The Sermon

I'm gonna start off with a piece I wrote as writing practice.  In order to get my creative thoughts all bubblin' n' junk, I would begin writing on a document I called "GUNS".  Eventually, as time went on and I continued writing on the same document, I had fleshed out a beginning, middle, and end to the story.  By the time I finished, I retitled it "THE SERMON".  Ante up, children.

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The gun in my left speaks silent. Its whisper quick in delivery but its words harsh enough to kill.

The gun in my right spits fire with the kind of heat that would scorch the sun. The barrel a mouth that won't stop talking. It lets them know what's on her mind.

The gun on my back is for the rest. When the boys hear the commotion and start charging in numbers through the doors, when the two in my hands cool down and kick up nothing more than wind and old dust, this gun will heave and sigh and sing a song for these men, letting them know its sorrows and the horrors it's seen. It'll take care of the second wave, alright.

These are the cards I was given in this game. And no matter their numbers, I'm going to play them like a royal flush.

These things in my hands are the only gods in the room. To every man I have them look to, I pull the trigger and let them sing their praise. The men always react the same: they drop to their knees in glory and pray. I am the messiah to these gods, and these messengers of crime, they will hear what I have to say.

After awhile the guns start to get light. Eventually they stop popping when I pull the trigger. I look at these hunks of steel in my hands and see they have said all they needed to say. The speeches they made were quick in delivery but spoke volumes. Their voices hoarse, they've done their job.

The men that once stood in their own reverence now lay in their own blood. Everything that they once were flows out of them. Those that haven't had the darkness veil their eyes soon will. I hear moaning and crying spread across the room. Some of these thugs are still alive, but I don't care. They know to stay out of my way. The message sent.

I hear the footsteps of an army behind closed doors.

When they bust into this hallowed ground, before they have time to look around and see the good work I've done, I sanction them into my community in my own special way.

I let them hear my sermon.

By the time I've finished with them I notice the sounds of crying and cussing has gone away. The guys from before have cooled down, collected their thoughts, focused.

Those that are alive have started finding their guns, ready to make me a martyr.

But by the time they look for me, I'm already up the stairs.

I walk through the door without a plan or a reason to live. I know the people up here, these murderers and thieves, they're the cowards that would hang back at any sign of a scuffle. They back into the corner like dogs.

But sometimes, those that are cornered are the animals with the biggest bite.

He's reckless, some kid. He has a bat but it's apparent he never learned to play.

I teach him. I teach him the old ways, before there were rules and an ump.

I get him on his knees, not sure what God to pray to. But I let him know. I'm the only thing left to hear his prayers.

I wrap his head around the baseball bat. Another home run.

By this time I can hear the old man behind closed doors and spendy shades cursing at me like I'm right next door. And I am.

Before I can turn the corner I run into one last resort. Some lurching gunman without a vocabulary or a thought to spare. You know the type.

Two lead shots in my gut to drain the one made of whiskey.

I don't let the pain set in. I let the shock be my gauze. I let the anger be my morphine. I let the bat do my thinking.

I let the bat give him an excuse to never think again.

I take the gun that was too good for him and another he had hidden in his belt. These lonely orphans will find a good home with me. They'll learn how to play by my rules and they'll someday teach the world that crime pays with a check that's doomed to bounce.

I know he waits with steady hand and wild heart on the other side of that door. They probably have a secret knock that lets them know it's anyone but me.

But I have a secret knock, too.

Two shots through the door and his screams practically say "Come in, friend! Come in!" I have no reason to splinter the wood with a heavy kick. Not now. His hand isn't as steady now that it's missing fingers.

He knows begging and flattery will get him nowhere. So he doesn't try. That flaking mouth spews a voice of rot molding teeth held to the gums with blackened tar.

He knows what's coming and he wants his last words to be a curse on my family name.

I raise the guns and the choir takes a breath before they belt out another tune.

Sing a symphony for me, girls.