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  4. Theodore Turley

I proceeded to tread lightly down the stairs from the balcony to check on the bride. I remember when I graduated high school, a year I will not divulge, I was a petite size two with a flat chest, a genetic condition making me ineligible for the cheerleading squad. When the marvels of modern science developed the wonder plastic making it possible for girls like me to protrude without cotton stuffing, I joined the millions putting foreign substances into our bodies.

This sidebar has nothing to do with the wedding, just thought you needed to know I breathe heavily because of recently acquired pounds, newly diagnosed asthma, and unremitting stress. I was gliding toward the waiting room off the narthex where Mary Sue was hidden from public view, waiting for the ceremony to commence, when I noticed the organ music. No, just tell the groom to hold on. Mary Sue was pacing the carpet with a cell phone crammed to her ear. Hold on a sec, Jackie. What did you say?

The answer must not have been one she wanted to hear. Shock registered on her face. She was getting into her car when somebody grabbed her, tied her up, and stuffed her in the backseat. She managed to get loose and use her cell to call me.

Full text of "History of the Churches of God in the United States of North America"

Maureen, are you hurt? Have you called nine-one-one? My dress is wrinkled and my makeup is messed up, though. Guess I should do that now.

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She clicked off. Having learned most brides experience temporary insanity on the day supposed to be heavenly perfection, I studied her with both surprise and sympathy. How did these generation Xers become so self-obsessed? Although it was a Saturday, and he was not on duty, I used my cell to punch a number on my speed dial, the personal number for Police Chief Grant Howard. After divulging the news about a possible kidnapping, I imagined his eye beginning to twitch when he heard that I, Jackie McGrath, was in the middle of another potential front page news story. After talking to the man who has supplied me with many nights of romantic fantasy, I returned my attention to matrimonial matters.

Mary Sue was close to histrionics when I eased the door closed.

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Metcalf, who had previously seemed anxious, now sounded angry. What I want to know is: where in the hell is my wife? Mom, you gotta get back here. My fifteen-year-old son had definitely worked too many of my weddings if he knew how to slip in the euphemism of cold feet.

I wanted to know. The mother of the bride, that would be the missing Mrs. Metcalf, and the father of the groom, that would be Mr. With exposed limbs and body parts twisted in a Kama Sutra position not believed possible for their age demographic, their moans and sighs drowned out the gasps of outrage. The groom, that would be the salesman son of the Porsche dealership owner, shrieked, pulled his hair, and slammed the door as he ran out of the choir room. The shrieks and slams finally got the attention of the soon-to-be in-laws.

It was too late for them to hide beneath the sacred purple robes, but they made a brave attempt to cover their nakedness and shame as the rest of us eased out of the room where sin was being committed. The best man, his younger brother, had his face over the waste basket. I put wet paper-towels on their necks, and ordered them to remain while I performed damage control. The groom mumbled something about wanting to go blind.

I mumbled, Wonder what model Mr. Porsche Dealership Owner promised Mrs. It was my place to calm the bride while advising her that the groom had suffered a momentary lapse in fortitude. It was also my duty to request the patience of the guests and the borrowed pastor for a while longer.

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Was it my place to inform Mr. Metcalf that I had found his missing wife? It was not. It was to have been a brief, simple wedding. No frill, no thrills. As it turned out, the only ones getting a quickie were the amorous would-be in-laws. The turn of events was beginning to resemble a monster truck rally.

I envisioned the rampaging trucks chasing me through the sanctuary, the massive wheels mowing me down. My chest was getting tight, and my inhaler was upstairs in the balcony, resting inside my big purse. I had to go up there and get a hit of faux air if I was going to do any more fixing. I trudged up the stairs to the balcony and shot my asthmatic lungs full of air. While beginning to breathe easier, I heard sirens. I looked out the window to see a police cruiser hot on the tail of a speeding green Honda.

The cruiser was followed by a canary yellow Chevy Cavalier weaving awkwardly from lane to lane. The three cars swerved into the church parking lot kicking up dirt and gravel. The cruiser braked within yards of the entrance, the Cavalier tapped the rear-end of the cruiser, but the Honda kept coming, dipping right and left as it climbed the church steps on its rubber wheels. I leaned over the balcony, and yelled for everyone in the sanctuary to run to the altar, and then I braced for the hit. At thirty miles per hour, the Honda came barreling through the double doors with an ear-splitting crash, sending splinters and leaded glass in all directions and frightened guests to their knees.

A moment of quiet hung in the air along with dust and debris and silent prayer. I shot another dose into my lungs for good measure, and tested the soundness of the stairs before I put my full weight on them.

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One foot was on the bottom rung when the police came charging through the door, guns drawn. Despite being pursued by armed professionals, the occupant of the Honda exited the car. At the precise moment, Mary Sue exited the waiting room. Jimmy Hondo bellowed at the top of his lungs, Mary Sue. I love you.

What in the name of God are you doing, Jimmy? They were trying to handcuff Jimmy when Mary Sue jumped on his back and tried scratching his eyes out.

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By this time, the guests were on their feet examining their bodies for cuts, bruises, or whiplash. I was certain some were already in the throes of post traumatic stress and trying to remember the name of that law firm on that TV commercial that would sue anybody for anything.

The body parts definitely not incapacitated were fingers and thumbs. As soon as the collective shock waned, digits began punching at warp speed on miniature keyboards, and the instant texts and tweets were hurled into space. Images were being snapped with cell phones and the pixels were transported instantaneously to emails, Facebook , and Youtube.

Taking advantage of the misfortunes of others through the miracle of apps has become a blood sport. With nothing left for me to do but gape, I was trying to tamp down a mounting case of nausea when the chief of police came striding through the new front door, his long legs swooshing denim and his felt cowboy hat shielding stern blue eyes I knew were twitching with displeasure. For once, I was not at the bottom of a dog pile, and I greeted him, Hello, Grant.