On another buttermilk batter day in another country fried town, the wheels of change were churning. The Bayou was burning hot, but the hard hats wiped their sun scorched brows and hiked up their Dungarees. Like biscuits from heaven, money had poured into the small Louisianna town and chicken chain restaurants emerged on every other corner. They came up quick and shiny — fully stocked and staffed.

Word spread fast. The catfish sandwiches came out sizzling; piping hot and crispy, cajun battered beauty took the town by surprise. Spirits lifted. The average John acquired a hop in his step. Gospel music echoed down every block.

Pastor Willie “Po Boy” Bishop’s congregation had overgrown their modest sized church. More Sunday services were added to accommodate and particularly pious members met afterwards to discuss the gospel over biscuits. The rich aroma kept them in the dining area for long hours — drunkenly gasping in the intoxicating creole crusted aroma: a specialty sauna where butter drowns the pores.

Months later, despite the surge in membership, morale, and donations, Pastor Bishop was appalled to realize that church’s finances were backsliding. He noted that he rarely spoke to God without drooling and had grown a sizable belly. Needing fresh air, he headed out for a walk — squinting in the near blinding sunlight, he strolled down the street staring at his bank statement. His well-conditioned nose led him straight to the paradise parking lot. The back door lay swung open and heavenly vapors wafted into his open, weeping sinuses. A sliver of reflected light caught the corner of his eye, waking him momentarily from his one-track hunger.

He squinted severely in the direction of a fire red Lamborghini convertible. The customized license plate stared back at him in fat, hazy letters:

PopeYes!