The preacher had one good eye and three prosthetic limbs. Dressed sharp enough to cut through an apple, and that one good eye swam around in its socket like a shark sniffing out sin. You never got that he missed the parts he left behind, and nobody ever slept through one of his sermons. When he laid hands on you, even the fake one, it was said, the devil hightailed it out of there real quick-like, with never a thought of a return trip.
Preach lived with his sister in a small house two blocks from the church. When she died, he took to drink. But that one eye of his, bloodshot and whiskey-glazed, never stopped banging around in there like it still meant business, and the devil had better not get any bright ideas to the contrary.
3 December 2012