REPENT

The Orotund Orator, the rotund Pastor Casper Fullbright , took to the podium and pontificated as it is his penchant and presumed privilege, to pointlessly postulate from his perch. He pounded and spewed, down from his pinnacled pulpit, resounding them with his fury, his eyes bloody viper slits, his arms flailing…clawing…seemingly ripping off his own head, as another, like Hydra, grew in it’s place, Love distorting to Hatred, within each new face.  The congregation bore witness, his Possession, on display for all to see and gasp aloud at ­­­it’s fervor and ferment. He cursed them, accused them, blamed them and excused them, but in the end they were his sheep and he’d lead any lamb to sodomy or slaughter if he so chooses.

Failing to drive home his point, he did masterfully succeed in driving home the congregation in it’s entirety. In his mind he saw himself casting out the snakes from Emerald Isles, but leaving them not so much convinced, or converted, as relieved to be fleeing the premises, in full stampede and with such newfound serious conviction and intent. Those stragglers, last to leave, most due to their own limited mobility, bore the brunt of his persistent parsimonial rant, and therefore were deemed and damned to soon be patrons of purgatory, as they wheeled and hobbled down the aisle to exit to the best of their ability before he could bar the doors and risk becoming captives to Casper’s further fertile depravities. 

Picketers lined the parish in protest as Fullbright preened before his full length mirror, pleased at his performance…in fact, damn-right Proud, of his performance. He posed, he paced, he postured, he hissed at their baleful reprise. They wailed as he waited, confident a sign soon-to-come would mean a reprieve in the eyes of his god, be he lord of darkness or light. But fires now sparked in the gloaming and he knew he’d not sleep the night.
Still, Grateful to be gone by morning's light.