  He didn’t need to laugh at his own jokes to let you know they were funny.  He wasn’t here to fight, but he wasn’t going to be steamrolled either.

By evening, Chubs had walked the hallway enough times to make the staff comment on it.  He kept to himself otherwise, ate dinner quietly, drank more water, and went back to his room early.  No point burning energy the first day.  He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Outside his door, the hallway buzzed with the sound of keys, distant laughter, and phones ringing at the nurses’ station.  Somewhere in the dayroom, a patient was loudly explaining the plot of an anime to anyone who’d listen.

Chubs prayed softly.  “Alright, Father.  Show me what I’m here for.  I’ll walk these halls, I’ll keep my head down, but when You say move, I’ll move.”  He thought about Tina and the kids.  He knew it was difficult for everyone around him.  He knew he was on mission from above.  They would simply need to give him some grace. 

Act 1, Scene 9 – Day Two in the Sin Bin

Chubs woke before dawn.  The wall clock read 5:30. For a moment, he just listened, faint hum of the ventilation, occasional creak of the old building settling, and the soft whimpering of his roommate in the next bed.  Sometime in the night the kid had been thrashing, crying out in a language Chubs didn’t recognize.  Night terrors, staff had said.  They’d come in, given him something, and he’d gone quiet again.  Chubs laid awake, praying softly until he drifted off again.

Now he swung his legs off the bed and decided if he was going to be stuck here, he might as well get sharper.  He dropped to the floor, did 25 push-ups, slow and steady, then some sit-ups.  He followed that with a couple dozen jumping jacks, careful not to wake his roommate.  Then he stripped the bed and remade it Navy-style: hospital corners, pillow straight.  The room looked squared away by the time the morning shift buzzed in at 0600 to check vitals.

Breakfast came and went.  By mid-morning, they were offering recreation time in the gym.  Chubs was one of the first to sign up.  The gym was just a converted multipurpose room with a single hoop, scuffed floor, and a bin of half-flat basketballs.

Nobody was playing when he got there, so Chubs picked up a ball and started messing around, underhand shots, granny-style free throws, ridiculous skyhooks that clanged off the backboard.

“Kobe!” he yelled to no one in particular, grinning when one went in.  The other patients milling around in the room chuckled from the bleachers.  Might as well keep the mood light.

That’s when a big native patient with braids and a calm, watchful face walked over.  Had to be pushing six-three, built like he’d turned a wrench more than once in his life.  “Wadena,” the man said simply by way of introduction.

“Chubs,” Chubs replied, spinning the basketball on his finger.

The man looked around, lowered his voice.  “You’re awake. I can tell.”

Chubs narrowed his eyes.

“The tribe sent me in here.  We have a lot of kids make their way through this place, coming back with stories.  Scary stories about what happened to them. 

Somebody’s running a chimo ring through this hospital. First floor. That’s where they keep the kids.”  He nodded toward the floor like Chubs could see through it.  “Watch the men here who look… you know the look. Too interested. They’re not patients, not really. This is a holding tank.”

The information hit Chubs like a rush of ice water.  He nodded slowly.  “Got it.”

“The kids that talk, they are written off as being insane.  Molested in the psych hospital, chalk it up to delusions…  Its pretty sick.”

After recreation, Chubs couldn’t stop thinking about what Wadena had said.  As his floor group was lead back to the elevators Chubs saw the kids lunch area.  Then he saw 2 men watching them…  Wadena was for real.

At supper, he decided to stir the pot, see who twitched.  He set down his fork and suddenly barked, loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear: “I CAN’T HANDLE ALL OF THESE PEDOPHILES!”

The room froze for a second, then the buzz of conversation resumed.  But Chubs was watching.
One of the men at a corner table glanced up sharply, then looked back down at his tray.  Another muttered something under his breath.  Interesting.

Chubs spent the rest of the meal moving slowly, cleaning as he went.  He picked paper off the floor, straightened the chairs that had been left crooked, wiped down the nearest table with a napkin.  It was habit now, if he kept the environment clean, maybe the spiritual atmosphere would follow.  He learned that on his first visit to the bin.    When he was done, he rewarded himself with a fountain Coke from the drink machine, savoring the fizzy sweetness like it was a sacrament.

Evening came and Chubs noticed the shift in energy when the night staff clocked in around 4 p.m.  They were coarse, more clinical, less patient with questions.
The vibe was off, curt voices, suspicious glances, too many closed-door conversations at the nurses’ station.  Chubs didn’t trust them.  Something about the way they moved made his skin itch.

He went to bed early that night.  Something told him he would need his rest.

Act 1, Scene 10 – Day Three: Halloween Watch

Chubs woke early again, 5:15, and the air already felt heavy.  It was Halloween.  The one night a year when the veil thins and all the wrong things slither closer.  He hit the floor for push-ups, cranked out forty this time, then sat back on his bed breathing hard.  He looked at his roommate, still sleeping peacefully after a rare quiet night.  “Good,” Chubs muttered. “You don’t need to see what’s coming.”

