Why The Grave Won't Silence Pete

How do I hope to be remembered in history? Good question, thanks for asking. I have no problem sharing the hallowed halls of history with great leaders like Moses, Jesus, John Calvin and Hendrik Verwoerd. I have no doubt that I have already made my mark on history -- and I'm not talking about the paint-splattered Halloween demon worshipers who got a taste of Pete's righteous indignation.

I have made my mark on history by reforming the way Christian missionaries are perceived in the world. Now, when everyone thinks of missionaries in conflict regions of the world, they picture me -- Bible in one hand, automatic weapon in the other. The modern dragon slayer.

I wouldn't mind having the words 'He was a Great Reformer' emblazoned on my tombstone. That would be cool, as my idiotic ex-apprentice would have said. But I'd prefer 'Here lie the mortal remains of Paintball Pete, the Great Dragon Slayer -- Second only to the Primary Dragon Slayer, Jesus the Warrior King -- who has Fought the Good Fight and now claims his rightful place in God's throne room among all the other great heroes of the faith, like Moses, John Calvin and Hendrik Verwoerd'. But I'd need a fairly large tombstone to have all of that, including my favourite imprecatory psalm so that I have the final word on all my persecutors.

Actually, I think I'll call the funeral place right now and change my tombstone selection. I want the biggest, most formidable thing they have on offer. If it glows in the dark, all the better. If my persecutors imagine I've not made a significant mark on history, at least my final resting place will settle the score once and for all.

Fight the good fight. Before the grave, from the grave and beyond the grave.

Aisle Number Five

I bumped into my ex-apprentice in the supermarket yesterday. I needed some batteries for my son's very realistic automatic toy weapon, which is why I was walking down aisle number five. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a shaven-head youngster in surfer gear stop dead in his tracks at the bottom entrance to the aisle, shriek something that sounded very much like omyfuckinggoditsthatcrazymissionary and then throw himself under the aisle partition and crawl like a madman to the other side.

My military-trained instincts told me immediately who it was and I zipped around the partition to surprise the living daylights out of the idiot. Thought he got away from Paintball Pete, did he?

I grabbed a packet of oreos and with the same swift motion, shoved the entire packet into his wide open mouth before he could yell out any more profanity in the store. I asked him a tirade of questions, which needed a simple nod or shake of his head in answer. Turns out he was in the store to pick up some batteries for his iPod. He wasn't tailing me. He wouldn't dare. But just in case the thought ever crosses his mind, I gave him a good smack across the back of the head to clear it of all foolish fantasies.

I have to go back to get more batteries today -- I'm sure I won't be running into iPod boy in aisle number five. My little warrior got a bit carried away with his new toy and chased Liberty around the garden for hours. I'm so proud of them both -- my son for his developing militancy and Liberty for his eternal slide into submissive servitude. He'll have to use his paintball gun until I get back from the shop.

Fight the good fight.

Old Money

A well-meaning geriatric (financial) supporter of my mission adventures and anti-terrorism efforts recently asked me if I would consider taking out that lunatic atheist who has ruined the once magnificent colony founded by Cecil John Rhodes. By the way, all the indigenous peoples around the world who bleat about being there before the holy white man arrived, suck it up, okay. As I've said before, all is fair in love and war.

I told the wrinkled old prune of a woman that I may consider an assassination attempt, but what's the point of taking over that country again when all the whites have already left. I guess I could help to launch a Christian political party that would resurrect their pitiful economy and entice whites back with promises of land and nice new churches and plenty of segregated privileges. But the West has become so liberal, I'm not sure this is a realistic vision. Best to leave history to play itself out. One day, when Africa is no longer the Dark Continent and most of its peoples have died because of Aids and wars, clever and more civilized whites can repopulate the continent in a modern Voortrekker era that will usher in the thousand year reign of God's people.

I promised to look into it and take a few containers of food, Bibles and other tools of our trade, while scouting for opportunities to take out the idiot of all dictators.

She took out her cheque book and immediately handed me a wacking sum of money.

Well, I'm off to the local gun shop to buy a few more toys with this gracious donation to my cause. Then I'll be stopping off outside the warehouse that used to house a disgusting adult perversion outlet. They've closed down thanks to my persistent protests. The den of iniquity has been bought over by a giant child toy franchise. My youngest broke one of his many toy guns the other day, so I'll also pick him out something intimidating to act out his manly aggression in the garden.

Fight the good fight.

