Part III

I

I walked over to the newsstand with glee. There it was. My face staring back at me surrounded by a blood red box, “Man of the Year” written in large font below my winning smile. A little perkier and more pristine than I’m used to seeing it, but it was me all the same. Beside me, a young boy looked back and forth between my face and the one plastered on the rack, unsure if what he was seeing was real or a figment of his childish imagination. I tossed a coin to the stand owner and removed one of my faces from the plethora. Flipping through the pages, I found my article. I was a hero.

My heart jumped for joy. Elation filled my lungs. I’d done it. My face would linger in landfills and waiting rooms until well after the passing of my physical shell. I was invincible. I was god. My name would grace the lips of generations until the inevitable end of humanity, be it by accident or otherwise.

Spinning around, I walked down the street, passing eyes looking at me in admiration, men wanting to be me, women wanting to fuck me. I could have any one I wanted. Whistling a happy tune, I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it up. Turning a corner, I faced a stone wall. Only a stone wall.

“So, word ‘round town is there’s gonna be a lynchin’ tonight.” The harsh words of the likely inbred officer snapped be back to my cell. A cigarette still hung from my mouth. They hadn’t taken them away, for whatever reason. I suppose they figured I needed them. They were a right. “For yer friend, anyways. Of course, once word gets out ‘bout you, there might be two.” Or my last supper. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

The officer turned and walked out of the hallway, closing the big iron door behind him. Down the hall, Charlie paced in his cell.

“Don’t worry boss. They know betta than ta lynch a white. There’ll be hell ta pay if they let that happen.” I stood up from my wooden bench and walked over to the steel bars guarding my escape.

“You want a cigarette? I can toss one down.”

“Nah, you keep ‘em. I ain’t one for smokin’ ‘less I’m on the drink.”

“If I had some bourbon I’d offer it.” I didn’t mention the contents of my socks; they’d avoided detection thus far, and it would stay that way.

“Yeah boss, that’d hit tha spot.” I sat back down and tried to continue my daydream, but to no avail. As I lit up another cigarette, the iron doors opened.

“I didn’t want ta leave you two alone fer two long. Two men alone like this get desperate, start schemin’. Just ain’t good fer nobody.” The voice of the sheriff echoed down the hall along with the clicking of his boot heels. Trotting his way down the line, he halted in front of my cell. He stood there for a moment, eyes focused only on me. When he got his fill, he opened his mouth up to antagonize.

“So, let me get this straight. You came into my town an’ though you could pull the wool over my eyes, boy? You thought you could just waltz on in here, break a nigger out o’ jail, incite a riot, and everything would work out jus’ hunky dory?” The sheriff spit on the ground. “Let me tell you somethin’ boy. This is my town, I own it. And in my town, I always win.”

“Don’t let ‘im get to ya boss. Don’t pay no attention ta what he says.” Charlie yelled from down the hall.

“Shut up, nigger! I don’t even hafta say anything, you know what gon happen to you.” The sheriff turned his face and yelled, then came back to me. “I did a bit ‘o diggin’ while you were waitin’ in here. Turns out you gotta bit ‘o a rap sheet, boy. Missin’ drugs in the state of California. Fraud. The whole bit. You’re goin’ away for a long time.” He cracked a grimacing smile. “Or not, if the townspeople have their way. An’ I jus’ might let ‘em.”

So they’d reported the missing cocaine. They’d have to, I guess. The inventory was monitored, the numbers wouldn’t add up, I was a fool. But at this point, I didn’t give a shit. In for a penny, out for a pound. That’s what I’d thought when I took it, wasn’t it? They hadn’t reported anything else; of course they hadn’t. The government was sanctioning murder, and I’d be executed for my part disguised as petty crimes. Deep down I was afraid, but the reaper would be the only one I’d allow to hear my begging pleas. Doubts and demons were beginning to creep back; I couldn’t quite admit it to myself, but this whole thing beginning to look like a big mistake.

“Yep, I’d say you’re jus’ about knee deep in shit.” The iron door at the top of the hall creaked open. “What is it?!”

