The Pastor - Part 6 - "Is She Here?"

13 Days of Samhain Challenge -Day 6 

          "Is Anybody There?"

Buddy Dilkins stepped into his trailer and sat down on a kitchen chair. The chair groaned and creaked under the massive frame Buddy had imposed upon it. Buddy did not notice. Long ago he had learned to ignore the occasional complaints from furniture that was tasked with bearing his weight.

The woman at the sink had her back to him. Without turning around:

“Did he see you?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was pretty torn up…… It was something to see. I kinda feel for the guy…….. He brought this on himself I guess, but hey, that sermon was ……….”

Buddy stopped talking when the woman spun around to face him. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy; it was obvious she was having a tough time.

“That sermon was what?......... Full of his usual fire and brimstone, God will smite you down if you do not heed his Will nonsense?”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” 

Buddy stood up and put a massive hand on Sylvie’s shoulder.

“He cried.”

Sylvie’s eyes widened. She stepped back from Buddy.

“He cried? What the Hell was he crying about? That Bully Pulpit was all he ever cared about. He would never disgrace it by crying behind it.”

“Well Sylvie, he didn’t just cry, he sobbed so loud, there were echoes.”

Sylvie shook off Buddy’s hand and walked to the kitchen table to sit down. 

Buddy pointed to the chair across from his. Sylvie settled hard on the chair and looked across the table at her cousin.. Out of nervous anxiety maybe, Sylvie began digging in her pockets searching for something. Buddy watched her. What the Hell was she looking for anyway?

Sylvie ran out of pockets to search. On automatic now, she reached up the left sleeve of her sweater. Her shoulders relaxed as she pulled out a pitiful excuse of a well used Kleenex tissue and dabbed at her eyes with it.

Some moments passed while Sylvie silently continued this nervous display. She took a deep breath, gave her eyes a token wipe. She looked at Buddy.

“Okay start at the beginning, not your usual story telling, that by the time you’re done, I never know where it began originally.

Buddy grinned.

“Yeah, I’m not the best story teller, I know. But ……”

Sylvie cut him off with a look.

Buddy frowned.

"I guess I told you all there was. If you had wanted a better report, maybe you should have gone to church yourself. I'm telling you, Jacob was not the same man, preacher, person he has been. Maybe you should go home and work it out with him."

Pounding on the door of the trailer and a loud angry voice stopped their conversation. 

"Is my wife in there? ...... Buddy, you shacking up with Sylvie? I'll kill you, you son of a bitch."

Buddy held his finger to his lips. With his other hand he indicated Sylvie should head to the back of the trailer. He stood up, walked to the door and opened it up enough to talk through the crack.

"Yeah Jacob, she's here. But before I let ......."

The good Pastor Jacob threw his shoulder into the door. It trembled some but did not move an inch. Buddy was a big man. It would take more than the wimpy efforts of a pastor half his size to move that door.

"Jacob, listen to me. I am not letting you in unless you can be calm. ...... I am not shacking up with Sylvie. You know that. She's my cousin ferchrisakes. ........ Now back off the porch and I'll open the door."

Jacob backed up a few feet. Buddy began to relax his hold on the door. Jacob timed it perfectly. He threw all his weight into his next hit. Combined with catching Buddy off guard, the door caved and Buddy was knocked on his ass. The trailer floor shook and dishes rattled on the shelves.

The Pastor stood in the kitchen with arms out and his chest heaving. A small bit of spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. His eyes bore into Buddy.

"Is she here? That's all I want to know. Is she here?

"Yeah, like I said, she's here. She's upset. You're upset. And I'm caught in the middle of this cluster fuck. No one is talking with anyone until we all calm ourselves. Have a seat Jacob. I'll see if Sylvie wants to talk."

Jacob sat in Buddy's chair. Buddy ignored it. He spun around and walked down the narrow hallway toward the bedrooms. Muffled conversations could be heard while Pastor Jacob sat trembling at the kitchen table.

To the pastor, it seemed hours had passed before he heard a door open and footsteps heading back up the hallway. Buddy appeared in the kitchen.

"Sylvie is gone Jacob. She is not ready to face you. And from the looks of you, you aren't ready to face her."

Jacob kicked back the chair as he stood up. He reached behind him and pulled a small pistol from his belt. He pointed it at Buddy:

"You tell me where she is right now."