Breakfast was quiet.  Even the nerdier residents who were usually chatty seemed subdued.
The ones Chubs mentally tagged as “spiritually dark” were a little too awake, whispering and grinning to each other.  He caught fragments of conversation that made his skin crawl — words like “harvest,” “gate,” “power.”  One even said, “Tonight it flows.”  Chubs prayed under his breath, rebuking whatever was trying to settle over the place.

Group Therapy was interesting when a 20-year-old overweight angry lady called a guy in group a burnt-out crackhead and made him cry.  Chubs was distracted thinking about what Wadena had told him and was looking for evidence.

Throughout the day, he walked the 120-foot L-shaped hallway, nodding at the staff who checked vitals and meds.  The Sudanese nurse he trusted gave him a calm, steady look as if to say, I see you. Stay steady.  But the rest of the staff seemed distracted.  Meetings behind closed doors, quick glances exchanged that stopped when Chubs got too close.

From his room’s window that afternoon, Chubs saw more police cruisers than usual patrolling the road.
Not racing by, just crawling slow, like sharks circling.
He wondered if they knew.  He wondered if some were paid off.  If some were part of it.  He wondered if somebody higher up knew what went down in places like this on nights like this.

By evening, the energy was electric, like the whole ward was humming.  At 4 p.m., the night staff came on, and as always, their attitude soured the air.  Sharp voices, fake smiles, and a tension that made Chubs feel like an intruder in his own cell.  Still, he kept his discipline, cleaned his room, picked up the stray paper in the common area, wiped down the cafeteria tables.

Then he started walking the hallways deliberately.

“Marching the boat,” he called it to himself, picturing the L-shaped hallway as a submarine and himself as captain making rounds.  His bare sock feet made no sound, but the other residents noticed.  Some looked relieved, others annoyed.  Didn’t matter.  Chubs wanted them to know someone was awake.

As he walked every so often he whistled the tune of Weezer’s “The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived” and sang it to himself in his head.  He was the star of that song.  At least he wanted to be.

New arrivals started coming in late, older men, 50s and 60s, all quiet, all escorted by the staff Chubs didn’t trust.  He watched them disappear into rooms.  His stomach turned.  These were the customers being brought in.

At 9 p.m., he approached the nurses’ station and quietly told the Sudanese nurse what he suspected, that there was something wrong with the night intake.  That maybe kids were being moved around.  He didn’t raise his voice, just stated it like a report.

The man’s expression didn’t change much, but he gave a single slow nod.  “I hear you,” he said quietly.

Chubs marched the halls and glared at the new intakes, the new “customers”.  Let them know this was his place, and nothing untoward would be happening to those kids on his watch. 

The nurses moved the men from room to room avoiding Chub’s watchful eye.  Chubs just marched.  For hours he marched and kept an eye on things.

Then extremely oddly, everything changed.  At exactly 2:00 am, a full shift change happened, not just a couple replacements, but everyone.  Not a normal shift change time.  Fresh faces came in, moving with military precision, calm and focused.  The atmosphere flipped like a switch.  No more snide comments, no more weird whispering.  Just order.

Chubs grinned for the first time that day.  Naval efficiency, he thought.  Somebody upstairs had heard him.

He walked the hallway one last time, satisfied with the situation.  Then, for the first time since admission, Chubs slept, deep and unbroken, until nearly 4 a.m.

Act 1, Scene 11 – Day Four: New Beginnings

Chubs woke with a strange mix of peace and fire in his gut.  It was 4:00 a.m.  He stretched, made the bed tight enough to pass a drill sergeant inspection, and dropped for push-ups and crunches.  His roommate barely stirred.  Then he prayed.

But when the 6:00 a.m. vitals check rolled around, the shift energy was different than the night before.  The staff was excellent, calm, professional, but the residents had turned.

It started small, one of the darker ones muttering something about “captain patrol.”  Then another one laughed and said, “Who do you think you are, some kind of watchdog?”

By breakfast, the whole table seemed to hum with hostility.  A couple of them openly mocked him as he walked by.  Chubs kept wiping down tables, picking up paper cups, and straightening chairs anyway. If anything, it made him work harder.  “Good,” he thought, “let them hate it.  Let them hate me.  If I’m stirring something up, maybe that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Later, in group therapy, one of the residents raised his voice and accused Chubs of “acting like he runs the place.”  Chubs just smiled faintly and called him “sir,” which only made the man angrier.  It didn’t matter, the staff was watching, and Chubs noticed the good ones nodding quietly like they knew what was happening.