In my mind’s eye I could see the head of the young dumb officer poke its way into the cellblock, the door blocking the only part of him that was worth a damn.

“We’ve got a visitor.”

“Who’s got a visitor? Me? Whitey here? The nigger? Your dumb ass?”

“Dr. Fremont, sir. The white one.”

“Who the fuck is it? Tell ‘em to scram. This one ain’t takin’ no visitors.”

“Sir, I think you should come see.” The sheriff turned and walked down the hallway, cursing under his breath.

A visitor? Who did I know in this town? Someone from the university? Surely it wasn’t Michael or Big Ed, unless one of them were looking to be lynched. Was the motel clerk looking for another date? I stood up as the realization dawned on me.

It was Magoo and Anderson. It had to be. They’d followed me this far, and they weren’t about to let some small town folks steal all their fun. The sheriff was checking their credentials at this moment. Magoo was probably digging through his pockets in search of his badge, pulling out all mannerisms of unique and bizarre trinkets. A watermelon. A cat. A baseball. A fucking fuck. The feds would get their hands on me yet.

The iron door slammed open. The clicking of two pairs of boots echoed down the hallway now; one heavy, one light.

“Daisy, you can’t barge on in here. I ain’t gonna stand by while you just- “

“Cram it, Jim. I’ll bloody well do as I please. An’ if you lay yer mitts on me, just watch.” It was the unfamiliar high pitched voice of a woman. “Where’s he at, Jim? Let me see ‘im.”

Slowly, she came into view. She was older, but not too old. She wore a sundress and sun cap despite the absence of sunlight. I could tell by her charm exactly who she was. A member of southern aristocracy, the last of its kind. A cocktail of old age Europe and foolish new age America. A woman who was privy to say “ahn-velope” instead of “envelope”, with a mint julep on the side. And she was here to see me.

“You Don?” She asked as abruptly as a southern belle could.

“Yes.” I was.

“Jim, I want him outta this cell this instant.” Who was this woman besides my savior? Was I to be a part of some new scheme, with roles reversed?

“Daisy, it ain’t gonna happen.” The sheriff came into view, his usual tan face an unusual shade of red. Daisy turned to faced him, ready for business.

“Jim, you know who I am. You know who I know. We can go about this the hard way, or the easy way. It’s really your decision.” The sheriff laughed.

“Jus’ because you were bed fellows with the governor at some point don’t mean I’m gonna just let you take this prisoner off my hands.” Daisy raised her eyebrow.

“Oh, what would you know about that, Jim?” The sheriff paused for a moment, regaining his composure. I had no idea what was unfolding before me.

“Listen, all I’m sayin’ is that the governor ain’t gonna just let some race rioting fools go scot free. You and I both know where he stands on this ‘un.”

Daisy let slip a coy smile.

“Well, Jim, I do suppose you are right. But if that’s the case, maybe instead of calling up the governor about this one here I’ll just have to make a little phone call about you.” The sheriff took a step back.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would Jim. Just let him go and there won’t be any problems.” The sheriff stood silent for nearly a minute, silently contemplating my fate. I was enjoying this. Finally, a decision was made.

“Alright, I’ll let you have yer way this time. But just as I know who you know, you know who I know. The backwoods of Mississippi will burn before the night is over. You’ve crossed the wrong man.”

“Really, Jim? A threat? I’ll have to write that one down.” The sheriff only grunted. “Now, open the cell door and let this man walk out of here.”

The sheriff slid over and inserted a large key into the door. Sliding over the bars, I stood up and walked into the hallway. Despite only being in the cell for hours, it felt as though I’d felt freedom for the first time. I turned to Daisy.

“I have so many questions.”

“I know, I know. Just save ‘em for later. It’s gonna be okay.” There was one question I couldn’t save for later.

“What about Charlie?”

“Charlie will be fine, just let me take care of it. Now, you head outside, I’m gonna stay in here for a ‘lil bit.”

The sheriff stood by in stony silence as we talked. Turning back towards the door, I began my walk towards the cell block exit. Behind me, Daisy fell into line, followed by the sheriff.

