|Pastor Jones - never one to play with fire|
“I’m sure if he wasn’t reduced to a single charred foot sticking pathetically out of a pile of ashes, Terry wouldn’t want to distract the world from the solemn anniversary of the deaths of a couple of thousand money dealers,” the supreme being told the press. “He wasn’t really one to make a fuss about anything, you know.”
According to God, who saw everything, the humble preacher had just finished planing down the top of a thirties bedside table and was reaching for the open pot of varnish when tiny wisps of smoke began curling from his collar. Seconds later his entire torso erupted in spurts of white flame, in a classic instance of that rare phenomenon, spontaneous human combustion.
Before his horrified Lord’s eyes, the hapless human candle stumbled around his Gainesville, Florida workshop, accidentally upsetting the pot of varnish all over himself and tragically mistaking a spraycan of furniture polish for a fire extinguisher.
“It was all over in seconds,” explained a shaken God. “I wish I could have intervened - but unfortunately that would deny faith, and Terry certainly wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“I think I can speak for my dear friend when I say that the best way to remember him would be to simply get on with remembering those members of the financial community who lost their lives in the Twin Towers nine years ago,” urged the creator. “Unfortunately, I can’t actually confirm this with him, as for some reason he doesn’t seem to be with me yet.”
“You know, it suddenly occurs to me that maybe he might have gone to the other place,” frowned God. “Well, I guess it just goes to show. You think you know somebody pretty well - then something like this happens, and you wonder if you ever really knew them at all.”