It was about 1AM when the nuns attacked.

I was looking over dockets for my cases in the upcoming week, eating my chicken soup. I heard a noise at the back door, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Then they descended upon me like mad penguins. They swirled about like black-and-white dervishes, trying to pull me out through the back door and into the warm summer night. They’re only nuns, right? Who couldn’t fend off an attack from nuns?

Me.

Mother always warned me about my lying. “Oi vai iz mir, ” she would cry out, “why must you lie?!” But what did she know? I employed my penchant for fibs and prevarication into something that paid the bills — public defender by day, writer by night.

Lying was not a natural gift. My first calculated, pre-meditated lie was aimed straight at the heart of Darla Pinkerton. I loved her dearly; her black curly locks dripped over her shoulders and bounced when she skipped down the hallway to her next class. I had crafted a lie so big, so amazing, that she would have to be my girlfriend. I informed her that I was the quarterback for the opening season game against Lafayette Middle School. What girl could resist the guile and charm of a quarterback?

This lie taught me the important lesson of checking your facts. Darla was dating the team’s quarterback. My lie had not earned a date but instead a kick in the balls and Teddy Colcombe’s fist in my stomach. It was a painful reminder that panache alone could not carry a lie. Mother informed me later that I couldn’t have dated Darla Pinkerton anyway because she wasn’t a Jew. Who knew? In the 4th grade you certainly don’t carry a goyim scorecard around to keep track of girls compatible with your high-strung Jewish mother… a crush is a crush.

Like Teddy Colcombe’s size 8 shoe planted squarely in my groin outside Miss Weatherby’s class, I initially thought the nuns were some celestial goon squad sent by Him to punish me for my lying.

So, who couldn’t fend off an attack from nuns? Yeah, that’s right, the same skinny runt in school that lies in the 3rd grade that he’s the starting quarterback.

So yeah, they were old, ok? At least two of them were. It was hard to tell, their heads half-covered in habits with their pale faces framed by black and white cloth. The one was definitely old. Her mean crinkled bunched up face poked out from her habit like an apple that had shriveled from sitting in the sun too long. The other was stooped and looked like a hunchback but still stood a head taller than me, at least 6’ 4” in her stern black shoes. The last nun was hard to tell. Her face looked soft yet bloodless, as though her skin had never been touched by the sun. She could’ve been 40. Or 20. I couldn’t tell. Besides, who could play guess my age with a swirling maelstrom of nuns in their kitchen looking like black-caped lunatics at 1:12AM?

I grabbed a butter knife and waved it wildly to keep them at bay.

“Back off you crazy bitches!”

Why wouldn’t I use a steak knife, or something that could actually slice, slash or pierce? I mean c’mon, these are nuns. Would you’ve brandished a goddamn serrated knife at a group of nuns? That’s like threatening your grandmother with a .357!

So maybe I underestimated them. And yeah, the fact that I weigh 120 pounds soaking wet didn’t help either. One of them snuck from behind and hit me over the head. I didn’t go out cold, but I was dazed. I was seeing stars. You know those cartoons where the character gets bonked and they see stars and little birds flit about their heads? That really happens. Except for the birds, of course. But the stars are a nice little touch when you have that oh shit epiphany when getting roughed up by nuns.

I covered my face, half-dazed, expecting them to pounce and pummel me with their limp and rickety little nun punches. Instead, the big goon nun with a hunchback that looks like a member of the East German swim team drags me out the back door by the scruff of my shirt.

Waiting for us in the back alley was an idling convertible candy apple red 1967 Ford Galaxie. The thing was a massive rolling destroyer that could crush compacts or sedans or pedestrians unfortunate enough to be in its path. The trunk of the car was already open, like a hungry maw waiting to be fed. The hunchbacked goon dumped me in the trunk. As she sealed my mouth shut with a sticky strip of gray duct tape, the other two nuns whispered.

We drove for hours. Well, they drove for hours. I simply rolled in the trunk like a bag of potatoes, hitting the side each time they took a corner too fast or made a turn.