The day room TV was locked on election coverage.  November 3rd was approaching, and the talking heads were calling it the most important vote of the century.  Chubs leaned against the wall and watched for a few minutes before shaking his head.  Peace sells, but who’s buying? he thought, Megadeth’s gritty bassline rolling through his head.

None of these politicos are really in control of the people they way they think they are.

Back in his room later that morning, Chubs knelt by his bed and prayed out loud: “Father, if this is where you want me, let me feel it.  If you want me to fight, I’ll fight.  If you want me to sit, I’ll sit.  But don’t let me miss the mission.”

The hallway stayed quiet except for one of the residents who occasionally yelled down the corridor, trying to get under Chubs’ skin.
It didn’t work.  Chubs had already decided: his marching the night before mattered.  It had brought the good staff.  It had kept the floor clean.  Even if nobody thanked him, he knew the job had been done.

Act 1, Scene 12 – Day Four (Afternoon): The Games Begin

The day began at 6am, and Chubs felt refreshed.  In his head AC/DC’s “Who Made Who” played.  “Wanna show them who made who Father?”  After lunch, a new team of doctors rotated onto the floor.  Chubs immediately noticed the difference; these weren’t the usual local psych types.  Their body language was calm, intentional, they were elite in their field.  In the middle of them was a woman in a deep red blazer, Indian, perfectly put together, elegant in a way that screamed high status. 

She didn’t belong in this ward.

She introduced herself simply as Dr. Priya, smiled at the group, and said they’d be running a “cognitive engagement exercise.”  Chubs smirked to himself.

Games.
Like camp.
Fine.

The residents shuffled into the community room.  On the table were whiteboards, markers, flashcards, and some strange little logic puzzles.  Dr. Priya explained the rules quickly, memory sequences, riddles, timed problem-solving.  Some of the residents groaned.  A few tried to make crude jokes.  But as the games started, it became clear this wasn’t busy work, this was testing.

Chubs kept quiet at first, letting the others fumble through the first round.  When a riddle stumped the room, he leaned forward and gave the answer softly, correct.  When it was a math puzzle, he waited until the last possible second, then rattled off the solution before the timer buzzed.

Each time, the doctors nodded.  Dr. Priya made notes.  The other residents started to look at him differently, some were impressed, some irritated.  By the third game, even the staff psychologist leaned back and just watched Chubs work.

And yet, he never tried to dominate.  He cracked a joke here, gave someone else the chance to answer there.  When one of the nerdier residents got a question right, Chubs slapped the table and said, “There you go, man!” like a proud coach.

It became clear very quickly: Chubs was the alpha mind in the room.  Not because he shouted, but because everyone, including the new doctors, began waiting to see what he would say before they moved on.

When the last round ended, Dr. Priya smiled at him directly for the first time.  “You’re very sharp,” she said.  Chubs shrugged. “I read a lot.”  It was partially true.  He didn’t read all that much anymore, but he didn’t need to.
He just saw connections fast.

After the session, Chubs walked the L-shaped hallway twice, deep in thought.  This wasn’t just therapy, they were assessing him.  He wondered who exactly this Indian lady reported to.  Some alphabet agency?  Sentinels?  Or someone higher?

Didn’t matter.

Chubs decided he was going to give them a good show, let them see what a man in the spirit looked like under pressure.  That night, he fell asleep smiling.  Not because the hostility from the other residents had let up, it hadn’t, but because he knew something had shifted.  They were paying attention now.

Act 1, Scene 13 – Day Five: Commander Chubs

Chubs awoke, 05:30, some jacks and pushups to get the blood pumping.  Vitals at 06:00. Blood pressure slightly elevated, but nothing out of range.  Chubs made his bed Navy-tight, squared his toothbrush and comb on the counter, and gave the mirror a look that said, you know who’s running this place.

Breakfast was uneventful, until group therapy.  One of the residents, a wiry, twitchy guy who’d been glaring at Chubs since day one, suddenly snapped.

“Why do you act like you’re better than us?” he spat, voice cracking.  The room went quiet.  Even the staff paused, waiting for Chubs’ reaction.

Chubs didn’t even look at him.  He took a sip of water, set it down slowly, and said, “I have a purpose.  I know who I am, and that seems to make you uncomfortable.”

The room stayed silent a moment longer, then the staff therapist changed the subject.  Chubs let it roll off.  He was done arguing.

Later that morning, Chubs’ doctor called him into a private office.  She smiled, a genuine one this time.  “Chubs, you’ve stabilized well,” she said, scanning his chart.  “Your insight is good, your mood is level. I think you’re ready to go home tomorrow.”

Chubs nodded once. “Good. The crew’s been on edge. Time to give them back their boat.”  The doctor raised an eyebrow but said nothing, she was used to his metaphors by now.  After that, Chubs stopped engaging with the residents altogether.  He didn’t want to fight them, didn’t want to teach them, not today.  He walked the hall instead.  Slow, steady laps up and down the 120-foot L-shaped corridor.  Back straight. Shoulders squared.

