I spy him with my evil eye. His gut protruding, a hideous appendage earned from his insatiable appetite for the un-fine things in life. Clad in a discount-rack suit, a victim of poor taste and poorer judgement, a head full of shine all the Rave in the world and six strands of hair can’t disguise, and concealer pancaked over his pockmarked face – if you can call it a face. His mustache, a thin strip of idiot, and a cancer stick limply hanging from his grotesque mouth that miraculously hasn’t killed him yet – he’s going to wish it did. I can smell him without being close. He reeks of stupidity, stale smoke, hairspray, and buy-one-get-ten-free cologne.
He’s guarded by two dead-men walking. All the grimacing, strutting, and posturing won’t save them. They may look mafia, but they’re hired goons protecting a shell of a man, a fat shrimp drowning himself in the wrong body of water. A gold crucifix and an hour at mass every Christmas Eve isn’t going to resurrect Jesus to dissolve him of his sins, of his filth, or of the fate that awaits him. His poor cronies, I almost pity them. And if Jesus decides to rise? He’ll have to get through me, and that’s not happening. Not today.
I watch them seated outside Sally’s Café. He sips espresso or whatever sad liquid is sentenced to passing through his disgusting organs, and I’ve seen him cross himself twice now. His guards look confident and relaxed. Who would want to kill a man of God, they ask themselves rhetorically. The cases brought against him were all dismissed, right? He’s never hurt a soul, he loves children, they tell themselves. But how does he love them they should ask. If he’s so good, why are they there?
Children ruin everything Sandy. They fuck up everything. He sips from his glass, a mix of cream soda, red wine, and tap water ice cubes. The fifth of vodka already devoured between the two of them. I know, she says. He belches, your kids are fuck-ups you know, good for nothing. Imagine if we didn’t have them. Little fucking assholes.
I lay in my bed, all of nine years old, my door slightly cracked. I’ve been staring at the ceiling ever since my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The living room is only ten steps away from my door. They’re so drunk they don’t even remember I’m here.
Shut the fuck up already, my mom tells him. Finally.
I imagine the obituary. ‘Pastor %#$*, a handsome man who devoted himself to God. Loved and cherished by all who knew him. Not a single day has passed where he has not left an indelible mark on his neighbors’ souls and children’s hearts everywhere he’s been. A preacher who called every town his home, every child his own…”
Don’t tell me to shut the fuck up, they’re your fucking kids. He walks to the kitchen, pours another drink. My mom stumbles off to bed. Sleep on the couch, you’re being a fucking asshole, she says, slamming the bedroom door. Oh, I’m an asshole, he talks to himself pacing back and forth in the living room. I’ll show you asshole. Your kids are fucking assholes. I’ll show you what I’m all about.
I lay in my bed for at least an hour listening to him mumble, before he enters my room and climbs in. I pretend to sleep as he slips his pants off and…
“… Pastor %#$* is survived by no one.”
I’ve been watching him for weeks, and know his routine better than he does. My focus razor sharp, my switchblade even sharper. I’m fully prepared. Chloroform, check. Switchblades, check. Zip ties, check. Duct tape, check. He’ll never see me coming.
I spent my teens and 20s self-medicating. After the fire I ran and ran, declared dead by the media, the cops, and detectives though my body was never found. My mom and brother gave up their ghosts to the oven our house became when that waste of skin and bones set it aflame. He tied us all up and the fire burned so hot even the thick rope disintegrated. But I’m double jointed. I slipped out of the tie-up and squeezed out a window before the fire could catch me. It was believed I completely burned to ash. Obliterated. The papers spread the word; we were all dead in a freak fire accident. Only one man survived – they got that right, but that man was me, the coward in the news was an ugly corpse on borrowed time.
I survived by stealing, learning to throw fists, taking more than a few hits, and ultimately deciding I didn’t want to survive anymore. I put myself on suicide support – a diet of Xanax, Diazepam, Adderall, tequila, fucking, cocaine, and whisky. I made it to the city and stuck to my prescription plan but it wouldn’t kill me. Only one logical thing to do – time to play God, and God is not playing.