My wrists and ankles were bound with tape, so escape wasn’t an option. Besides, what the hell did I think I was going to do if my girlie muscles actually broke my duct tape bonds? I was still stuck in the trunk. I mean really, 1967 Ford Galaxies didn’t come with safety features like child trunk releases to entice soccer moms. No air bags, no ABS, nothing. Those cars in the 60s were rolling death chariots that guzzled leaded fuel and belched black fumes and transported corpses in the trunk when the mob needed to bury somebody in the desert on the outskirts of Vegas. The trunk was solid. It was no different than being locked up in San Quentin. I waited and listened.

We rolled to a stop. I might’ve been nuts, but I swore I saw light peaking through one of the pinholes in the trunk. Then I heard the muffled, tinny squawk of a speaker. A drive-thru? I heard two distinct voices from the car. Two? There were definitely three nuns, but I only heard two voices for sure. The car sat and idled for a few minutes; the deep, throaty growl of the muffler resonated inside the trunk. It was like being trapped in a soup can with angry bees.

I heard voices again, but the low rumble of the muffler made it difficult to distinguish who was speaking. The car slowly accelerated, turned and came to a stop. After a moment, the car was thrown into park and the engine shut off.

The smells. The smells wafting through the trunk were glorious. Maple syrup. Toast and butter. Eggs, bacon. Definitely coffee. These witches went through a drive through, and did they even bother to order me anything?

I’m forced to keep my mouth shut by virtue of the gray duct tape, so I tried to listen and learn just one scrap of info about my abductors. It was prime time – the engine was shut off and no muffler growled in my ear, so it was the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop and listen to their crackpot scheme. Did they gab? Hell no, they stuffed their faces and slurped their coffee and orange juice like three little pigs garbed in black.

Keys jangled, and I could tell that they were ready to hit the road. But before that starter cranked I caught enough of their conversation to paint a crude picture. There were three nuns — Sister Francesca, Sister Agnes and Sister Therese. I was almost positive Francesca was the lesbian death goon that threw me in the trunk like a sack of turnips. I also swore she was the driver. Don’t hold me to this, but I don’t think she said anything. And Agnes and Therese must’ve been in the back seat because I heard them much more clearly.

There was another vague but important clue. They were of different orders. One was Sacramentine, the other Carmelite, the other… shit, the throaty roar of the engine and muffler was deafening, and my ears and skull rang like a thousand tiny bells from the decibels. We drifted back in reverse and slowly accelerated forward. Made a slow, gentle turn. Then without warning, that stern black shoe slammed the accelerator and the full 300+ horsepower smashed me against the back of the trunk.

Hundreds of miles rolled beneath me in that trunk, but I learned little else because the nuns rarely stopped, and when they did I was too sick from car exhaust and too famished to listen that closely. But I managed to catch scraps here and there. The biggest clue was that they considered me some sort of catch; a prize. But not all of them agreed about my status on whoever the hell I was supposed to be. The one – was it Francesca the goon? – thought I was an impostor. The other swore up and down – I mean ‘goddamn shut your cakehole, are you stupid?’ swore up and down – that I was the real deal. The other nun, the quiet one, said something here and there but I usually couldn’t hear her above the din of the muffler or the crickets or the cicadas. The light outside was dying, and the few pinholes and cracks that illuminated my world grew dim and finally blacked out completely.

I caught one more snippet a few hours later while they stopped to gas up. They were going to test me. They were going to prove once and for all whether I was the genuine article. I didn’t know what the hell that meant. As the gas chugged into the tank, I was going to kick as hard as I could against the walls of the trunk to attract attention. My pants were already piss-soaked from hours ago, but then there was the immediate matter of taking a grunt. I’d be damned if I had to sit in a trunk with half a loaf of shit in my drawers baking in the summer heat. As soon as the gas finished filling the tank, I cocked my legs to kick the side wall but the car tore off with a screech of tires before I had a chance.

I didn’t have to wait long. The car stopped again, no more than thirty minutes after they filled the tank. I heard a click, and the trunk lid slowly opened to reveal a glorious canopy of stars. Three pale faces stared at me from outside the trunk.

