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.A life without Jesus is a life with the devil.A life without Jesus means eternal damnation.And hell is hotter than a blast furnace! He paused for a moment and pointed both fingers at his mask.People wonder about the mask.People say, Reverend Wells, why do you hide? That mask scares us.Show us your face.But I don’t dare! You see, it would be too shocking for the likes of you.Your eyes would bug out of your skull, and the bile would coat your throat.Because beneath this here mask is a face of heartache! Beneath this here mask is a face of sin! Let this be a warning to you.You stay on your present path, and this is what your soul will look like.And no mask can hide a hell-bound soul!Then the reverend raised his arms like Christ in Rio de Janeiro.Mustering all the power he could in his devil’s voice, he glared at the roughnecks and the whore and said: Oh, yes, I know a thing or two about sin! Drinking, whoring, fighting.I am here to tell you that I was a marionette with the devil as his puppeteer.My toes could feel the heat of hell getting closer and closer.But then I had a vision! A vision of God himself! You laugh! You say I’m crazy! But I tell you the truth.God Almighty spoke to me! And here’s what he told me: He told me to go to Hal’s Hardware down there in El Hornillo, Texas, and buy myself a bottle of lye.And I didn’t ask questions! Like Abraham, ready to sacrifice his only son, I did what I was told.And I sat inside a worn-out motel room and waited for my next instructions.Days passed until I heard from him again.The temperature must have been 110 degrees and the sweat was pouring down my face.And when he whispered in my ear, I was weak with dehydration.But what I heard wasn’t no aural hallucination.The Good Lord told me to open up that bottle of lye and douse my handsome face completely and absolutely.Straight from the Lord’s mouth! And I followed his word on that day, and I’ve followed his word every day since! Can’t you understand? I burned my face, so I wouldn’t have to burn my soul!And as the people gasped and murmured, he kept right on talking, fists clenched tightly.And now I ask you to take a look at yourselves.Can you do it? You’re nothing but whores, thieves, and liars! You think you can hide from your destiny? It’s just a matter of time.You’ll try to huddle beneath the Lord’s cloak, but it won’t do you no good.The Good Lord is ready to burn the chaff!I could listen to this filth no longer.I stepped out from beneath the shadows and showed my own face of heartache, my own face of sin.I said: Is this the face you’re preaching about? And the crowd was silent and so was Reverend Wells.My hands were suddenly clenched into fists.I stepped up to the reverend, shouted: You don’t know me! My face may be hideous, but my soul is pure! What gives you the right?A face of sin! he shouted.No sir, I said.A face of war!As I figured! A murderer by any other name! How many did you kill, young man? How many casualties of war? How many sins must be negotiated in the afterlife?I’d heard enough.With adrenaline flowing, I stepped up and gave the masked prophet a quick punch to his chest.The suddenness of my movement caught him by surprise, and he lost his balance.He started wobbling like a barroom drunk, grabbing at the air for support.Filled with rage, I took two quick steps and pile-drove him into the ground.Then I reached back and slammed my fist into his masked face, once, twice, three times.He’d feel some pain now.I really let him have it.Blows to the face, to the body, to the back of the head.Meanwhile, the whore of a woman was screaming and moaning, and a couple of the drunkards were trying to pull me off the preacher, who was lying on the ground shielding his invisible face with his arm.I yanked at the mask and he suddenly came to life, kicking and screaming.After a long struggle, I managed to pull the rubber mask off his head completely.His face wasn’t burned at all.No, his skin was smooth and healthy, and I knew he was no prophet.A phony! I shouted.A goddamn phony! With renewed fury, I slammed his face with my fist, over and over and over again, tearing up his skin, creating a bloody mess.Eventually a couple of the men managed to drag me off the conman and pin me to the ground.Phony! I kept shouting.Soon I heard the ambient of a siren.I watched, still good and enraged, as a big sheriff’s SUV pulled up at the curb and Sheriff Baker stepped out.He adjusted his Stetson hat, blew on his hands, and started walking slowly, wearily to the chaotic scene.He nodded at the bearded drunks twisting back my arms, and said: All right boys, let ’im go.CHAPTER 11The drunks released my arms, pushed me to the ground.The false prophet sat up, touching his torn face in horror, mumbling about the fiery furnaces.Baker looked me up and down and shook his head.Now lookie here, he said.If it ain’t Stratton’s public enemy number one.What kind of trouble have you gotten into this time?I was minding my own business, I said.It’s the preacher you should worry about.Baker grinned before reading me my rights.Then the deputy sheriff, a brutish-looking fellow with a snaggletooth, handcuffed me, pushed my head down, and shoved me into the backseat of the patrol car.My fingers were aching, bones crushed for sure.We drove around for a while, the lawmen speaking in hushed whispers, before ending at the local jail, a decaying old brick building a couple miles east of town.Once inside, they fingerprinted me and took my mug shot.Then they strip-searched me.They confiscated my wallet, a book of matches, my snuff, and a deck of cards with naked women on the back.My belongings were placed into an envelope, and the recording officer gave me a receipt.I was given the option of a phone call.Nobody wanted to hear from me.They tossed me into a small holding cell with a few dirty Mexicans and a couple of tattooed rednecks.One of the rednecks looked me over and shook his head.I wasn’t good enough even for his tastes.* * *The next day they cuffed my hands behind my back and escorted me down the hallway to another cell.The burlier of the guards shoved me inside, and the other one locked the metal door.Without a word they turned and walked away, their footsteps echoing in unison.The cell was stark.A mattress, a toilet, a sink.A small window covered with bars.Obscene messages written on the concrete walls.I lay on the mattress and folded my hands behind my head.Off in the distance I could hear the screams of the inmates echoing throughout the concrete hallway.I squeezed my eyes tight and covered my ears with my hands.Soon I was asleep.I dreamed about urban warfare—buildings turned to rubble, children charred beyond recognition.When I awoke, the screaming had stopped and everything was dark.I began to panic.I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but I was afraid of what might happen in the dark.I shook the bars and shouted for a guard.Nobody came.Terrified, I huddled in the corner of the cell, the smell of blood and urine rising in my nostrils.* * *All the next day I paced back in forth in my cage, the fluorescent lights flickering and the steel doors echoing throughout the corridor.Every so often a group of men wearing identical blue suits and red ties appeared outside my cell, talking in hushed tones behind hands.I shouted at them, asked about my arraignment, asked about legal representation, but they only shook their heads and jotted down notes in spiral notebooks.And then, later on, while I was lying on the cement floor listening to my own dire thoughts ricocheting through my skull, I heard the jangle of keys and watched as the door banged open and a pair of guards entered with hands on their guns.And directly behind them, Sheriff Baker, Stetson hat perched on his head.With a slight nod, and something approaching a smile, he took a few steps until he was standing directly over me.How ya doin, Joseph? he said [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]