Buddy looked at this man; this man whose life had been turned upside down in the space of a few hours. He looked at the pistol Jacob held. 

"When and where did you locate a gun Jacob?

Jacob looked at his pistol.

"This was my father's. As far as I know it has never been fired. Unless I get some answers tonight, it might just take its first shot."

Buddy Dilkins began to calculate the chances of a peaceful resolution here. Jacob certainly looked desperate. It did not appear talking was going to work in the short term. Buddy decided ...... Before the pastor could blink, Buddy charged him and knocked him unconcsious with one blow of his massive fist. Later, they would find out Buddy had broken the good pastor's jaw and that the gun had never been loaded, much less even fired. 

Buddy dialed 911and tended Jacob's injury the best he could and waited for the emergency response to find them. The standard response time in this part of Maine gave Buddy enough time to down a couple of beers while he waited.  Living in the pucker brush of southern Maine did have some advantages.

started 9/22/2025 - Finished 10/25/2025 - @ 1100 words

If interested - Links to the first 5 Parts

• The Pastor - Part 1 - "Buddy and the Pastor" 
• The Pastor - Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"
• The Pastor - Part 3 - "Gilding the Lily"
• The Pastor - Part 4 - "Crisis in Faith"
• The Pastor - Part 5 - "The Sermon"

________________________________

I am not sure why, but picking the song to add to the post is often a tougher chore than writing the post in the first place. Thankfully, I stumbled upon this old Teen Club favorite from 60 years ago. Here are the Zombies with their hit, "She's not there". Excellent song then and I think it is even better now.

The Pastor - Part Five - The Sermon

  If interested - Links to first 4 Parts

• The Pastor - Part 1 - "Buddy and the Pastor" 
• The Pastor - Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"
• The Pastor - Part 3 - "Gilding the Lily"
• The Pastor - Part 4 - "Crisis in Faith"

Pastor Jacob walked to the pulpit. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes and slowly raised his hands high.

"Please Oh Lord, forgive us for we are weak, undeserving congregants who want only, to love and serve you. ……God, forgive us our sins and transgressions. Lead us into the light, so we may save our souls. With you to guide us, we will find the true path.”

Jacob paused, opened his eyes and stared intently at his flock.

“For Judgment is real, and you Lord, are a consuming fire. Yet your kindness is what leads us to repentance. Let your mercy triumph over judgment."

Jacob stopped. He dropped his hands to the pulpit, gripped the edges hard. Silent moments passed; enough moments for some in his flock to begin fidgeting and looking at each other uneasily. Pastor Andrews finally let his shoulders relax. He exhaled a deep breath. He was uncomfortable and struggling. Everyone in the church could see it. Finally, he found his game face, his face that without a word, told anyone in his presence, here stood a righteous man, a holy man, a man of God who was not afraid of any mortal danger. 

"I used to think that ……… think that loving God and following him wherever he lead me would ensure my place in heaven once I had left this mortal coil behind. ……… I was wrong dear friends: wrong on all counts. Following the right path is not so simple as I have led you to believe. I have let you down and dishonored your trust. For that I apologize."

The Pastor paused again and took a moment to find the words he wanted to share next.

“My father was a preacher like me. I learned to love the Bible and God through him and his teachings. My father was a simple man; a life is black or white man. He was positive there were no grey areas or grey moments in anyone’s life. He knew God was always present to guide, but would pass judgment should we fail to live up to Our Lord's standards.”

Jacob pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He was no longer nervous now. Yet the sweat continued to pour down his face and into his collar.

“My wife left me this morning. Packed her bags, grabbed our daughter and headed out. Where? The where I cannot say, for she refused to tell me. Nor did she indicate the why. I should have seen it coming. It had been coming for years. It was my overbearing pride; a pride so audacious in its mistaken certainty of my infallible righteousness.”

Jacob paused again. This time he used that handkerchief to wipe his eyes. His tears began to mingle with the sweat of his brow. His eyes started to sting and then the sobbing began. Long and deep, his sobs resonated in slight echoes throughout the nave. They were so loud, his parishioners became very unsettled. Several stood up as if to leave. Pastor Andrews saw them. He held up his hands and waved them back to their respective pews.

