Reverend Gibbs sat on a bench in front of the courthouse and watched the brightly colored tents being set up. It was still early; the festival wouldn’t begin for a couple hours.

“Faggots!” he said in a seething whisper, not speaking to anyone other than himself.

He wondered where the others were. He was psyching himself, trying to get pumped for the role he had to play. They were supposed to meet here at seven. They had organized the protest last Sunday after church and had made the signs and banners last night. He was proud of his sign. It looked like a rainbow flag, the kind the sinners waved, but in huge black letters, it read AIDS IS THE CURE! REPENT OR DIE! Gay plague was right, he thought. In his last sermon, he told his congregation all was foretold in the book of Revelations:

"And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels, Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth. And the first went, and poured out his vial upon the earth; and there fell a grievous sore upon the men which had the mark of the beast." Revelation 16:1-2.

This caused a hail of “amens” to echo around the small chamber of the church. It almost sounded like a chant.

“Nirvana is close at hand,” he continued in his thunderous voice.

The Baucom boys sitting in the back elbowed each other and hummed “here we are now, entertain us”. The preacher didn’t hear them, but their Mother gave them a scornful look.

“All the signs are upon us. Resist the beast! Prepare your place in heaven by keeping a pure heart and mind. Call out in protest as the sinners bring their evil sodomite ways to our town. Let’s show the leaders of this community that they are not OUR leaders. We don’t want this filth around our children or us. Do you want to live in sin city??!!!”

Another congregational maelstrom but this time it sounded like cheering.

“NO! NO!” “PRAISE BE TO GOD ALMIGHTY” “DEFEAT SATAN”

“Let us turn our hymnals to 188 and sing Onward Christian Soldiers. After the service, we will have a brief meeting to discuss plans for our protest on Saturday. I hope you will stay.”

The beer trucks were lining up now down Cumberland Avenue. Reverend Gibbs counted at least five. He looked at his watch again. It was now quarter after seven. A large group of people turned the corner. Because of the colorful posters, at first he thought they were festivalgoers, but then he recognized Marty Burnside who was carrying a sign that said GAYWAY TO HELL. The preacher was relieved. It was a good turnout, at least forty. They talked for a while and decided the best place to protest was at the entrance to the park. A few members volunteered to go around to the other entrance, but Reverend Gibbs said he didn’t think that was necessary.

The TV crews were beginning to arrive. One of the reporters asked if anyone would like to be interviewed and Marty’s wife Margaret jumped at the chance.

“We don’t want our kid’s exposed to this vile way of life. We certainly don’t think it’s cause for celebration,” Margaret said. “We object to the city allowing this kind of thing in a public place that belongs to