“You gotta be shittin’ me.” I emerged from the cell block. Before me was the big, dumb, confused face of the deputy. “Boss?”

“Jus’ let it go. We’ll take care of it later.” Daisy and the sheriff exited behind me. I couldn’t see the face of the sheriff, but I was certain it was sore.

“Don’t say a thing. Just keep walking.” Daisy whispered in my ear, and I took her advice. I didn’t even glance sideways. Putting one foot in front of the other, I made it to the exit and turned the doorknob.

The overcast sky from earlier in the day had burned off leaving a beautiful Mississippi evening in its wake. The low lying sun took up almost the whole horizon, its rays emanating in victory and blinding me in one last act of defiance for the day. Blinking repeatedly, my eyes finally gained focus and my surroundings took shape. Putting the blur of what had just happened behind me, I looked down the station steps. Before me stood Michael, his face beaming brighter than the sun, one hand on an idling cream colored Bentley. Was I dreaming again?

“I see they let ya out.” Michael chuckled, his face showing joy despite its bruises.

“Michael – I, uh… How? What’s going on?” I didn’t know what to say. Even my mind was at a loss for words.

“Just repayin’ the favor.” Another chuckle. “Gotta smoke for me?”

I removed my cigarette pack from my trouser pocket and handed it to Michael, only now noticing his new clothes. His torn, mud soaked rags had been replaced with fine linens, white to match the car we were leaning on.

“Where’d you get the clothes? The car?” I didn’t even have time to give a compliment. I needed answers.

“Car belongs to Miss Daisy. Clothes too, used ta be owned by her late husband. I don’t care, if the old bastard is gonna haunt me for ‘em then I say bring him on.”

“Who the fuck is Miss Daisy?”

“Why, she’s that nice woman that jus’ got ya out of prison.” Michael’s smile widened. He was fucking with me.

“You know what I meant.”

“Of course I did.” Michael slapped me on the back and motioned for a match, which I gave him. Striking it against the bottom of his new left shoe, he lit his cigarette and mine. “Relax, ya jus’ got outta jail. Daisy’s a friend, no need ta worry.”

Taking a puff of my cigarette, I blew the smoke up into the fresh air. Michael was right; this was a moment to relish in. I’d get my answers soon enough.

“You seem awful chipper for the organizer of a failed protest.” Seeing Michael’s face had reopened the day’s events in my mind. In jail, it had only been occupied with thoughts of the future and what it had in store for me and Charlie. My stint had given me second thoughts; if the universe had turned the other cheek, I’d still be rotting in that cell. It was only after being released and seeing Michael that I realized that it was not only the two of us facing death, but also his ideals. His smiling face, however, was not that of a man defeated.

“Failed?” Michael laughed once again. “Failed?” Repeating himself, he held his cigarette in his mouth and leaned into the open window of the Bentley. Flicking a few switches and turning a few knobs, the sound of the radio broke the relative peace surrounding the police station. “Listen.”

Today, Southern Mississippi College was the site of a protest, a growing trend in these United States. Upwards of twenty blacks stormed the grounds and demanded the right to a university education. They didn’t mention the white. Things began peaceful, but the protest quickly disintegrated – Another turn of a knob. –Don’t got no idea where them niggers get off. They’re the gosh darn problem with this country. I’m as progressive as the next folk, but I jus’ don’t see- Another turn of a knob. Well, I think it’s about time something is done. They’re not second class citizens. I’m surprised the pot didn’t boil over until no- The flick of a switch gave silence. Michael pulled his head out of the car, his smile having not left his face. I tossed my cigarette butt to the side and waited.

“You hear that?” I nodded. “The whole damn state is buzzin’ about our little escapade. Three towns over they’ve got another demonstration goin’ on. We did it, Don.” So that was it. We were the spark that had ignited the powder keg. This had never been about us. And that was fine. Michael was fighting for the freedom of his people, and I had no clue what I was fighting for. This was only the first stepping stone.

“The winds of change are blowing.” Michael smiled at me and took my hand into his.