“I am so sorry folks. Please, this moment of weakness and outburst is over. I did not mean to unload my personal problems in such a way. …… Let me get back to the point I have wanted to make when I first stepped up to the pulpit this morning. It won’t take long.”

He took a brief moment to collect himself.

“As most, if not all of you know, I have not been a tolerant man when it comes to what I deem is un-Christian-like behavior. I have been harshly judgmental of those folks who do not fit into my idea of how a Christian should behave. I have damned them, condemned them, and chastised them mercilessly. ….. And to what end? What do I, as a man of God have to show for all my righteous indignation? Have I brought any of them into our fold? Have I convinced them with my anger to become good Christians? …….. No, I have not.”

Jacob looked out over the filled to capacity nave. The usual disinterested parishioners who slept with their heads back or forward while their open mouths elicited either spittle or soft snores ; and others who spoke in whispers and giggled at them were not in attendance. For once Jacob had everyone’s attention at the same time.

“Last week I attempted to shame some heathens into coming to church. After conversations with several I became convinced that not all heathens are evil, sinful Devil worshipers. Heathens are like Christians at their core. Turns out the idea of being Faithful  and not Faithful to the Lord in Heaven is a very thin line that separates them. Good and Evil has nothing to do with it. Good and Evil exists in both camps. Faith in God does not."

"That heathens may not see the Lord as we do does not make them bad people. ……. If I am to spread the word of God to everyone, I have to realize that good and evil exists everywhere; in every nook and cranny of this planet. Sometimes good people do bad things. Sometimes evil people do good things. The trick for me is how do I reach all of them?”

Another break. Jacob wiped his face, his brow and slowly folded the handkerchief and placed it carefully in the top pocket of his suit.

“At this time I do not have an answer to how I reach people without alienating most of them. I am a true believer and would love everyone to be one. I know now that will never happen. But if I expect to be worthy of God’s love, I need to find a better approach. ….. To that end, I am stepping down as your pastor so that I can take the time to become a better messenger of God’s Plan. I wish all of you the best and may the lord keep you and yours safe. ……Amen.”

Pastor Jacob Andrews then turned on his heels, stepped down from the Altar and exited through the side door. He had not noticed Buddy Dilkins sitting in the last pew. ( @1050 words)

< ~ ~ >

I cannot describe clearly how this story has evolved. I started out writing a simple flash fiction piece about a confrontation between a local fire and brimstone preacher and a crew of Local Yokel Good Ole Boys. Where it has landed now over 3800 words later is as much of a surprise to me as anyone who might be reading it for the first time.

I am told I should have a plan in order to write well. I have no plan. Maybe the words I just wrote support that notion that a plan may have helped........ Maybe not. Regardless, I write for myself first and foremost. And I like where this story is headed. I cannot wait to see what comes next.

Yes, I am going to add another part at least. A part that may or may not tie up the story by coming full circle........ We'll see.

Meanwhile, strive to Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................

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The musical choice for Part Five I found while listening to a playlist I created several years ago. In some ways I feel it is appropriate. Here is "Raise a Little Hell" - Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band.

The Pastor - Part 4 - "Crisis of Faith"

       If interested - Links to first 3 Parts

• The Pastor - Part 1 - "Buddy and the Pastor" 
• The Pastor - Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"
• The Pastor - Part 3 - "Gilding the Lily"

Pastor Andrews managed to bury the memory of his encounter with Fred Jenkins at Hannaford’s the previous week. That is, he thought he had. As soon as he sat down to write next Sunday’s sermon, he could not do it. Their conversation was blocking him from creating the customary Righteous Indignation his flock had come to expect. His rigid Old Testament beliefs had been rocked to their core.

The pastor sat motionless for a spell. Fred Jenkins’ question pitting the contrary notions of God’s Will against the concept of Free Will combined with the Infallibility of God; well sir, that pushed Pastor Jenkins into a minor spiritual breakdown. 

Several minutes of silence later, the good pastor came to a realization. He could use the right words to feed his flock the necessary weekly ration of righteousness and fealty to God. But he was having trouble understanding the conflicts his own words stirred up inside himself, never mind what they might be doing to the congregation.

