The joint moved slowly between them, each philosopher holding it like it contained an ancient truth. The car idled in the parking lot a slightly dented black sedan, sun-warmed, sticky with takeout napkins and unspoken metaphysics.

Kierkegaard sat behind the driver, hoodie cinched, arms folded tight, staring out the window like it had just shown him his last three lifetimes. Nietzsche leaned against the backseat door, shirt open, chain glinting, eyes behind mirrored lenses. Roderick up front, fiddling with the Bluetooth and muttering, “Where the hell is Coltrane when you need him?” And McKenna — cross-legged in the back, giggling into his palms like he’d just cracked the simulation code.

They were halfway between lucidity and the edge of something spiritual.

Then McKenna pointed. Grinning like a mischievous forest elf.

“Let’s go in. I wanna see something sacred.”

They all followed his finger.

FloodWave Church.

Walking in was like getting baptized in LED. A girl in joggers gave them wristbands. The fog machines had already started. They slid into the back row like four dudes sneaking into a movie they didn’t pay for, trying to act casual while clearly being too high for the previews.

No one spoke. Eyes front.

Then the music hit.

Lights dropped. Bass thumped. And she walked on stage blonde, glowing, wrapped in skinny denim and radiant intention. The mic in her hand looked like a wand. One arm raised, the other clutching her Bible like a Dior clutch.

She closed her eyes and said, breath trembling:

“I just… feel Him… so deep…”

Nietzsche lowered his shades slightly.

“I feel Him in my heart… every night. Even after I mess up. Especially after I mess up.”

Kierkegaard leaned forward, blinking slowly.

“This is not worship... is it?”

McKenna wheezed.

“She’s edging for Jesus.”

Roderick uncapped a cigarette.

“Don’t,” Kierkegaard warned, grabbing his wrist.

“I’m not lighting it,” Roderick said. “I’m holding onto something real.”

She raised her voice:

“Before I was saved… I was in a situationship. I was out there in the club throwing up outside a Buffalo Wild Wings… and God met me in that moment.”

Nietzsche choked on his LaCroix.

“She’s giving communion with trauma crumbs,” Roderick muttered.

Kierkegaard just shook his head.

Then the shift.

The music faded. She lifted her Bible.

“I’m gonna go ahead and bring the Word today, if that’s okay…”

All four froze.

“Wait” Roderick squinted. “She’s the pastor?”

“No. She can’t be both the prelude and the prophet,” Nietzsche said.

McKenna leaned forward, tears in his eyes, giggling like a child.

“She’s the worship leader and the Word dealer?”

Kierkegaard, trembling, pulled out his phone and found her Instagram. They all leaned in. Bikini pic. Glorious arch. Caption:

“Walking with the Lord 🩷✝️”

Nietzsche whispered, “God is dead. Again.”

Then she said it.

“Today’s message is called… Plan B, But Make It Biblical.”

They rose like a synchronized crisis.

Nietzsche knocked over a fog machine cable.

Kierkegaard forgot how to walk for half a second.

Roderick stood like he’d just been drafted.

McKenna was doubled over, slapping Nietzsche’s back like it was all performance art.

“She’s preaching from her Close Friends tab!” he shouted, gasping.

They began their escape. Chairs bumped. Fog swirled. A greeter with an iPad waved weakly. Then

“If you’re feeling empty, don’t worry… He can fill you all the way up.”

Roderick picked up the pace.

Nietzsche: “SHE’S GOING DEEPER, BRO.”

McKenna: “WE’RE IN THE SPLASH ZONE!”

They hit the aisle like the floor was lava.

“You think He left you? No, baby girl -He’s just been waiting… to come again.”

Kierkegaard cried out, “STOP. STOP. SHE’S SUMMONING HIM THROUGH A METAPHOR!”

Roderick knocked into a camera tripod.

Nietzsche tripped over a prayer rug.

McKenna ran backwards, shouting, “THIS IS REVELATION AFTER DARK!”

From the stage:

“When the Spirit moves, don’t clench up… Just let Him slide in.”

All four men screamed.

They burst through the lobby doors in full sprint past a flipped merch stand, a poster reading “SAVED & SLAYING,” and a fog machine coughing out its last puff.

Fifteen minutes later.

Dive bar. Dim light. Table of trauma bonding.

Nietzsche sipped a spiked LaCroix.

Roderick’s cigarette finally lit.

Kierkegaard had his hoodie fully over his face, breathing through the cotton.

McKenna still laughing, a single tear rolling down.

Silence.

McKenna looked up, blinking slowly… and whispered again:

“Plan B… but make it biblical.”

And the whole table broke.

Laughter like psalms in exile. Relief like a second baptism.

Not because it was funny.

But because they almost stayed.

‍