{"id":600357,"date":"2026-04-28T04:45:19","date_gmt":"2026-04-28T04:45:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/?p=600357"},"modified":"2026-04-28T04:45:19","modified_gmt":"2026-04-28T04:45:19","slug":"pray-for-rain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/pray-for-rain\/","title":{"rendered":"Pray for Rain"},"content":{"rendered":"

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\u2019t 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\u2019t killed him yet \u2013 he\u2019s 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.
\n+++++<\/span>He’s guarded by two dead-men walking. All the grimacing, strutting, and posturing won\u2019t save them. They may look mafia, but they\u2019re 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\u2019t 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\u2019ll have to get through me, and that\u2019s not happening. Not today.
\n+++++<\/span>I watch them seated outside Sally\u2019s Caf\u00e9. He sips espresso or whatever sad liquid is sentenced to passing through his disgusting organs, and I\u2019ve 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\u2019s never hurt a soul, he loves children, they tell themselves. But how does he love them they should ask. If he\u2019s so good, why are they there?
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019t have them. Little fucking assholes.<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>I lay in my bed, all of nine years old, my door slightly cracked. I\u2019ve 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\u2019re so drunk they don\u2019t even remember I\u2019m here.<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>Shut the fuck up already, my mom tells him. Finally.<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>I imagine the obituary. \u2018Pastor %#$*, a handsome man who devoted himself to God. Loved and cherished by all who knew him. Not a single day has passed where he has not left an indelible mark on his neighbors\u2019 souls and children\u2019s hearts everywhere he\u2019s been. A preacher who called every town his home, every child his own\u2026\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Don\u2019t tell me to shut the fuck up, they\u2019re your fucking kids. He walks to the kitchen, pours another drink. My mom stumbles off to bed. Sleep on the couch, you\u2019re being a fucking asshole, she says, slamming the bedroom door. Oh, I\u2019m an asshole, he talks to himself pacing back and forth in the living room. I\u2019ll show you asshole. Your kids are fucking assholes. I\u2019ll show you what I\u2019m all about.<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>I lay in my bed for at least an hour listening to him mumble, before he enters my room and climbs in. I pretend to sleep as he slips his pants off and\u2026<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>\u201c\u2026 Pastor %#$* is survived by no one.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>I\u2019ve been watching him for weeks, and know his routine better than he does. My focus razor sharp, my switchblade even sharper. I\u2019m fully prepared. Chloroform, check. Switchblades, check. Zip ties, check. Duct tape, check. He\u2019ll never see me coming.
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019m 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 \u2013 they got that right, but that man was me, the coward in the news was an ugly corpse on borrowed time.
\n+++++<\/span>I survived by stealing, learning to throw fists, taking more than a few hits, and ultimately deciding I didn\u2019t want to survive anymore. I put myself on suicide support \u2013 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\u2019t kill me. Only one logical thing to do – time to play God, and God is not playing.
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019s made a living lying through his decrepit teeth and he\u2019s going to need more than a dentist when the night is over.
\n+++++<\/span>It’s time to put my plan in motion. I walk over to Sally\u2019s and take a seat only two tables over from them. It\u2019s been close to 20 years, he thinks I\u2019m dead, he\u2019ll 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.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cNo,\u201d I tell her, \u201cI\u2019ll have a seltzer water, real cold. Extra ice if you can. I\u2019d also like something chocolate, cake? Ice cream? Surprise me,\u201d she seems bewildered. It\u2019s the golden hour and the sun\u2019s 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\u2019s coming right up.
\n+++++<\/span>I feel like I\u2019m in a movie. A classic piece of cinema. It\u2019s the third act and something really good is about to happen. I hear one of the goons moaning that he has to \u201ctake a piss.\u201d I take it as a cue and find myself gliding through the entrance and propelling myself through the bathroom door.
\n+++++<\/span>It\u2019s 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.
\n+++++<\/span>He\u2019s 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\u2019m seated outside, my hand cold to the touch from my glass of seltzer, my mouth delighted at the sweetness of the chocolate ice cream.
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019t ruin this moment.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhere\u2019s that fucking guy?\u201d he says, slapping a new pack of smokes. The other goon shrugs his shoulders and I walk inside again. The waitress passes me, \u201cEverything okay?\u201d I tell her everything is great and make my way to the bathroom again. I stand at the urinal, chloroform at the ready.
\n+++++<\/span>I hear the door. Goon 2 spies Goon 1\u2019s 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\u2019s 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.
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019m a tiger stalking its prey, a hawk with an eagle\u2019s eye. I race out the door and feign panic.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWe need to get out of here, quick,\u201d I tell him as I run by him and grab his arm. \u201cThere\u2019s blood everywhere, someone is screaming about killing a pastor, that\u2019s you, right?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>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.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cGet in!\u201d 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.
\n+++++<\/span>I drive fast, weaving in and out of traffic, razor sharp turns, he hasn\u2019t said a word until now. \u201cSlow down, please!\u201d he begs, and I tell him we need to get out of here, his life depends on it. He\u2019s breathing heavily and I decide it\u2019s time to calm his nerves.
\n+++++<\/span>I pull over in front of a hydrant and ask him to grab my bag from the backseat, I\u2019ve got something in there to help him relax. \u201cQuick, we gotta move,\u201d I tell him.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cBut where are we goi\u2026\u201d he tries to finish, but as he turns his head for the bag (which doesn\u2019t 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.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cLicense and registration please,\u201d 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, \u201cI\u2019m so sorry I was stopped in the fire zone, my pastor is having some type of episode, maybe a heart attack,\u201d I sound panicked, I pant. \u201cI was giving him CPR but nothing. I gotta get him to the ER. Sorry officer, here\u2019re my papers.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>The crucifix around his neck glistens, a sure killer if I ever saw one. The cop says, \u201cDon\u2019t worry about it, get this man to the ER fast. Nice work brother, I\u2019ll pray for him.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Worked like a charm. I\u2019m no brother of his, and all the prayers in the world aren\u2019t going to bring my brother back to life nor are they going to rescue this pathetic monster\u2019s soul from the fate that awaits him. The path he chose, the final chapter of his life scribbled in blood, only it\u2019s done in my handwriting.