Whistling.

Not just any whistle, Weezer’s “The Greatest Man That Ever Lived.”  The melody echoed softly off the institutional walls, equal parts haunting and triumphant.
In his head, the lyrics played on loop: “I am the greatest man that ever lived…”  It wasn’t pride, not exactly.  It was confidence.  The kind that comes when you’ve faced down every demon in the room, kept your soul intact, and still managed to stay funny about it.

The staff noticed.  Even the night crew, who had never warmed to him, kept their distance now.  Chubs had claimed the hallways, claimed the day, claimed the ship.

That night, instead of tossing and turning, he slept deeply.

Tomorrow, he would be discharged.
Tomorrow, he’d take the fight back to the outside world.

Act 1, Scene 14 – Saturday Discharge: Leaving the Boat

Saturday morning came with a calm that Chubs hadn’t felt in months.  He woke up at 05:30 sharp, but instead of springing out of bed, he sat still for a moment.  Breathing slow. Listening.

The hallways were quiet, no chaos, no tension.

He made the bed crisp one last time.  When vitals were checked at 06:00, he grinned and said,  “You guys are going to miss me when I’m gone.”  Even the night nurse, who had been stone-faced all week, cracked a half-smile.

At 10:00, the discharge papers were ready.  Chubs signed them, each stroke of the pen feeling like a salute.  As he handed back his hospital ID wristband, he said softly, “Take care of this ship. Keep her steady.”

When he stepped out into the cool Saturday air, Tina was waiting by the curb, engine running.  She looked nervous, but when Chubs got in, she saw the difference immediately, his posture was straight, his voice calm, his eyes clear.

“You good?” she asked, softly.

“Better than good,” Chubs said.  “The Father just let me finish one mission. Now we wait for the next one.”

Tina exhaled.  For the first time in weeks, her Chubs had come back to her.

On the drive home, election coverage buzzed on the radio.  Commentators shouted over each other about polls, swing states, fraud accusations.  Chubs turned the volume down and stared out the window.

He remembered a church he’d once attended, how they flew the Christian flag below the Stars and Stripes.  How wrong it had felt even then.  Chubs loved America, its wildness, its potential, its promise, but Christ was King.  And Chubs knew where his allegiance had to lie.

When they got home, he didn’t go inside right away.  Instead, Chubs walked to the flagpole in the front yard.  The fall air bit cold against his skin.

He untied the ropes, lowered the American flag slowly, respectfully, folded it tight, and held it against his chest for a moment.  Then he carried it inside and set it on a shelf in the garage.

“Jesus first,” he said out loud, as if anyone listening, in Heaven or on Earth, needed to hear it.

And just like that, Chubs felt the next mission was closer than ever.

Epilogue

Can you put a price on peace?
One man’s reputation?
One man’s soul?

Peace sells, but who’s buying?

The thought echoed in Chubs’ head like a riff from a long-forgotten song, that gravelly tone of truth that always hit him in the chest harder than any sermon.

Maybe that’s what had gone wrong with the world. Everyone wanted peace, on their terms, without surrender, without repentance. But peace costs. It costs the old you. The fake you. The one that smiled through sin and called it grace.

He’d paid his share. Divorce. Public embarrassment. Nights in a hospital where his mind burned like fire and the Spirit walked beside him whispering things the world would call madness. But it wasn’t madness. It was instruction.

Now, in the slow hum of a Sunday morning, the world finally seemed still.

Sunlight spilled through the blinds, dust motes drifting like tiny galaxies in orbit. The smell of fresh coffee rose from the kitchen, mixed with the faint pine scent from the backyard. Tina moved quietly near the counter, her robe slipping off one shoulder, her face soft in the morning light. She was the kind of beauty that didn’t fade when the light changed.

Chubs leaned against the doorframe, hands in his hoodie pocket, half a grin tugging at his lip. He wasn’t thinking about missions or prophecy or the broken world outside. Just this. Just her. Just the quiet hum of a life beginning to make sense again.

Tina turned, catching him looking. “What?” she said with that half-smile, eyebrow raised like always.

Chubs smiled wider. “It’s time to cream your coffee...”

She laughed, that laugh that always cut right through his armor. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, crossing the kitchen to her, voice low. “But I’m here.”

He poured his cup, took the first sip. Warm. Strong. Perfect. For a moment, the noise of the world fell away, the politics, the wars, the false prophets. None of it mattered. He had peace. The real kind. The kind that can’t be bought.

But somewhere deep in his chest, a flicker stirred, like a match struck in the dark. The Spirit whispering again. A reminder. A call. The mission wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The King was coming.
And Chubs would be ready.

Bonnie Tyler “Holding out for a Hero”