“You got that right, brother.” I paused and leaned back onto the hood of the Bentley. Brother. I liked that. Some only children long for a brother or sister with all their being; others resent the thought of it. I fell into the later camp, but today, it felt right. After our massive success, there was only one question to ask.

“So, what’s next?” Before Michael had time to answer, the doors of the police station burst open, and out stepped Daisy, queen of the Mississippi. Slowly walking down the stone steps, she called out to us.

“Quit leanin’ on the car! I didn’t save your neck to have ya scratch up my old girl!” I quickly stood up straight, but that was the least of my worries. In unison, Michael and I both made the same query.

“Where’s Charlie?”

“What, you boys twins now?” Daisy turned back her head and laughed, her curly hair falling from beneath her sun hat. I couldn’t tell if it was blonde or grey. “Charlie will be fine. They ain’t gonna lynch him. Worst he’s gonna get is a slap on the wrist.”

“How can you be sure?” I didn’t trust this debutante, even if she had just turned me loose.

“Well Don, what choice do you have?” She was right. I wasn’t about the set fire to the police station. Michael didn’t have an issue. I bit my tongue. “Anyways, let’s turn tail and get outta here. Best not to hang ‘round these parts too long.”

“Who’s driving?” An innocent question. I assumed Michael and I would sit in the front, one of us playing the role of chauffeur to the lovely Miss Daisy.

“I can drive my own car, thank you very much.” She was a new aged old age gal. I began to walk over to the back seat door, but Michael had beaten me to it.

“Probably best if you ride up front, Don.” I nodded and walked around the rear of the vehicle to take my place. Opening the door, I was greeted by luxury. Wooden panels, gold plated accents, white leather interior. Holding her cigarette holder, surrounded by white, Miss Daisy looked like a Norman Rockwell painting on cocaine. Pulling away from the police station, I lit up my own cigarette and took a deep breath. Now was the time for answers.

“Alright, alright. No need to get rambunctious. Ask me whatever you like, but do be polite. I am a lady after all.” As if reading my thoughts, Daisy had given me permission to begin. “And you will address me as Miss Daisy.”

I cleared my throat and sat up straight.

“Well, Miss Daisy, who are you exactly besides a lady?”

“Well, Dr. Fremont, I am ever so glad you asked. I am the third of my name, daughter of the indubitable James Compson, descendant of one Jason Compson, purveyor of the once mighty Compson Plantation.”

The great great granddaughter of a slave master. Great.

“So, uh, why did you help us?” Miss Daisy shifted gears as we veered left, out of town, back towards the backwoods and the Wooden Alligator. She took an inhale through her cigarette holder and exhaled out through her nose.

“Dr, Fremont, the past is a funny thing. You or I or anybody else can’t do a darn – excuse my language – thing about it. I didn’t have one single thing to do with that Compson Plantation, but it bears my name, so I feel guilty. I feel guilty ‘bout the things my late husband made me too when he was still kickin’, even though I didn’t really have a choice. I even feel guilty ‘bout pushing him down the stairs, though I know I shouldn’t.” Miss Daisy turned to me and winked with a coy smile I didn’t quite believe. The number of murderers in this car was somewhere between one and two. “Anyways, my point is that I’m only here to set things right, even if it don’t make much sense. And ‘round these parts, you’ll find most things don’t make much sense.”

From my experience, I couldn’t disagree on any account. The past was funny, this state was strange. Guilt drowned us all. From the backseat Michael spoke up.

“I’ve known Miss Daisy for as long as I can remembah, and Miss Daisy, she knows near everyone from here to Timbuktu.” Miss Daisy threw back her head in laughter.

“Timbuktu, no. Banjul, maybe.”

“My momma was one ‘o tha help for the Compsons. Daisy would come and tell the children stories, teach us, bring us things. Never met nobody as kind.” So Michael and Daisy were thick as thieves. Why hadn’t he told me before? She could have helped earlier today. She was the secret weapon we needed, and Michael had possessed the blueprints all along. Stupidity.

“Wait a minute here. So you knew Daisy all along? Why didn’t you tell me? If we have resources, we should use them.”