After the fire, he cried and pleaded with the public to save face. He became a man of God, he took donations in our names, he began his own network preaching sermons, testifying his love of those that are gone too soon, of his lost girlfriend and the kids he treated as his own. The prefect job for a grimy failed insurance salesman. He’s made a living lying through his decrepit teeth and he’s going to need more than a dentist when the night is over.
It’s time to put my plan in motion. I walk over to Sally’s and take a seat only two tables over from them. It’s been close to 20 years, he thinks I’m dead, he’ll never recognize me. The waitress is taking his order, another espresso (I was right) and a slice of apple pie. She comes to my table and asks if I need a menu.
“No,” I tell her, “I’ll have a seltzer water, real cold. Extra ice if you can. I’d also like something chocolate, cake? Ice cream? Surprise me,” she seems bewildered. It’s the golden hour and the sun’s rays blast through her hair like mini spotlights, I squint my eyes and can barely make her out. I slap my sunglasses on as she tells me it’s coming right up.
I feel like I’m in a movie. A classic piece of cinema. It’s the third act and something really good is about to happen. I hear one of the goons moaning that he has to “take a piss.” I take it as a cue and find myself gliding through the entrance and propelling myself through the bathroom door.
It’s empty and I take residence in a stall crouched on the seat where no one can see me. The door creaks open, and closed, as he unwittingly prepares to see himself out of his earthly existence. I watch him through a crack in the stall as he walks up to the urinal and unzips. I slowly creep out, stand behind him and feel like I stand ten feet above him.
He’s whistling some bullshit as I flick my switchblade and slice his throat like a slab of Margarine, blood pooling out as death becomes him. I slowly help him to the floor, and relieve him of the revolver in his jacket packet, his wallet, and the crucifix around his neck. I pile him on top of a toilet in the stall before anyone else comes in, and position his legs and feet just right. I lock the stall and slip over the top of it to the floor. I make quick work of the blood with a roll of paper towels, and drop them into the flap on the garbage can. I clean my knife and before I know it, I’m seated outside, my hand cold to the touch from my glass of seltzer, my mouth delighted at the sweetness of the chocolate ice cream.
It’s only a matter of time I tell myself, staring into space, the sun warming my face as it slowly begins to make its descent. I hear his vile voice, but even that can’t ruin this moment.
“Where’s that fucking guy?” he says, slapping a new pack of smokes. The other goon shrugs his shoulders and I walk inside again. The waitress passes me, “Everything okay?” I tell her everything is great and make my way to the bathroom again. I stand at the urinal, chloroform at the ready.
I hear the door. Goon 2 spies Goon 1’s shoes under the stall and he spits some nonsense about sitting on the toilet for too long. I creep up from behind, cover his mouth with chloroform and he’s out. I open the stall adjacent to Goon 1, shove him in hard and slice his wrist so deep his hand almost comes off. I wash the switchblade and shove it in his cold dead hand, lock the stall door, relieve him of his billfold and crucifix, leave his revolver where it is, and climb over, much like before.
I come out of the bathroom and scan the room, the servers and staff are all behind the counter paying no mind, and only he remains outdoors. I’m a tiger stalking its prey, a hawk with an eagle’s eye. I race out the door and feign panic.
“We need to get out of here, quick,” I tell him as I run by him and grab his arm. “There’s blood everywhere, someone is screaming about killing a pastor, that’s you, right?”
He moves his sad blob of a body fast as a cheetah, its spots flying off its back, and I pull him along running around the block and down several more until I see the car I planted at the curb.
“Get in!” I tell him as I unlock the door. In he climbs, unwittingly a passenger riding shotgun to meet his maker. He crosses himself and begins to pray. I lock the doors and hit the child lock switch. Nowhere to go now. At least not for him.