If a Heathen he considered clueless about God could mess with his head so easily, he needed to reevaluate his own self importance. Jacob felt a need for a deeper understanding of God’s goals and how he, as a man of God, could help his Lord in Heaven attain those goals. Pastor Andrews understood before he could shepherd his congregation now, he had to resolve this new conflict in his own mind first.

The moments of silent reflection calmed him. The Pastor could feel the anxiety ease and drain away with each breath. He got up from the kitchen table, found the ceremonial wine, poured another glassful and sat back down. Taking a another moment of calm, he considered what it might take to mesh these contradictions logically into his long held Old Testament views of his relationship with God.

Pastor Andrews picked up his pen and wrote the date of next Sunday’s services at the top of the yellow legal pad in front of him. Again he sat silent for a moment. He then wrote down in Italics, “God’s Will versus Free Will”.

He stared at the blank page. His wife Sylvie came into the kitchen.

“How’s the sermon going?”

“I’m stuck.”

Sylvie’s eyebrows lifted. Her husband never had a problem coming up with the Hell and Damnation his Old Testament sermons were full of.

“What is the problem?”

Jacob looked up at her.

“How many glasses of wine have you had Jacob? You know how you get when you get into, what is it you call it, the Devil’s Brew?”

“Calm down Sylvie, only my second glass. ……… The problem? I am not sure what the problem is yet. But earlier today I had my beliefs and faith challenged and it unsettled me.”

“Well, what and who challenged you?’ Sylvie sat down across the table from her husband.

Pastor Andrews looked at his wife. He loved his wife. He did not respect her though; what with her being a woman and all. Women should not question their men. The first words out of her mouth should have been, “Oh dear Jacob, how can I help?” Instead, she asked what the problem was. Without thinking, he blurted:

“Being female, I am sure you would not be able to help me resolve the deeper conflicting concepts of God’s Plan.”

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. She hated when he brought up the “Females are Chattel” schtick. But she kept her calm.

“Such as………?”

Pastor Jacob looked again at his wife. He immediately knew he had stepped over a well established line in their relationship. She knew how he felt what a women’s place was. And he knew what she thought that place should be. Long ago, in order to reduce future conflict and possible physical harm to the good pastor, Jacob had finally learned to keep his mouth shut about women and their place for over a decade. His true opinion, he saved for those rare days when he was yukking it up in a backroom with the sextons. The look on his wife’s face told him one more word in that direction and …… He stopped thinking about what might come next.

“Uh, well…. Such as the idea of God’s Will in relation to the notion that God has also granted us Free Will.”

Sylvie’s glare did not diminish. Through tightened lips, she hissed:

“Well, being but a child bearing domestic and all, anything I say will surely fall on deaf ears. Sounds like your problem, not mine. Personally I have no problem with either.”

“You are not bothered at all by the obvious contradiction between the two? And on top of the, …….. what does it say about God’s Infallibility?”

Sylvie smiled.

“ No,  Jacob, I am not bothered; nor should you be either. Your flock are simple folk with uncomplicated minds. They are just trying to get by. They come to church not so much because they believe, but because you offer some of them hope and entertainment.  But most of all, they come because they get to rub shoulders every week with friends, relatives and enemies. Church is a social gathering first and foremost. …..You can’t possibly think you make a difference, can you?............. You are just the ringmaster. Get over yourself. ........... Write your usual drivel and move on.”

Once again Sylvie smiled and moved to leave the kitchen.

"Don't stay up all night."

Jacob was silent. He glared at his wife's back and watched her walk down the narrow hallway of their trailer. The pastor looked down at the empty sheet of paper. A moment passed before he began writing.  When he was done and drained hours later, 31 crumpled balls of lined yellow paper laid haphazardly around the now empty legal pad. Jacob stood up, stretched and awkwardly stumbled out of the kitchen to join his wife in bed.    ( @ 1000 words) 

Hopefully another installment sooner than later ..................

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Music for this post was a struggle. I had the tune chosen, but I wanted to use a cover. As it turns out, I decided Depeche Mode's original version of "Personal Jesus" suited me best. I almost used Broken Peach's version. I'll sneak in some Broken Peach at some point.

The Pastor - Part 3 - "Gilding the Lily"

Reading the first two parts might make this entry make sense, or at least somewhere near it.

