Pure Fiction

The Angel Gabriel pays a visit to Mike Huckabee. Lunch is interrupted. Judgment is not.

A Jesus portrait looms on the wall. A Chick-fil-A bag and milkshake rest on the desk next to a signed bass guitar. MIKE HUCKABEE is mid-bite.

GABE (bursting through the door in blazing light)
Hey, Mike.

HUCKABEE (mouth full)
Whuh—wha’s going on?

GABE (stepping in, wings folding, eyes fierce)
You mind if I ask you a few questions?

HUCKABEE
Uh… sure?

GABE (nods, surveying the desk)
Looks like I caught you at lunch. What’cha eatin’?

HUCKABEE (swallows)
Chick-fil-A.

GABE
Chick-fil-A. The Lord's chicken shack of choice. I heard they make a holy spicy sandwich. I ain’t never tried it myself—how is it?

HUCKABEE
It’s good. Real good.

GABE (grabbing a nugget, dipping it in sauce, biting it slowly)
Mmm. That is a tasty sanctimonious nugget.

HUCKABEE (startled)
Would you like—

GABE (ignores him, grabs milkshake)
You mind if I wash it down with this tasty beverage?

HUCKABEE
Well, I mean—

GABE (already sipping through straw) Slurp.

(Slurp gets louder. Intense eye contact.)

GABE (smacks lips)
That… is a tasty milkshake.

GABE (grabs another sip)
What’s in this?

HUCKABEE
Uh… vanilla?

GABE
A man of simplicity. Fitting.

(Long pause. GABE walks slowly to the Jesus portrait.)

GABE
So tell me, Mikey-boy… does He look like a bitch?

HUCKABEE (offended)
What?

GABE
What? I said—DOES. HE. LOOK. LIKE. A. BITCH?!

HUCKABEE
No!

GABE
Then why, oh why, do you treat Him like one? Selling His name like a side of coleslaw, baptizing every lie in spicy mayo and shame?

HUCKABEE (trembling)
What?

GABE
WHAT ain’t no faith I heard of. They speak English in your church, Mike?

HUCKABEE
What?

GABE
SAY WHAT AGAIN. I dare you. I double dare you, Mike. SAY WHAT ONE MORE TIME.

HUCKABEE (meekly)
I was just—

GABE
I was just? No, no, no. You were just WHAT, Mike? Just crucifying the truth with every podcast? Just playing holy with a bass guitar strung with self-righteousness and Chick-fil-A coupons?

(Huckabee freezes. GABE stares him down like a thundercloud with sandals.)

GABE
You see this face?

(He points at the Jesus portrait again.)

GABE
You see that man? That man did not die so you could run your mouth on cable news while remixing Leviticus with a backbeat. And you got the nerve to ask me what?

GABE (staring daggers)
Can I call you Mike?

HUCKABEE (nodding, nervously)
Sure.

GABE
Hush, Muffin. I got a story to tell. You like scripture, don't you?

HUCKABEE (sputtering)
Y-yes.

GABE
Good.

(He paces slowly. The room feels smaller. Brighter. Like the heavens are leaning in.)

GABE
There’s a passage I got memorized. Seems appropriate for this particular moment of divine humiliation.

(He turns to Huckabee, eyes blazing.)

GABE
“The path of the hypocrite is paved with golden calf merch and insincere prayers. Blessed is he who rebukes the televangelist, and walks away from Facebook sermons in search of actual justice. And I will descend upon thee with flaming sarcasm and righteous mockery, and you will know my name is GABE… when I lay my fury upon thee!”

(With a holy scream, GABE rips the bass guitar from its stand. MIKE shrieks.)

GABE (raising it high)
AND I WILL SMITE THY FOUR-STRINGED ABOMINATION!

(He SMASHES the bass across the desk. Strings snap. Jesus napkins flutter. Chick-fil-A sauce explodes.)

GABE (panting, halo glowing hotter)
Let no false rhythm arise in this den of greasy deceit.

(Huckabee collapses, sobbing in a puddle of lemonade and shame.)

GABE (kneeling beside him, softly)
Jesus didn’t die so you could sell chicken and conspiracy theories, Mike. He flipped tables. You flipped your spine.

(GABE stands. Wings unfurl with thunder.)

GABE
We done here.

He exits. Fade to static. Cue harp solo.

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If you’ve read this far, you’re not just some bystander with a burger in your mouth. You know. So if you believe in righteous chaos, divine comedy, and sarcasm that hits hard — become a paid subscriber. Because we’re not done. And God help us if Mike Huckabee says what one more time.