I drive fast, weaving in and out of traffic, razor sharp turns, he hasn’t said a word until now. “Slow down, please!” he begs, and I tell him we need to get out of here, his life depends on it. He’s breathing heavily and I decide it’s time to calm his nerves.
I pull over in front of a hydrant and ask him to grab my bag from the backseat, I’ve got something in there to help him relax. “Quick, we gotta move,” I tell him.
“But where are we goi…” he tries to finish, but as he turns his head for the bag (which doesn’t exist), I slap the chloroform over his face and send him to dreamland. I pull away from the curb and sirens blare behind me. A mess of blue and red lights crowd my rearview mirror. I pull over.
“License and registration please,” the officer says. I already have a license and registration in my hand and as I put on an act to hand them to him, I put on a second act and say, “I’m so sorry I was stopped in the fire zone, my pastor is having some type of episode, maybe a heart attack,” I sound panicked, I pant. “I was giving him CPR but nothing. I gotta get him to the ER. Sorry officer, here’re my papers.”
The crucifix around his neck glistens, a sure killer if I ever saw one. The cop says, “Don’t worry about it, get this man to the ER fast. Nice work brother, I’ll pray for him.”
Worked like a charm. I’m no brother of his, and all the prayers in the world aren’t going to bring my brother back to life nor are they going to rescue this pathetic monster’s soul from the fate that awaits him. The path he chose, the final chapter of his life scribbled in blood, only it’s done in my handwriting.
As he naps in the shadow of his death, I drive out of the city to the banks of a secluded river where I’ve been working on a little shack designed just for my friend here. Surrounded by plenty of vegetation, it’s the perfect little place for our pastor to whisper his last prayer.
As the pebbled trail crackles beneath my tires, I stop the car behind a tree about 20 paces from the shack. I get out of the car, and no quicker than I do, I hear the click of a revolver being cocked, and lo and behold, Goon 3 has been on my trail this entire time. I engage the child lock in my car and slam the door shut ensuring no entry and no exit for anyone but me, and put my hands in the air.
How did I miss Goon 3? He must’ve been as sneaky as me, hiding out watching from afar.
“This your place?” he says, a crease between his eyes, brows perpetually furrowed from being angry his whole life.
“Sure is,” I tell him and he motions for me to walk, positioning the barrel of his gun in the center of my back.
“What do you think you’re doing with Pastor %#$*?” (I will not even dignify this scum by using his name), he asks me.
“We were just going for a ride,” I tell him, a smirk he can’t see on my face but I’m sure he can feel.
“Funny guy, huh?” he says, and pistol whips me across the head slamming my right ear with the gun. I stand still for a second, feel the blood drip down my neck. I straighten up and refuse to acknowledge the blow as we approach the front door. “Open it,” he says and I tell him I need to get the key from my right pocket or does he want to do it. “Go ahead,” he says, really more of a grunt.
I unlock the door and push it open, the room is pitch black. “The light switch is on the other side of the door, I can get it when it’s closed or you can do it,” I tell him. He may just shoot me dead right here, who knows? He says he’ll get it and walks ahead of me, and as he reaches to the other side of the door, I slam it on him as hard as I can and tear the gun out of his hand. I’m on him fast, smashing the gun into his face as hard as humanly possible. Once I’m satisfied he’s not breathing, I get up and flick the light switch by the entrance. Why in hell would the light switch be on the opposite side of the door? Idiot.
Now that his face is inside out and basted in his own blood, I drag his lifeless body just a few feet from the door, far enough that the door can still fully open and close. Much like the other two goons, and their subject, he wears a crucifix around his neck. I rip it off and add it to my collection. Now I’ve got to get back to the car and drag this sick pedophile fuck to the throne I’ve created for him in the middle of the shack.
As I approach the car, I see he’s coming to. He’s still groggy but as he spots me, panic overtakes his face. I don’t care, your number is up, and these hands have been idle too long. I unlock his door, and open it. “Let’s go,” I tell him, thinking we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but in the end it doesn’t matter.