Buddy and The Pastor - Part 1 - "A Brief Encounter" 

Buddy and the Pastor - Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"

And now Part 3 

"Gilding the Lily"

 "Pastor?" 

A large hand grabbed Angers' shoulder and turned him around. "Pastor Andrews, I have a question for you."

Pastor Jacob Andrews looked up. He frowned. He had been minding his own business, waiting in line to cash out and this ass.... 

"Uh oh", he thought, “It's Fred Jenkins, from the other night at the Tradin Post.”

He felt his face getting warmer as the embarrassment he had suffered flooded back in, reminding him what a fool he had been the other night. But the pastor had 12 years of preaching under his belt. If he felt shame, it was only fleeting. A man of God should never feel shame. He squared his shoulders and …..

“Son, if this is about the other night, the checkout line here at Hannaford's is not the place to discuss it.”

Fred Jenkins’ blank stare told Angers whatever the question was; it wasn’t about the other night.

“No Sir. It’s not about the other night. I have a Bible / God kinda question. And you being a man of God and all, I thought you might straighten me out.”

The pastor’s sarcastic reply died before he could utter it.

Was this the beginning of a serious conversation with one of the Fallen? Was this a chance to do what he did best, bring one of Satan's flock into the fold of God's embrace? Pastor Angers hoped so, but he had learned not to trust a heathen. They were notorious for having fun at anyone’s expense; at his expense anyway. He decided to hear Fred’s question.

“Son, like I said, the checkout line is no place for a conversation like this.”

He looked Jenkins up and down trying to size up his mood.

“Follow me out to my car.”

As soon as the two of them were outside, Fred Jenkins started in:

“Well, you see sir, I am confused about the notion of “Free Will” set against the notion of  “God’s Will”. Now add in the "Infallibility of God" and well sir, it don’t make no sense; no sense at all.”

Fred’s question stopped Pastor Andrews dead in his tracks. He turned around and glared at Fred. The glare was all he had as Fred’s combining 3 basic tenet’s of Christianity into a single question caught him off guard. They rarely came up in the same conversation. He continued to glare at Jenkins until finally, Fred Jenkins spoke up:

“ Uh, Pastor, are you alright?” Did I say something to piss you off?

The good pastor’s eyes softened. He looked down at the ground.

“Son, I just don’t know the answer to your questions right off. The way you put them together like they were in opposition to each other, does seem to allow for some confusion on the part of the un-baptized. I will look into…….”

“ Oh, I have been baptized. Don’t remember it though. Mom felt it was a good idea. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to have the blessing of a god even if it weren’t real. She called it “Gilding the Lily. Whatever that meant, I have no clue.”

The pastor’s mouth had been hanging open. He closed it and contemplated what he had just heard.

“Your mother called a baptism, “Gilding the Lily?”

Jacob Andrews slapped his forehead, tossed a dark look at Fred, then continued his trek to his car. Without another word, he opened the driver side door, turned again to look back at Fred. Shaking his head, he slammed the car door, fired up the ignition and burned rubber leaving the parking lot.

Fred stood watching him disappear down Main Street. A small grin slowly formed as the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. He wasn’t done with the good pastor just yet.

___________________

Okay. The uncanny abilities of the algorithm magic to know what I want before I know I want it is beginning to creep me out.

I had just pumped up my YouTube page and without any input from me, right in the middle of the screen, staring right at me, was a  long haired hippy dude in a nice clean shirt, standing in the pucker under a power line. He was holding a Dobro guitar. Over the Image, "The Great Caucasian God" jumped out at me.

Was it a sign from God, letting me know he knows what I know before I know it and he's just dropping a hint I may be in for a lightening strike or two before this story is through?

Or is it AI?

But then if I am to believe God controls everything, AI is just another tool from God's quiver he will use in our future to continue to fuck with our minds.

Anyway, here is a tune by a musician previously undiscovered by me. Here is Jesse Wells and his musical opinion of  "The Great Caucasian God".

The Select Board Meeting - Some Flash Fiction

Ezra Roberts stood up and ambled toward the short line of local citizens waiting to speak. Heads turned and tongues wagged in low murmurs. No one in attendance that evening had ever seen Ezra Roberts near the town hall, let alone standing in line so he could file a grievance of some kind at that evening's Board of Selectmen meeting. Shoot, the only time he ever came to the Town Hall was to register another motorized public nuisance or pay his taxes.

