Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.
The sky was purple. Purple as the bruise on my arm. I got the bruise from the “cop” who grabbed my arm when I was marching in the demonstration. He told me I was under arrest. I pulled off his balaclava. I couldn’t believe it. It was the Minister from the Methodist Church, Dr. Cross. This was the most shocking experience of my life. Prior to that it was spying on my sister through her bedroom keyhole and seeing her dancing naked with her pet snake. In all other respects she’s a normal person, so I let it ride. But Dr. Cross! He is supposed to be a man of God, religious, steeped in Christ’s teaching.
“You little bastard!” he yelled when I pulled off his mask. “I’m under cover for Jesus. I am taking notes on the miscreants disrupting this demonstration. Especially those inflicting pain, like me. Ha ha ha!” He squeezed my arm tighter and said “Come with me.” “Where are we going?” I asked. He yelled “Sanctuary!”with a speech impediment identical to Peter Lorrie’s in the “Hunchback of Notre Dame.” The Methodist Church was a short walk—its specific name was “Lovely Lamb Methodist Church.”
When we got inside Dr. Cross let go of me. He took off his shoes and told me to follow his lead, or hell was waiting. I took off my Blundstones and waited while Dr. Cross plugged in an old-fashioned record player, put on a record, and turned it on. It was Dee Dee Sharp singing “Mashed Potato Time.” We danced the mashed potato in our socks, sliding around like we were dancing on butter. Dr. Cross yelled over the music “This is God’s work: Ya a weem o wep a weem o wep!”
The record player was set to play the same record over and over. It must’ve played 50 times before Dr. Cross turned it off and began a sermon from the pulpit. I sat in a front row pew, sweating and exhausted from dancing the mashed potatoes.
Dr Cross began: “You won’t find Jesus in a penthouse. He’s more like a Motel 6 kind of guy: a bed, a TV, a chair and a bathroom with a shower. He’s waiting for you to knock on his door. He will let you in. His room can become crowded with souls seeking redemption.
I went to the Motel Six and sat on the bed. There was a knock on my door and it was Joanie Vster, Mr. Vester’s wife. We prayed together under the covers and we “came” together to the light of the Lord in a perfect conjunction of contractions.
So, I am a jumbo sinner. But I know, if I repent I will be forgiven. Forgiven by you. Forgiven by your husbands. Totally forgiven by everybody I’ve transgressed against throughout my life Amen.”
Then somebody yelled from the back of the church: “Oh yeah? That’s what you think.” It was Mr. Vester! He yelled “The Lion sleeps tonight!” He had taken off his shoes and was running roward Dr. Cross with a Zulu iklwa—a stabbing spear. Mr. Vester had worked for Shell Oil in Africa, where he had purchased the spear as a souvenir. Dr, Cross was frozen with fear. The spear went trough his solar plexus, pinning his Bible to him as an ineffective shield from the fatal wound.
Mr. Vester and I watched Dr. Cross die a slow and agonizing death, which I’m pretty sure he deserved as he moaned and cried. After Dr, Cross expired, Mr. Vester ran out of the church yelling “All is forgiven. Jesus loves you!” It made no sense. They tried to charge me as an accessory to Dr. Cross’s murder. It didn’t fly, mainly because I’m a credentialed Quaker vegetarian and a registered pacifist,
Hopefully, the evil Dr. Cross went straight to hell where he’s burning in the lake of fire. The irony is that eventually Mr. Vester will end up there too. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Ha ha.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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