\n+++++<\/span>As he naps in the shadow of his death, I drive out of the city to the banks of a secluded river where I\u2019ve been working on a little shack designed just for my friend here. Surrounded by plenty of vegetation, it\u2019s the perfect little place for our pastor to whisper his last prayer.
\n+++++<\/span>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.
\n+++++<\/span>How did I miss Goon 3? He must\u2019ve been as sneaky as me, hiding out watching from afar.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThis your place?\u201d he says, a crease between his eyes, brows perpetually furrowed from being angry his whole life.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cSure is,\u201d I tell him and he motions for me to walk, positioning the barrel of his gun in the center of my back.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re doing with Pastor %#$*?\u201d (I will not even dignify this scum by using his name), he asks me.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWe were just going for a ride,\u201d I tell him, a smirk he can\u2019t see on my face but I\u2019m sure he can feel.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cFunny guy, huh?\u201d 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. \u201cOpen it,\u201d he says and I tell him I need to get the key from my right pocket or does he want to do it. \u201cGo ahead,\u201d he says, really more of a grunt.
\n+++++<\/span>I unlock the door and push it open, the room is pitch black. \u201cThe light switch is on the other side of the door, I can get it when it\u2019s closed or you can do it,\u201d I tell him. He may just shoot me dead right here, who knows? He says he\u2019ll 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\u2019m on him fast, smashing the gun into his face as hard as humanly possible. Once I\u2019m satisfied he\u2019s 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.
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019ve got to get back to the car and drag this sick pedophile fuck to the throne I\u2019ve created for him in the middle of the shack.
\n+++++<\/span>As I approach the car, I see he\u2019s coming to. He\u2019s still groggy but as he spots me, panic overtakes his face. I don\u2019t care, your number is up, and these hands have been idle too long. I unlock his door, and open it. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I tell him, thinking we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but in the end it doesn\u2019t matter.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cBut, you\u2019re bleeding, what happened? Is it safe here?\u201d he asks me, the sound of fear in his voice is music to my ears. He won\u2019t even mention what I did to him in the car, the coward.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I say pulling him out by his elbow, and shoving him toward the shack.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat are we doing here? Why are you doing this?\u201d 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\u2019m on top of him with chloroform pressed over his mouth and nose for the second time today.
\n+++++<\/span>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\u2019s legs, his feet are tingling. He\u2019s gagged with duct tape and the taste of lighter fluid coats his teeth, gums, and tongue. He\u2019s so drenched in gasoline, his six strands of wet hair feel as if they\u2019re plastered to his head, and even his eyelashes are damp. I wipe his eyes clear with an old rag so I\u2019m sure he can see me. He spots Goon 3\u2019s sacrificed body on the floor.
\n+++++<\/span>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.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cShut up,\u201d I tell him.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d he asks desperately, but he must know.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou better pray for rain,\u201d I tell him, sitting in this shack filled with dry leaves, sticks, and coal, surrounded outside by vegetation and the dryest heat we\u2019ve had in some time \u2013 it hasn\u2019t rained in over three weeks. \u201cLook at you pissing yourself,\u201d his disgusting naked body sitting in his own urine, he can\u2019t even react.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cDo I look like someone you know?\u201d 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.
\n+++++<\/span>He shakes his head, \u201cNo, I uh I I uh I don\u2019t think so.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>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.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cNo,\u201d he says, \u201cthere\u2019s no way,\u201d he gargles as the words spill from his disgusting mouth.
\n+++++<\/span>I point to my photo and laugh.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cBut\u2026 you\u2019re\u2026I\u2019ll do anything, please?!\u201d he screams. We\u2019re in the middle of nowhere, no one can hear him. I laugh and assure him there\u2019s nothing he can do.
\n+++++<\/span>I tear the crucifix from his neck, and add it to the three others.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cReady to meet your maker?\u201d I ask him, laughing in his face. \u201cI wish I could watch, but things are going to be a little too hot in here. Even for a little devil like me.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Sweat and tears drench his ugly face, he pleads for his life. He\u2019s got no chance.
\n+++++<\/span>It\u2019s time.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou were a great father figure, never once told me not to play with matches,\u201d I say, dropping matchbooks all over the floor of the shack. \u201cI\u2019m a fuck up, right?\u201d I ask him. No answer as I suspected. \u201cYou\u2019re a coward. All the thoughts and prayers in the world can\u2019t save you.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>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. \u201cReady?\u201d I ask him, the biggest grin he\u2019s ever seen in his life, the last face he\u2019ll ever see.
\n+++++<\/span>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.
\n+++++<\/span>Reflected in my rearview mirror are the flames of a million sins, a loud explosion surely heard miles away, God\u2019s wrath thundering down, my wrath – a miraculous spectacle of light.
\n+++++<\/span>I leave the car in a deserted lot blocks from my home, where I know it\u2019s 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.
\n+++++<\/span>I sleep better this night than in all my years combined.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[Image Credit : Photo by Valentin M\u00fcller<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a>]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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\u2019t disguise, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":683,"featured_media":600383,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1462,1987,1452],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-600357","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-j","category-jay-honstetter","category-short-story"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p1Zyqm-2wbb","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/Pray-For-Rain.jpg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/600357","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/683"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=600357"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/600357\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/600383"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=600357"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=600357"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=600357"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}