Now Ezra was a big man. .........  No, big does not come close to describing the chiseled immensity that was six foot, eight inch Ezra Roberts. Depending on who was talking, Ez was either around 340 pounds or over 400 as many people in town insisted. He was huge and intimidating. 

The murmurs stopped when Ezra sidled up to the podium to speak. Every eye in the room focused on him. He bent over the mic and stuttered,

"Uh, uh, ...... I have a com, com, complaint." 

Ezra shifted from one foot to the other and leaned on the lectern so hard, select board chairwoman, Mahthah Dillard became concerned for its structural integrity.  

Ezra was nervous.  He always stuttered when he was nervous. He never outgrew it. He never had to. Once he hit six foot at age twelve, no one ever mentioned it to his face again. 

Mahthah spoke into her mic. 

"Ez, you have to state your full name before you can speak."

Ezra looked startled. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, and then,

"Shoot, Mahthah, you know who I am. You babysat for me and my brothers back in the day."

Mahthah looked at Ezra over her glasses.

"Don't matter a bit Ez. Those the rules. We have to have rules or these meetings might get uglier than they sometimes already do. .......... Now please, your name for the record and then speak your piece. You got two minutes."

Mahthah was having none of it. This was her select board and even a giant such as Ezra had to play by the rules.

Ezra glared at the podium and then looked up to face the select board sitting at the front of the room. These were sober good citizens watching and waiting for him to make a fool of himself. These people were not the good ole boys he yucked it up with down to the VFW in Sanford every Friday night. No sir. Not by a long shot. He knew he had to keep his temper in check.

"I have a complaint dammit, uh, oh yeah. ...... Uh, I am Ezra Roberts from over near Jackson Pond and I have had it with the county cops here 'bouts."

Alfred Bibber, the newest member of the select board, moved the shared mic on the table closer and in a snarky voice spoke up:

" Well Now Ezra, just what's your complaint? You been arrested for drunk and disorderly again?

Ezra looked down at the podium again and set his jaw. The look he shot Alfred Bibber made Alfred wilt like three day old cut flowers left in the Sun. Alfred swallowed hard. 

" Uh, no Bibber, I haven't been arrested in years. But I seem to remember the Sheriff was up to your place a few weeks ago." Ezra continued to glare at Selectman Bibber; then he continued:

"While I would just love to continue this conversation with you Al, I'll wait until we are both outside later,..... Ok Al?"

Al Bibber's face went pale. He gently slid the shared mic back to the center of the table, sat back in his seat and did not open his mouth the rest of the evening except when his vote was needed.

Ezra continued:

"The sheriffs are damn quick to pull me over and shove their decibel meter up my ..... , uh, yeah, they are quick to come after me, but when I have a second motorcycle torched in my dooryard in as many months, the useless pricks take an hour to get to my place to write up a report."

Ezra stopped and looked around the room.

"You folks know what I mean. ...... What are we paying the county for? The county sheriffs are useless........... "

Angus Wender, the selectman who never spoke, interrupted Ezra's tirade. He was not intimidated by Ezra. They grew up together and Angus knew Ezra was all mouth and no trousers. He piped up:

"Jeezum Ezra, You had another one of your motorcycles burn up? Damn, that's some hard luck, son......... I wonder if torching your bikes has anything to do with the god awful racket you spread around town as you roll hither and yon on those damn motorcycles you own. ..... You think that might be the cause Ez? .... Seems I remember you waking me and Mother up the other day at dark thirty in the morning when you drove by coming from wherever it was you were coming from. There weren't no need of it, but that did not matter to you, did it?"

Angus paused to let Ezra take in what he had said, then continued:

"Maybe you should put real mufflers on the next bike, whatta ya think? That seem like it makes sense? Well, does it Ezra?"

Ezra Roberts could feel himself losing it. He dropped his huge hands to his side and straightened up to his full height of six foot, eight inches. He stood silent for a time looking at his childhood friend who had just dressed him down in public. Clinching his fists several times, Ezra finally relaxed some. The tension drained and he once again bent over the podium mic to speak.

"I can see that no one here is the least bit interested in the thousands of dollars in damage to my property."

A voice from the audience behind him chirped:

"Yeah well, no one likes your damn motorcycle but you. Put a muffler on the next one."

