dry run

by underswansea


Five times dry as the year before. Bishop watched the Deacon approach, through the long grass that needed mowing. It was going to be hot. It was all hard work. Even the religious try to get the saving done before the noon sun.

How you doing, friend.

What you selling. Bishop already knew the answer

I’m selling nothing.

Everybody’s selling something. But you don’t look like a politician. So what is it? Religion?

Have you ever thought about who goes to heaven?

Bishop was pissed off already. The grass was high. It was going to be hotter than a son-of-a-bitch in the afternoon.

The Deacon was the same age as Bishop.

I’m not interested in heaven. Bishop thought if he could get away with hitting him on the head with the shovel and planting him in the garden.

The Bible if shredded properly would make good compost. As for the corpse it would be a nuisance.

The Lord is interested in you, my friend, the Deacon said.

Not interested.

Bishop felt an itch. It was uncomfortable. He was a moment away from cracking the first beer.

Not interested, he said.

Okay. He said.

His task was asking.

Move along and don’t come back.

The Deacon turned. There was a split second Bishop wished he hadn’t.

Bishop got back to the task at hand, swinging and mowing. God’s work. He figured.