“But, you’re bleeding, what happened? Is it safe here?” he asks me, the sound of fear in his voice is music to my ears. He won’t even mention what I did to him in the car, the coward.
“Let’s go,” I say pulling him out by his elbow, and shoving him toward the shack.
“What are we doing here? Why are you doing this?” his voice quivering, his body shaking and trembling. I nudge him to the front door and tell him to open it. He does. I tell him to walk straight into the darkness. He listens and trips over Goon 3 seconds later. His face meets the ground and before he can react, I’m on top of him with chloroform pressed over his mouth and nose for the second time today.
When he awakens, he is mortified. His wrists are nailed to the armrests of a modified wicker chair, blood covering his palms. His pants are nowhere to be found. His ankles are so tightly zip tied to the chair’s legs, his feet are tingling. He’s gagged with duct tape and the taste of lighter fluid coats his teeth, gums, and tongue. He’s so drenched in gasoline, his six strands of wet hair feel as if they’re plastered to his head, and even his eyelashes are damp. I wipe his eyes clear with an old rag so I’m sure he can see me. He spots Goon 3’s sacrificed body on the floor.
I sit in another wicker chair across from him, smiling. I ask him if he wishes for me to remove the gag. He nods his ugly head rapidly, his eyes wide open. I walk over and slide one of my switchblades between the duct tape and his lips and carelessly cut. Blood splatters and he tries to hold in a scream, tears pouring from his bloodshot eyes.
“Shut up,” I tell him.
“What are you doing?” he asks desperately, but he must know.
“You better pray for rain,” I tell him, sitting in this shack filled with dry leaves, sticks, and coal, surrounded outside by vegetation and the dryest heat we’ve had in some time – it hasn’t rained in over three weeks. “Look at you pissing yourself,” his disgusting naked body sitting in his own urine, he can’t even react.
“Do I look like someone you know?” I ask him, staring him dead in the eye. I can see the pain he must be feeling in his face, the smell of fear saturating the room.
He shakes his head, “No, I uh I I uh I don’t think so.”
I open my wallet and pull out three photos, one of my late mother, one of my late brother, and one of myself as a child. He looks at the photos and then at me, then back again.
“No,” he says, “there’s no way,” he gargles as the words spill from his disgusting mouth.
I point to my photo and laugh.
“But… you’re…I’ll do anything, please?!” he screams. We’re in the middle of nowhere, no one can hear him. I laugh and assure him there’s nothing he can do.
I tear the crucifix from his neck, and add it to the three others.
“Ready to meet your maker?” I ask him, laughing in his face. “I wish I could watch, but things are going to be a little too hot in here. Even for a little devil like me.”
Sweat and tears drench his ugly face, he pleads for his life. He’s got no chance.
It’s time.
“You were a great father figure, never once told me not to play with matches,” I say, dropping matchbooks all over the floor of the shack. “I’m a fuck up, right?” I ask him. No answer as I suspected. “You’re a coward. All the thoughts and prayers in the world can’t save you.”
I spit in his face, and hit him with a right hook so hard the chair falls over and he screams. I tower over him, a monster he created, a vision of death he never saw coming. I bend over and laugh making sure he can see me. “Ready?” I ask him, the biggest grin he’s ever seen in his life, the last face he’ll ever see.
I open the front door, step outside, pull a large matchbook from my pocket and fire it up. I toss it in the shack, close the door, run to my car, and drive off into the darkness.
Reflected in my rearview mirror are the flames of a million sins, a loud explosion surely heard miles away, God’s wrath thundering down, my wrath – a miraculous spectacle of light.
I leave the car in a deserted lot blocks from my home, where I know it’s sure to be stripped and destroyed. I walk into my building, take the elevator to 12, find the utility closet, and climb up through the hidden entrapment to my secret residence on the 13th floor.
I sleep better this night than in all my years combined.
[Image Credit : Photo by Valentin Müller on Unsplash]
by 
Jay Honstetter
Latest posts by Jay Honstetter (see all)
- Pray for Rain - April 28, 2026
Awesome story! More like this please!