Daniel C. Peterson sat in the mess hall of the F.A.I.R. Forward Operating Base reading his Book of Mormon as he finished his morning cup of Postum.

Daniel C. Peterson enjoyed the comfortable routine he had established since arriving at the base three months earlier. He knew that after finishing his last cup of Postum, he would have just enough time to stroll across the parade grounds to the Executive Latrine before his bowels called.

After that, Daniel C. Peterson would then head over to Research Laboratory Complex for a few hours before sequestering himself in his office to produce some serious, hard-hitting apologetic writing.

As Daniel C. Peterson walked in the cool morning air across the immaculately manicured parade grounds, he thought of the chaos that had rocked the base the night he first arrived.

It had turned out that the explosions, the fires, the wounded and dying testimonies had not been an apostate raid after all, but instead had been caused by “friendly fire”. The Church had been conducting a big public relations campaign that was totally off its co-ordinates and the F.A.I.R. Forward Operating Base had received a lot of the fallout.

Not that it mattered. Steve Benson could have been leading an entire army of apostates across the base and nobody but Daniel C. Peterson would have been able to do anything about it.

The Church had decided long ago that they couldn’t trust the apologists with any official doctrine to defend themselves. Before Daniel C. Peterson arrived, the apologists who had been stationed at the base had tried relied too heavily upon things like the scriptures, Church history, and statements by long-dead prophets. The unfortunate result was a wide circulation of errors and misstatements, so all the doctrine was kept locked up and only the Prophet had the key.

The night of that so-called attack, the Prophet was out visiting some widow friend. Everybody was running around saying, “Where’s the Prophet? Where’s the doctrine?” Nobody could find either one and there was this tremendous number of testimonies just getting wasted and rampant apostasy going on right outside the fence.

Daniel C. Peterson opened the door to the Executive Latrine and walked past the row of empty stalls to his favorite on the end. He locked himself in and “covered his feet” in the biblical sense.

Daniel C. Peterson smiled smugly as he thought of the article he published the day before that had absolutely jerked the rug out from under one of the Church’s harshest critics. Today would be still another victorious day. In fact, achieving such victories had become routine. Not a day went by that Daniel C. Peterson didn’t destroy an anti-Mormon argument, neutralize an apostate detractor or render an enemy of the Church ridiculous.

Daniel C. Peterson loved apologetics. As the Apostle Paul wrote in his Epistle to the Corinthian Church - some men were called to be apostles, some to be prophets, some were called to teach, some to heal and some to govern. But he, Daniel C. Peterson, had been called to do apologetics. He could do it in his sleep. It was his God-given gift, his passion, his obsession. Daniel C. Peterson could no more avoid doing apologetics than an apostate could walk past an open bar.

Daniel C. Peterson closed his eyes for a moment as a welcome wave of relaxation and relief washed over his body. “Thank you Lord,” he prayed. He opened his eyes and reached for the roll of toilet paper. Instead he found only an empty cardboard tube.

Daniel C. Peterson rapped his knuckles against the metal door of the stall. “Hey, is anyone in here?” he called out.

Daniel C. Peterson knew he was kidding himself. None of the other apologists could be expected to get to work before nine. They would take a two hour lunch and be gone by five. Daniel C. Peterson suspected that half of them were sneaking off the base every night to go to the bars and dance clubs in the shanty-town up the road.

Daniel C. Peterson was sure none of them even thought about apologetics after hours like he did. Weekends – no apologetics. Holidays, vacation days, sick days – no apologetics.

Daniel C. Peterson knocked on the stall door again and called out a little louder, “Hey! Can I get someone to bring me some paper here?”

Daniel C. Peterson looked at his watch. “7:30,” he muttered to himself. He shook his head then smiled as his always brilliant mind coined a new phrase to apply to his so-called co-workers.

“Nine-to Five Apologists,” he said. That’s what they were. “Nine-to-Five Apologists.”

END

Link to Part 3 - http://exmormon.org/phorum/read.php?2,255745,255745#msg-255745

re-runningly yours,

ziller

Nice!

..."covered his feet" in the biblical sense...

:D