Lies, hunger strikes and swollen digits

I know I've been a little quiet of late. One reason is that I locked myself in my secret bunker by mistake. It took the rest of my family three days to discover that super dad had not disappeared on another one of his clandestine missions. I have been known to vanish for a while without telling them -- if they know, they can be tortured for information by atheist communist terrorists or by liberal pacifist Christians. And they don't have to lie on my behalf either, although that would not be a bad thing. Remember the story of the whore in Jericho who hid the servants of Yahweh and lied about it to the assassins? She was considered a righteous person for doing this, even though she was shagging for a living. But I know my kids -- they can't lie with a straight face. Not yet. It's part of their basic training programme in the Lord's army, but I just can't risk it until they're lethal spiritual fighting machines.

So I've been recovering after my forced hunger strike, which is why my blog has not seen much action recently.

The other reason is that Liberty slammed my fingers in the garage door. By mistake. So he says. But we had just used him as a moving, running, ducking, diving target in a game of paintball, which was a particularly aggressive one as I was trying out my latest, custom-designed paintball gun. Let's just say he took more hits than a Sudanese convert / house slave should. To the head. Repeatedly.

As you know, successful blogs demand rigorous typing. My bruised, swollen fingers didn't allow it initially, although I've ploughed through today's post with all but three fingers still twice their normal size. If I've never boasted about my incredible, supernatural pain threshold before, well, now is as good a time as any.

Fight the good fight. If Liberty behaves and I don't lock myself in my bunker again, you should hear from me pretty soon. But if I'm locked in that bunker, well, I have lots to read down there.

My Way Or The Highway

My wannabe missionary apprentice has reconsidered his calling. He no longer believes the good Lord wants him to deliver Bibles and military goods to African countries. I have convinced him that he cannot give the devil a foothold or allow evil men to prosper by not carrying a weapon with him at all times. And I mean something that can blow a serious hole in a grown man's chest, or at least cripple him for life. Not a pellet gun -- although, I am sure I could take on Chuck Norris with a pellet gun and win anyday.

No, my young apprentice would not like to be a missionary -- I could have told him that the day he walked into my office, and reconfirmed it the day he soiled his undies in the bush. What does he want to do? I'd love to tell you that my freshly initiated apprentice is going to organise anti-abortion protests and anti-sex shop campaigns, but instead I have to inform you that he has failed the cause of righteousness and is dangerously close to eternal hellfire.

Here's why: he plans to abandon the faith. It's worse than you think. He's going to attend a liberal church that welcomes homosexuals as if they are okay in God's sight. Wrong! They're an abomination. And he is planning to support Gun-Free South Africa -- even tattoo their pagan logo on his shoulder. I'm sure he'll have his ear ring back in his ear in no time and be listening to that satanic rock music on his iPod. He should tattoo "I belong to Satan" on his forehead.

He's lucky he only told me this when we were fifteen minutes away from headquarters. I'd have left the little ungrateful, backslidden, apostate bastard son of Satan back where he crapped his pants. I slammed on brakes and tossed him out on the side of the highway to hitch a ride home.

I'm a little disappointed that my tactics didn't work out completely as planned, but I'm not at all sorry for doing the Lord's work on that boy by removing his tattoo, shaving his girlie hair and ripping out his homosexual ear ring. And who knows, perhaps all those seeds I have sown in his life will not be stamped on by Lucifer and he'll come around to my way of seeing things. For now though, it's the highway.

Fight the good fight.

Survivor

We’ve spent all weekend in the bush with no clothes on. The ambush went down as planned. Masked gunmen leapt out from behind a cluster of trees, held us up at gunpoint and made us strip down to our underwear. That’s when I saw how badly my young apprentice had soiled himself!

We were then chased into the bush with vulgar threats that we’d be castrated if we tried to get back to our vehicle. I had to bitchslap my young wannabe missionary several times before he would stop screaming hysterically. Do you want to die, I asked him. He said no in a high-pitched, effeminate manner, which was answered by another tight slap to the back of the head. I then asked him if he trusted me almost as much as Jesus to protect him, to which he said yes, but it was more of an unconvincing sob than the banshee warcry I’d hoped for.

As soon as we found a small stream, I made him clean himself. I certainly wasn’t going to spend the whole weekend with that foul smell around us. We then spent the rest of the weekend living off the land—he was being prepared for Armageddon and I was simply honing my Rambo-like survival skills.

When we finally made it back to our abandoned vehicle, I had to slap him several more times to get him to unclutch his genitals. I’d forgotten about the threats of castration!

We’re back on the road, fully clothed like good Christians, singing Onward Christian Soldiers with gusto, munching on an army-supply ration pack ... and I have not heard the words dude or radical since the ambush. It’s awesome what a little basic army training will do for a man's missionary calling.

Fight the good fight.

Battle Scars

My stupid little apprentice has grown to like his military hairstyle. If he keeps looking at his reflection in his spoon and saying, "Rad, man, like totally frikkin cool" ... I fear I may tattoo the word Moron on his forehead. Speaking of tattoos, he has accepted my justification for removing his ink and is warming to the idea of the battle scar he is sporting where the ridiculous tattoo used to desecrate God's temple.