“Whadya think, Don? That Miss Daisy was gonna make a stand there in the mud with us today?” The pair shared a look and a grin in the rearview mirror. “’Sides, I only jus’ met ya yesterday.”

I lit up another cigarette and replaced the burnt out butt in Daisy’s cigarette holder. She thanked me kindly. I didn’t respond to Michael; he knew I knew he was right. Daisy had done her duty.

“So, where are we headed?”

“Well, I think you boys need some time to regroup and lie low. The Compson Plantation is just about 50 miles outside ‘a town, so y’all should be safe there. Been near a hundred years since it was last occupied. I’ll make ya’s comfortable, then I’ll turn tail back into town ta see what’s ta be done about Charlie. The spiders will keep ya company.”

I nodded slowly and looked out the window. Some time to lie low would be nice. I could gather my thoughts and attempt to figure out exactly what I was doing. Deep down, however, I knew that wouldn’t happen. I had an itch in my sock and on my mind that needed scratching.

II

The long and dusty road that led us to the Compson Plantation was occupied only by the unseen ghosts at its sides. The sun had just about set as we pulled up to the main house, which had long passed its ownership to the weeping willows surrounding it. A hint of decadence remained, but it could only be viewed through cobwebs and stained windows. As Daisy shifted the Bentley into park, I lit a cigarette and stepped out of the car and back in time.

“There she is, boys.” Michael walked around back and opened the car door for Miss Daisy. “James used to drag me down here all the time. He always thought about fixin’ it up, but never got ‘round to it. Truth be told, we didn’t have the money. Jus’ decayin’ symbols of status.”

I let Miss Daisy lead us up the large white staircase and into the house. The cracked wooden doors creaked in either warning or greeting. A cobweb brushed against my face as I stepped inside the pitch black entrance. Venturing into the darkness, Daisy disappeared save for the glow of her cigarette. The snap of a match against flint was heard and the room was illuminated, sending shadows sprawling across the wooden floor. Lifting the match above her head, Daisy found the wick of an oil lamp, exposing our temporary home.

“That’s better.” I had equated the word abandoned with desolate, but that was not the case. Beautiful paintings lined the walls. Sturdy, oaken furniture was still laid out, covered in dust and whatever insects and spiders had left behind. Brandy decanters lay out on a table against the far wall, some still full, calling my name. I walked over to take a sniff.

“They’re all yours boys. Probably ain’t too bad, either – they get better with age, ain’t that right?”

I uncorked a bottle. It smelled fine, but sweet. A drink of high society. I put the bottle to my lips and took a small sip. It tickled the back of my throat just right.

“Good stuff.” Daisy laughed and flashed me a smile. Turning to Michael to give him a taste, I found he had already left the entrance way and begun his exploration.

“Michael! Where did you go?” I yelled, my question echoing down the hallway.

“I’m down here, Don!” The yell came from the room to my left. Brushing more cobwebs aside, I walked past them and entered the room.

Like everything else about the house, it was large. A writing desk stood in one corner, quill and all. The other corner was occupied by a chair and ottoman. Between them, a fireplace stood, the half burnt log within a sign it wasn’t just for show. Why a fireplace was needed in Mississippi, I’d never know. In the middle of the room stood Michael, staring up at a portrait of who I could only guess to be the respectable Jason Compson.

“You boys must be starvin’. There’s some vittles out in the car I’m going to grab. I fired up the stove in the backroom, she works like a charm.” Daisy poked her head through the doorway. Food. I’d almost forgotten it.

“Thank ya Miss Daisy.” Michael thanked her and I nodded. Waiting for the click of the front door behind her, I walked over to Michael and placed my hand on his shoulder.

“I think it’s time.” Michael turned and looked at me in confusion.

“Time fo’ what?” What did he think?

“I’m going to show you what changed me.” Michael’s face quickly turned from confusion to understanding. Reaching down, I pulled out my bag of tricks.

“Dope? You gotta be kiddin’ me, Don.” The cocaine had moved its way to the outer edge of the bag, hiding the truly valuable contents inside. Removing and pocketing the powder, all that remained were the tried and tested litmus papers.