Ezra and everyone turned around. Unbeknownst to him, his brother and next door neighbor, Jacob Roberts, had popped into the meeting while Ezra was whining at the podium. 

His brother Jacob continued:

"It was me Ez, I torched your bikes. I told you years ago I couldn't stand the noise. Jenny and I had finally had enough, so I torched em, both of them. Figured you might take the hint when the first one went up in flames. But no, you go ahead and build up a second bike that was even louder than the first one."

Jacob hesitated and then opened his mouth as if to speak again. He thought better of it and stopped there. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the building. Inside the meeting room, silence; not a sound from anyone. Ezra stood with his mouth open, yet no words came. Somebody coughed nervously. 

Mahthah Dillard adjusted her glasses and said:

"So Ezra, are we done here? I think you and your brother have some things to work out. ...... Now please, if you are finished, leave or sit down. There's a couple of folks waiting to speak.

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This story came to me in the wee hours yesterday as I sipped on my first cup coffee of the day. I was outside sitting on my two bucket bench and watching Maggie go through her morning routine. Off in the distance on the H Road over a mile away, I heard the outrageous sound of an un-muffled motorcycle heading towards 109. I looked at the time. It was 5:20 AM. My first thought was:

"I sure am glad I don't live on the H Road."

The above tale is the result of that one thought.

This is a total fabricated made up story. No one locally or abroad were used as characters. So please, don't let any panties get twisted.

_____________________

Music........ Hmm.... 

I guess the first song I ever heard that made me want a motorcycle back in the day was "Ballad of Easy Rider", by Roger McQuinn of the band The Byrds. He wrote it for the movie "Easy Rider". Combine that with a Teen Club standard, "Born to be Wild", by Steppenwolf and Hell, what pubescent boy wouldn't want a two wheeled motor between his legs.

I would eventually own that motorcycle. I drove it all over the Northeast and camped on the sides of roads and behind feed stores. Then, my driving over the road career started and I turned the motorcycle in for a big rig. 

While I was looking for inspiration for a song to go with this post, I ran across a song Merle Haggard released back in 2000. It is called "Motorcycle Cowboy". That may have been his last album. It's a dynamite tune.

So today, it's a "Three Fer". 

Please enjoy "Ballad of Easy Rider", "Born to Be Wild", and Merle's, "Motorcycle Cowboy". 

The Pastor - Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"

I wrote a flash fiction piece back in July of 2011. I later re-edited it and reposted in 2022. Since then I have added 2 new parts, sections, chapters? I now realize this story is just unfolding. I have plans to expand it over time.

If you are Interested in the series - start with "Buddy and the Pastor" - Part 1

And without any more introduction, here is:

Buddy and the Pastor- Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door" 

( started 7/28/2022 - Finished but not published until today)

The raucous laughter of the local boys crowding the front door at the Tradin Post brought Pastor Andrews back to his senses. He began walking back to the store and considered those unshaven toothless faces hanging out of the front door.

He was reminded why he had come here to the Tradin Post on a Friday evening in the first place. He never saw these clowns in church. He felt he needed to face these evil blaspheming heretics and agents of Satan on their own turf. What better way to do that than at the only beer store in town.

He stopped short of the roof overhanging the door. He again placed fists on his hips, took off his glasses and glared at the yokel crew crowding the door. The hard rain running off of him combined with a flickering outdoor light, set the scene with an appropriate amount of foreboding. Pastor Andrews spoke in his best condemnation voice.

"You are all fornicators, men of low morals and ungodly ways. If you don't find God soon, you will be lost in the depths of Hell. You suck down the demon rum, shoot drugs into your arms. ........ And I assume some of you sleep with other men."

The boys in the door stopped laughing as if on cue. Their faces went blank. A moment passed. Finally Fred Jenkins spoke up.

"Preacher man, I ain't no fudge packer and I do not appreciate the insinuation. But if you have any sheep I might like to meet......................."

Again, as if on cue, the gang busted out laughing. Fred leaned out too far, tripped and fell out of the door and onto his back.

Even in the chilling rain, the pastor's face heated up. The tips of his ears seemed to catch fire. Clenching his fists, he turned and began the mile hike back to the single wide trailer that served as his rectory. All the way home he conjured up possible repercussions God might engage to smite down these hedonist louts and slack jawed faithful minions of Satan. He was sure they would suffer once God actually got around to firing up the Rapture.

