The Preacher

Randall Stevens
"A Cult"
November 11, 2008

The Preacher

-“From time to time,” the Preacher shouted, “The Tree of Liberty must be watered with blood!” He stared wild eyed around the hall at the few dozen onlookers. “That's not my idea, oh no, not my idea my friends. Not mine. Do you know? Do you want to know who said those words?” There was a brief murmur, though no one would look him in the eye. “That, my friends, was Mister Thomas Jefferson.” He ginned, exposing a mouthful of yellowed teeth before he spat a thick brown juice onto the plywood floor. He stared around the room, relishing the moment he'd created as he watched his flock squirm.
-“President!” a child jumped, “Of these United States! Not some fucking kike in the White House! Not a nigger prick or some fucking pussy faggot!” A trickle of brown spit was running down his chin. “They don't care. Not about us, at least. Oh, they care; they care about them and their a-gen-da. But, you know what? You know what, my friends? You know who the fuck doesn't give two snake shits in the desert about their a-gen-da? Me! Me and my God.” A teenager glanced up at the preacher then back at his buckled leather shoes, but not fast enough. The Preacher pounced.
-“You there my son!” pointing as he strode toward the cowering boy. “You there! Whose are you, my son? Where is your father?” Scanning the hall for faces, the Preacher didn't see him point toward the back of the room. “Well? Well? Where's he? Where is he, ya mute bastard?”
-“Th-there,” the boy said, jabbing at the air in the direction of a weathered looking man with a blonde buzz cut and scratchy beard. The preacher whipped his head around so fast he sent echoes from his popping neck bouncing around the hall.
-“Jim! Jim, what's his name, Jim?”
-“He's Thomas, Reverend. Thomas Jones.”
-“Thomas. Thomas Jones...” The Preacher seemed to drift in thought, his eyes floating to the bare wooden rafters of the ceiling. He was gone, Elsewhere. It was obvious. A few of the adults took this opportunity to exchange meaningful looks while others searched the hall for missing children. There was a collective release, a seventh inning stretch of sorts, where the crowd felt safe to breathe. Men and women shifted positions where they stood while children scratched at every perceivable itch with a measured urgency.
-An outsider looking in at this scene might have laughed. He would no doubt think he was watching someone's grandfather searching the rafters for imaginary squirrels while his family patiently waited for the episode of dementia to pass. He would have been mistaken.
-“Thomas. Jones.” the Preacher repeated in an ethereal tone. “Yes. Thomas Jones. That makes sense. Oh yes, that makes a great deal of sense. But, of course...” His eyes were finding focus again and rekindling their fire. “Thomas! Where is your rifle?”

The Point

A few of us have been giving and receiving writing assignments for a while now but have had problems finding times to share our work. The answer to this and so many of life's little problems is Blended Whiskey.

Here's How It Works:

1 - write something

2 - post it in this format:
-A Clever Pseudonym (or your real name, PIN and ssn)
-"Writing Assignment"
-Date Written
-Title
-The Writing

3 - maybe comment or whatnot?

That's it!

I still want to get together to eat, drink, read and be merry, but this is a start.

Peas

J