We've dropped off the Bibles / guns at the mission station / mercenary training camp and are making our way back home. I have tipped off a few ex-military buddies of mine who are staging a mock ambush a few hours away. My apprentice may be sporting a brand new scar, but he needs a real battle experience to exorcise the ways of the world from his psyche. He has a neat haircut, but he knows nothing of the thrill of warfare ... yet. I'm really looking forward to the initiation -- even if it is rigged.

Fight the good fight.

New Creation

Shock and awe! There's no better way to describe the look on his face. He shouted something like omygodwhatthefuckhappened! But I was laughing so much I didn't really hear the exact words coming out of his incredulous mouth. But if he does utter such filthy words in my presence, he'll know all about it.

My apprentice had just awoken to see his new military-style shaved head with the missing homosexual piece of jewelry staring back at him. And after he'd stopped clutching his almost bald head and fingering his naked ear lobe, he tried unsuccessfully to rip off the banana leaf bandage around his forearm. I may still patent my tattoo removing remedy to fundamentalist church pastors who wish to straighten out other young punks in their congregations. It's painful, but it works -- I'm sure my skinhead friend will be whining about it for the rest of the trip, but he'll thank me when he gets to heaven and he's not the laughing stock of the entire celestial multitude because of his inked body. Sure, he'll have a nasty scar, but at least he can boast about suffering for righteousness sake instead of trying to explain why he rebelled against the Holy Bible.

We are now ready to drive to the mission station and deliver our precious cargo. No ways I was going to arrive there accompanied by a long-haired punk who would offend the locals and God in heaven. But he still has a few things to learn on the way back. I've saved the best till last, just like Jesus and the really good grapejuice at the wedding in Canna.

Fight the good fight.

The Day After Yesterday

I'm not sure what went down yesterday, but I have no doubt that some really diabolical act has taken place somewhere in the world. Either the antichrist was finally born, probably to a Muslim terrorist family or a secular liberal humanist newspaper editor. Or someone threw another rock over my wall with some demonic message written in blood. I wouldn't be surprised if both these satanic things have taken place, given The Beast's mark on the calendar. But it's over and a six has become a seven, God's perfect number.

Perfect timing, too -- we've successfully crossed the border. I have not allowed my young apprentice to sleep more than fifteen minutes the whole journey. He's a little delusional, so I've let him sleep for a while longer. He will awaken with a much shorter haircut, his ear ring will be a thing of the past, and I'm still working on removing his tattoo without having to amputate his arm.

STOP THE PRESS: I've just received an sms from my faithful warrior wife back home, who says she is sure a rock landed in the garden around midnight last night, but she couldn't find any trace of it this morning. Liberty is going to get his little black ass kicked when I get home. No doubt he found the cursed piece of masonry and buried it. He may think he's doing his master a favour, but now the entire garden is polluted with that foul satanic tool. He'll unbury it and I'll make sure he crushes the damned thing to dust with his bare fingers.

I've got to run. I hear my apprentice stirring and I don't want to miss the look on his face when he sees his reflection in the mirror, which I've suspended 30 centimetres from his face.

Fight the good fight.

666

We've driven our two-landrover convoy for twenty-four hours, only stopping for a few short pee breaks and to refuel. My apprentice is starting to look slightly weathered. At first he tried to insist on being allowed to listen to his Christian rock music on his iPod, but I have insisted that we sing all my favourite hymns instead. We may have sung Onward Christian Soldiers upwards of 234 times, but even I've lost count.

We've finally stopped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere (well, I know exactly where we are, but I'm not going to disclose my exact location for obvious reasons). We could soldier on, but seen as the date today is 06.06.06, I thought a special demon-destroying prayer meeting would be appropriate. I have no doubt that countless demon-worshiping satanic covens, heavy metal bands and the Pope will be praying against the work of the Lord today. I don't need a blow-out and unfortunate accident all because we allowed some diabolical spirit to attack one of my landrover's tires. And I certainly don't need Liberty to go off his rocker back home and attack my unsuspecting wife with a garden fork.

So I've commanded several angels to stand guard around my property and one to restrain the nutty Sudanese gardener. A few more are accompanying our convoy -- one is on duty sweeping the road clear of all potential satanic devices, and another is protecting my precious cargo.

My apprentice was about to foolishly challenge this aspect of my theology, but a lack of sleep and excessive hymn-singing has sapped his energy. His extreme makeover is imminent.

Fight the good fight.