The cool summer air was a brief respite from the car exhaust that lingered in the trunk. Before my lungs could even take in half a gulp of the clean night breeze, the giant nazi death nun lifted me from the trunk with one hand and dumped me into the warm summer grass. She roughly hacked at my duct tape bonds with a switch blade. When my ankles and wrists were free, she handed me a robe and a pair of sandles. We had parked on the shore of a large lake.

As I stared at the robe and sandles, the other two nuns discussed my test. These two were Agnes and Therese, I’m almost sure of it. Agnes was the short and shriveled nun — of the Sacramentine order? — while the other nun, the ageless one with unblemished skin was Therese… Carmelite order, I think. So that must’ve meant the Amazonian death dyke that kept pulling me to and fro from the trunk was Francesca. God only knows what order Fran belonged to, probably the teutonic shove little Jewish men into trunks and bind them in duct tape order.

So they continued to talk amongst themselves and I thought I finally had the scorecard straight. Francesca, Our Lady of Perpetual Duct Tape, thought I was an impostor. Agnes the shriveled gnome proclaimed me to be the real deal and warned her fellow sister penguins they may have to face the consequences once I proved myself. Therese… lovely Therese, so quiet, and with perfect unmarked skin said in a quiet mousey voice that she would let the test be the final judge.

Once they had finalized the rules for the ‘test’, it was apparent how much shit I was in.

They considered me the reincarnated return of Jesus Christ. The second coming. The messiah. As my Jewish grandmother would’ve called me, the moshiach.

They had brought me to the lake. I was to walk on water. I was to put on the robes and sandles and walk on water.

Well, this was just beyond fucking ridiculous. Never mind the fact that I’m not even Christian. I’m only Jewish by virtue of the fact my family told me I was born Jewish. I’ve never even stepped inside a synagogue in my life.

“You truly think I’m Jesus?”

Therese and Agnes nodded. Francesca simply glared at me.

“Look. Jesus had long hair, a beard, blue eyes… looked like the bassist from Lynyrd Skynyrd. I’m a 120 pound Jewish public defender from Cleveland with kinky hair and a deviated septum I plan on getting fixed as soon as I get sick leave. I’m not your man.”

The three continued to stare.

“I don’t even know how to swim.”

Francesca jabbed me with a bony finger as if to say get dressed in the robe or else.

So I disrobed. I kicked off my shoes and piss-soaked jeans and my shit-filled underwear and pulled the thick robe over my head and put on the Jesus sandles that looked suspiciously like Birkenstocks. Agnes pointed me to the lake, as if she had the power herself to command my body to walk the surface of the water. Therese handed me a crude necklace made of felt, which she called a Scapular. It had a picture of the Virgin Mary on it. I put it around my neck and walked to the edge of the water.

Based on how long we drove, it could’ve been Lake Erie, or any of the Great Lakes for that matter. Hell, it could’ve been Lake Pymatuning across the state line in Pennsylvania. Out across the far stretch of black water sat a tanker twinkling on the horizon. Ok, so scratch Pymatuning. We were somewhere near the Great Lakes.

I saw a flattened beer can and an empty shotgun shell sticking out of the sand. I entered the water. My Jesus sandles quickly sank and fought to plow through the mud and silt of the lake bottom. Within seconds the cold lake water was up to my chin. I turned to face the car parked on the hill just above the shore.

“See! No walking on water! I failed the test! Can I come out now?”

The nuns argued by the open trunk. Agnes waved her hands wildly while Francesca crossed her arms across her chest and kicked the sand with her stern black shoe. Therese simply nodded and shook her head from time to time.

I could’ve escaped. Except that I couldn’t swim. And Francesca would’ve hunted me down like a wild jackal on the Sarengetti. So I stood there and relieved myself in Lake Erie or Michigan or Huron so I wouldn’t have to soil myself again the trunk of the Galaxie. They honked and flashed the headlights twice, and I walked back to the shore where Francesca waited to throw me back in the trunk.

