Metal

This was his worst nightmare coming through. Mr. Johnsen felt like crying. He didn't know how he could have been so stupid as to permit them inside his modest apartment. The two guys towered over him. Long hair, earrings and denim and leather. Their t-shirts said Metallica and Megadeh, respectively. Weren't that rock bands that sacrificed cockerels to the devil on the stage? He had read about this somewhere. Only monkeybrains listened to that kind of music!
He beaconed them to follow him to the living room, because there he would be closer to the phone. The police could be at his apartment in five minutes. Those guys wouldn't kill him immediately. They would torture him slowly, so the police would have plenty of time to save him from his tormentors.
The two guys followed after his wheelchair.
'Nice apartment', the one with the dark beard said when they placed their large bodies in the couch. The poor thing shrieked from the sudden strain.
Well, You won't find much of value here, Mr. Johnsen thought.
Instead he said with the most steady voice he could muster, 'What can I do for you guys?'
'Well, Peter over here has something to say, haven't you Peter?'
'Huh?'
'Peter is a man of few words, you see. But, he is an awesome writer. His thesis on the gospel of John is something of the most profound I have ever read.'
Mr Johnsen could vividly imagine that that paper was probably the only thing that idiot had ever read, and it most likely took him a couple of years. Gospel of John, was that an unknown aphocypic book? No one knew the bible better than Mr Johnsen. What else could he fill his time with. He doubted that those devil worshipers had ever read the Bible. A thesis? Mr Johnson renounced the idea as ludicrous.
He found it, however, strange that they didn't swear more. He had imagined that people like that would use a rather colorful language, to put it mildly.
'Peter, can't you tell the man what you saw tonight, the angel thing.'
Most likely an angel from hell, Mr Johnson thought.
'Yeah', Peter managed to utter.
'An angel came and gave you a message, didn't he?'
'Yeah.'
'He said something about Mr. Johnsen here.'
'Yeah, he did.'
'As a result you sold some of your valuable music, didn't you?'
'Yeah, I did.'
'We are rather poor you see, Mr. Johnson, but when a thing like this occur we have to try to be of some help. Right, Peter?'
'Yup'
Mr. Johnson had this unpleasant feeling that somewhere along the road he had been somewhat mistaken. He wasn't sweating profoundly anymore, and he sensed that he was intrigued by the conversation between the two guys.
'Can't you tell Mr. Johnson what the angel said?'
'He said that Mr. Johnson who lived in the second apartment in Billaway Street was very lonesome and poor, and that God was sending us two to cheer him up and bring a present to Mr. Johnson.'
'Well, and here we are.'
Mr. Johnson was rendered speechless, and he felt a most unwelcome lump in his throat.
'Peter, it is time to hand Mr. Johnson the gift.'
Peter put his hand inside his leather jacket, and for a moment Mr. Johnson thought he would bring out a gun. It was an envelope, which Peter prudently lay in Mr Johnson's lap.
'I am afraid we have to go now, but we will pay you a visit tomorrow as well, if you don't mind.'
Mr. Johnson just nodded.
As they left he could hear the one with the beard say to his companion, 'Austrian Death Machine is playing at the Dome tonight. Wanna go?'
Mr. Johnson gave the envelope his attention. He opened it very gingerly. In his opinion one could never be too careful. Slowly he pulled out $500, and then the dam burst and tears found their way and moistened his cheeks. When he read the accompanying note written with a steady hand he began to sob uncontrollably. Plainly it stated; 'God Loves You'