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The Sin Suit

It took years to develop; hand-lined with sin magnets rife with the finest draw-worthy abilities. Cloud whisper white. He strutted in it through the town, lifting the sins from passers-by; their cluttered vaults, unwashable hands.

After the first day's stroll the suit darkened. By mid-week, transgressions poked through like springs in a shabby hotel mattress with a dank, tarry drip.

The fast-good people took to playing bingo in church basements and checkers online, with ennui closing in showing its teeth.

Cults of fallen goodie two-shoes huddled around it/him their new prophet; young housewives running their hands through the suit's folds, down the inside trouser crease, sighing with each scoop of dirt under their nails. Pleading for a few naughty returns.

"Sure, sure," he said, stepping back something swift and shivery slipping under his lapel. "But it'll cost ya."

Story by:

Robert Scotellaro

submitted at 4:40am

27 April 2009