 

We drove for about another hour or so. It had to be past midnight, meaning I was close to at least the full 24 hour mark of being kidnapped. I was breathing a mix of cool summer air and leaded car exhaust; my brain felt half-numb and filled with carbon monoxide. My last meal had been 24 hours ago, and that was a mere bowl of chicken soup. My body couldn’t face the prospect of sleeping the night in the trunk. My head bounced from the metal floor of the trunk and the muffler spat obscenities into my ear. I prayed to a faceless god that I could have a quiet night’s sleep with a plush pillow and a warm blanket on a soft mattress.

Within minutes my prayer was answered. The car made a slow turn and came to a stop. I made out fragments of their muffled conversation — Francesca was renting a room for the night. They popped the trunk and I was suddenly standing out in the night air in the middle of an empty motel parking lot alongside a long stretch of nondescript highway. The motel’s blue-pink neon tube sign crackled against the black stretch of night sky. One lone phone booth stood along the side of the road illuminated by a single street lamp.

As we walked to room 104 the nuns debated my authenticity. Agnes proclaimed that the apocrypha and ancient texts irrefutably proved my divinity. Therese acquiesced that while non-canon literature may have suggested my divinity, there was no official doctrine to back up the claims. Francesca simply kept a death grip on my arm.

I knew I had to make my move. I had to lie. I had to use my strength against them, or God only knows what would happen. When we were finally inside our room and the door was closed I layed it on them.

“You need to let me go.”

They stared at me suspiciously. “But just for a little bit. You brought me back, and I have returned. I have returned for a reason.”

OK, my mind freaking turned a million somersaults trying to figure this one out, picking through scraps of vague Christianity and shitty Charlton Heston movies and Easter specials my mind had collected the last 30 years. Jesus had a gang, right? They were like a posse or groupies. The apostles, yes… that’s it.

“I must go out and gather the original Twelve Apostles.”

Francesca snorted and gave me a you’re fucking crazy if you think you’re leaving this motel room look.

Agnes started to speak. I cut her off.

“Look. This comes down to faith. Belief. You either believe I’m the risen Christ or not. If I am who you think I am, I’ll return with my apostles. If I’m not the Christ, and I don’t return… why would you want to hold a man against his will who isn’t truly the Messiah?”

I walked toward the door. Francesca wanted to stop me, but Agnes nodded and let me leave. She told Francesca that they would be seeing me and my disciples sooner than any of them could imagine.

Suckers. I escaped into the crisp night air. I fingered the loose change in my pocket and headed for the phone booth by the edge of the road.

I slid the folding door open and slid into the booth. I pumped two quarters into the payphone and punched in Davey Schultz’s home number. Davey Fucking Shultz you crazy bitches — he’s gonna come pick me up and I’m gonna say sayonara to your crazy asses.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Rings. His machine picks up, but Davey’s groggy voice finally cuts through the answering machine.

“Hello.”

“Davey? It’s me! Man, I’m so glad to hear you… I need your help.”

“Who the hell is this?”

“Dude, it’s me, Bernie. Bernie Berkowitz.”

Davey talked like his tongue was made of oatmeal shot full of novocaine. “What the hell? We haven’t talked in like five years.”

“Listen man, I’m in deep shit, I need your help. I’ve been kidnapped.”

Davey swallowed and I thought I could hear him clear his head a bit. “Whoah, what the hell happened?”

“I’ve been kidnapped by nuns, Davey.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Let me guess, they were biker nuns, right Bernie?”

“No, they actually have a candy apple red convertible 1967 Ford Galaxie.”

“You’ve always been a goddamn liar, Bernie. Screw you.”

Click.

Nothing but dial tone. That sonofabitch. A friend in need is a friend indeed my ass. I slammed the plastic phone two, three, four time against the metal receiver. Fuck fuck double fuck.

I heard a tapping against the glass of the booth.

The nuns surrounded the booth like three pale moons draped in dark cloth and crucifixes. As Agnes thumped a Catechism against her palm, Francesca unrolled a long strip of duct tape.