He envisioned drawn and quartered headless bodies dangling from steeples coast to coast while all God's Children waited patiently for the Lord to transport them away from this planet filled with evil doers, sodomites and fornicators.

Yes, by the time he threw open his front door, Pastor Andrews had recharged his batteries and holstered enough fire and brimstone to satisfy a month's worth of Bible thumpin sermons. Rejuvenated and feeling frisky once again when he came into the kitchen, he slapped his wife on the butt a couple of times, kicked the dog and pinched his daughter so hard on her cheek, a classmate would ask tomorrow who had she pissed off. And then he gave his plump wife the horny eye.

"Hallelujah, Hallelujah ....... Hallelujah devoted family. Pass the biscuits and pour me some wine. If we love God, God will love us!"

His wife and daughter barely noticed his grand entrance. His wife Sylvie placed some food in front of him.

She noted, " Well, you surely are in a good mood tonight Honey Bun. Been after them Blasphemers again?"

His daughter stopped rubbing her cheek. "Yeah Pa, did you do some righteous smiting today?"

His wife and daughter rolled their eyes at each other, grinned and sat down for supper. (568)

( Part 3 - tomorrow)

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In an effort to retain some kind of connection to the sheep references, here is "Sheep", from Pink Floyd's 1977 album, "Animals". 

The Pastor - Part 1 - Buddy and the Pastor

"You are a fornicator, a man of low morals and ungodly ways......." 

Pastor Andrews stood legs spread, back straight blocking Buddy Dilkens and his weekly 24 ounce Papst Blue Ribbon can of beer from making a safe and quiet exit from the Tradin Post. Buddy moved to the side attempting to squeeze his way by the good pastor. Preacher Andrews stuck his arm out. He was having none of it. Buddy was in his cross hairs. His massive bulk seemed to shrivel under the pastor's righteously indignant glare.

Buddy regarded the small man who stood his ground in front of him. Not many men would dare. His shoulders drooped and he sighed. "Yes Preacher Man, I am surely a sinner, a fornicator and a disgrace in the eyes of the Lord Jesus. No amount of penance will save me from the fires of Hell".

Buddy smiled. 

 "Now that I am lost, all I can do now is enjoy it while I can before I meet the Devil. ........ Excuse me Preacher, I have kids at home tearing something a new asshole." He pushed past the pastor and walked out into the torrential rain bouncing off the parking lot.

Pastor Andrews flung one final barb. "You know God took your wife because of your sins."

Buddy stopped. He straightened his back and turned to face the pastor. The rain ran down his face in rivulets adding to Buddy's already fearsome image. The pastor's asshole puckered some and he swallowed hard. But he held his ground and his lock on Buddy's hard cold glaring eyes did not waver.

Pastor or not, the old Buddy, the Buddy who raised Hell 24/7 when he was younger; the old Buddy would have beat that pastor down. But that five year stint in stir for manslaughter and the love of a good woman had worked their magic on Buddy. Buddy's eyes softened, he grinned and said,

"You have yourself a nice day Pastor and when you get a chance, please go fuck yourself."

Buddy turned around, headed to his pick up, got in and drove off. Meanwhile the pastor who was not used to being spoken to in such an ungodly and uncivilized manner stood staring at Buddy's truck disappearing in the hard rain and for once was caught with nothing to say. 

Meanwhile, the usual crowd of good ole boys who always congregated here at the Tradin Post at days end on their way home, broke out in loud laughter. Some even slapped their knees.

(Orig -11/6/11)

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I started this short fiction piece in November, 2011. I wrote the first paragraph and left the room allowing the piece to languish for 11 years. When I located it today as I was trying to toss out the drafts that had absolutely no hope of ever being finished, I almost tossed this one. I have no idea where I intended it to go when I first wrote it. I re-read that paragraph and decided I needed to at the least finish it in some way, some how, if only resulting in a story covering a small snippet of time. 

Keep it tween the ditches ..................................

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Music for this, hmm ........................... Found a fairly new indie artist, Sharkorama, who began creating music in his basement during the Covid invasion. "Righteous Indignation" is the name of the song.