The Reverend finishes straightening his hair and slides his small comb discreetly back into his pocket. He rests on his heels with his back straight and his eyes locked onto yours with equal parts curiosity and disdain. He stands only a fraction of an inch taller than you, but at this very moment it feels like he’s standing on the roof. You pause and savor a deep breath, never breaking eye contact, before you answer.

“I look wherever you tell me to look.”

Your voice carries with it a little more vitriol than you had intended. It’s anger, easily transcribed, brings a fresh scowl to the Reverend’s face and almost immediately, you hear the bedroom door close as Gail rushes out of the room. You glance in her direction, looking away from the Reverend, for only an instant before his bony fist socks you square in the gut.

“Uhhh!”

You nearly puke as the air explodes from your lungs and your body doubles over and you collapse to your knees. For a moment, you remain still, staring at the floor while you gasp for breath. Your right hand feels your stomach twitching beneath the surface, wrestling against your abdomen as it struggles to regain its original shape.

“Now, Vulture, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Claire isn’t marrying you today because she loves you. No, I don’t think any of us here—love—you. In fact, as you’ve undoubtedly failed to understand, only God loves you here. And for as much as it befuddles me, He has brought you to this house in much the same way dogshit is delivered here on the underside of a shoe.

“If you think I’m dogshit,” you begin. You cough as you climb back to your feet and look the Reverend once again in his eyes.

“Then I’d hate to know what you think of the daughter you’re marrying me to.”

The Reverend's next blow comes just as you expected. His right fist lashes out, aimed straight for the side of your face. For an instant, you consider ducking out of the way and letting him miss, which would likely lead to him stumbling into the bed or the table before he regained his balance. In that time, you’d have an easy shot at him and could very quickly end his life with just your bare hands. However, for as quickly as that scene plays in your mind, so does the fallout of which and the wrath of his congregation—all of which he has already paid to kill you on sight at the first sign of any disobedience on your part.

You sneer and remain still, letting your thoughts drift back to the gun still taped behind the sink.

One last hit for the road.

Freedom Rewards the
Son of a Bitch

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