Apprentice

I had planned this gun-running, Bible-delivering mission a long time ago, but the day that long-haired freak walked into my office with his Dude-this and Bru-that lingo, flashing his Jesus Rocks My World tattoo like a wild, untamed pagan, the mission evolved into something else. Yes, of course we'd still deliver the weapons, both tangible and spiritual, but I'd be damned to hell with all the ANC voters if my young apprentice did not return from his bush adventure a changed man.

So we left really early this morning. Landrovers were loaded over the weekend with the precious cargo, gave my wife a good bon-voyage seeing to in the missionary way, sang a few Sunday school choruses with my young warriors, gave Liberty a long list of chores that would cripple a normal man, and then rode off into the sunrise with my red-eyed apprentice looking apprehensive. As he should!

The long journey itself should begin to shatter his foolhardy attitude, but that's only the warm-up. Buckle up, my young apprentice, your life is never going to be the same again.

Fight the good fight. If you're the infamous rock-thrower and even think of a cowardly act in my absence, think again.

Starting a Church, Baby, Starting a Church

I think I've told you before that I've been kicked out of several churches for my "overt militancy" and for a few minor indiscretions. Simple solution: just start your own church, which I've done. But before the blown-out-of-all-proportion paintball issue that has given me my snappy nickname, I was attending a local church filled with mostly old people. I find this is the perfect cover for a guy like myself. The older generation of white people generally hanker after the good old days when God-fearing whites still ruled this land and there was no such thing as gun control (for whites) and abortion on demand. So they don't really question my shady past like a younger generation does.

Except this one time. The older guy who came up to me after the service must have been recently converted to Buddhism or some wacky New Age cult. He looked okay, nothing too freaky for an old guy, but it was what he said that convinced me the guy was a nutjob.

He said he had read plenty of my literature -- and believe me, there is plenty to read, so I was immediately impressed. Then it all went down like a lead balloon! He said he could not understand how come I was such a judgmental person -- why I spent so much of my energy opposing everything that I didn't like or that didn't square up with my biblical worldview.

I almost punched his lights out, but instead I kicked into my sly, grinning persona as I guided him out of earshot of the other tea-sipping congregants discussing the minister's sermon on loving your enemies (that reminds me, it wasn't long after this that I was asked to leave his church ... I guess it was the letter I wrote him informing him about his faulty theology).

I digress ... when we were safely out of earshot, I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought about his lopsided views and pussy-footing around the truth. Christians are not supposed to judge? Rubbish. We are to test every spirit, which means if we find something that is unchristian and / or satanic, we are commanded to oppose it in Jesus name. Which I've dedicated my life to, by the way. I made sure he could see the holstered gun bulging under my jacket as I told him he was a disgrace to the faith for not showing up to my anti-abortion marches.

He was a strangely composed fella despite all my threats and intimidating statements. He simply recited countless verses about peacemaking, loving enemies, forgiveness, reconciliation, the nonviolence of Jesus and other misleading portions of the Bible. People say I misquote and take the Bible out of context! Well, idiots like this side with the antichrist, as far as I'm concerned.

I almost let my grinning persona slip and wanted desperately to knee this chap in the groin, but the minister snuck up behind me and asked how we were doing on this fine Sunday. I spotted my faithful wife across the tea garden and excused myself hurriedly, mumbling some standard line about having to go and organise a protest march.

Uncomfortable moments like this are a thing of the past. Now that I'm running my own little church, comprised of my family members and Sudanese converts (the perfect multi-racial smokescreen -- someone has to serve the tea after the service) and one or two invited, gun-owning guests, I don't have to deal with idiots like this who insist on quoting the Bible back at me. The nerve!

Fight the good fight. If you prove yourself on the battlefield, I may invite you to a church meeting. Maybe.

Dude, Have You Seen My Missionary?

If that little long-haired twit sends me one more email about how much he is looking forward to next week's mission trip ... if he signs off one more email with Keep radical, Your Dude in Christ ... I'll drag him by his ear ring into my secret bunker and teach him some respect before we've even loaded one of our landrovers with the boxes of Bibles / guns we'll be transporting to Zambia. It's taking every ounce of righteous control to stop myself from going off pop and crashing his computer with a lethal virus and then ripping his tongue out of his backside. It will be far more enriching for him to learn firsthand how a true Christian behaves among the heathens, so I'll just have to bite the bullet. But don't worry, I'm definitely going to make sure his appearance changes drastically when we get more than ten feet out of this country. Punk.

You may be wondering how I manage to smuggle guns across border posts. Faithful readers of my blog will know that if I disclosed such sensitive information to you, I'd be obliged to terminate your life. Fundamentalist Christian or not, your ass is mine if you ever learn more than you need to about my mission activities. But do not underestimate the power of a good bribe. That's all I'm saying. That and prayer. It works a lot like magic, but we're forbidden to dabble in the occult, so I'll leave it at that.

Fight the good fight, dudes!