“That’s for later. This is for now.” Reaching into the bag, I removed four papers and handed two to Michael, a donation for the cause. Taking them in his rough hands, he looked first at the papers, then at me. They were as foreign as Farsi to him. “Don’t worry about it. Just swallow them.”

Putting the papers in my mouth, I held them for a moment before swallowing. They’d keep the butterflies in my stomach company. Taking a deep breath, I let my anxiousness subside. I couldn’t help it; the unknown still frightened me. Michael stood unmoving.

“Just take them. You can trust me.” Michael smiled.

“Well, lemme see. Since I’ve met you, we’ve both been tossed in jail, I got a few broke ribs and a black eye to match ma skin, you nearly got killed by Charlie ‘n Ed, and we’ve drunken nearly ‘nough bourbon to kill a horse.” Tilting his head back, Michael downed his dosage. “Sounds good ta me.”

The effects wouldn’t kick in for another half hour at least. Then, who knew. I heard Daisy slam the front door behind her as she reentered the house. Poking her head in the room, she looked us up and down.

“Just checkin’ in.” Out she went, her echoing footsteps following her to the kitchen. Michael walked over the vacant chair and sat down, propping his feet up on the ottoman, leaving the writing desk as my refuge.

“So when am I sposed to feel somethin’?” He was used to the instant gratification alcohol, dope, and modern life provided. He’d have to wait, but it would be worth it.

“About an hour or so. Hard to say, really. Maybe less.” I removed the quill from the comfort of its inky resting place and began drawing on a piece of parchment left behind by a previous tenant. Unable to think of what to draw, I practiced signing my name over and over again until it had lost all meaning. My mind had not yet reached its creative peak.

Michael sat patiently, staring off into the distance. Putting the quill back to rest for another hundred years, I pulled out a cigarette and tossed my pack to Michael.

“How long do ya think it’s been?” I looked at my watch for the first time in days.

“I couldn’t tell you. Ten, fifteen minutes? Twenty?”

“Ya sure we took enough? I ain’t feelin’ a thing.” It was uncertainty, not curiosity that had killed the cat.

“Relax, Michael. I told you. It’s going to kick in any minute now. You sure as hell won’t want any more.” Michael turned his head and resumed staring blankly at the wall. Perhaps he was seeing things without even realizing it. This substance had the uncanny ability of sneaking up on you before letting loose a stampede of elephants within your mind.

“Boys, I got some bad news.” Daisy was at the door once again. I hadn’t heard her come in; like the LSD, Daisy also possessed the virtue of stealth. “The stove out back burnt out, and I can’t seem to get it back up ‘n runnin’. Looks like I’ll be servin’ up some half cooked grits.”

Daisy walked over and handed plates to Michael and I. An unappetizing, watery mess graced them. Filling my spoon, I took a mouthful and attempted to chew the rock hard grits. Unable to, I gulped and swallowed them down. Nevertheless, my stomach growled thanks. Michael simply set his plate aside.

“Sorry ‘bout that, boys. I was hopin’ we’d have a real southern dinner.” Daisy sighed and took a step backwards. Her hat had returned to her head. “Well, on that note, I guess I should inform you boys I’m leavin’. I know I said I’d stay, but I got a big day tomorrow, an’ at this age I need ta get my beauty sleep in my bed, not one infested by dust mites. Enjoy yours, though, of course - you boys are welcome to lay yah heads wherever you’d like, but do make sure ta check for bugs first. I’m sure you boys gots loads ta talk ‘bout. I know, I know, ya don’t want me ta leave, but I’ll be back in three or fou’ days. That should give ya plenty ‘o time to cook up a good plan – one better than these grits at the least.”

Looking up from my plate at Daisy’s smiling face, I nodded, not at her, but rather at the vibrant, kaleidoscopic shapes swirling upon the wall behind her. Watching her leave the room, I sunk into my chair and felt the drip of saliva on my chin. As an engine started outside, I was all but gone.

III

The house had known many names over the years. Some called it the big house; others the haunted house on the hill; still others, home. If its walls could talk, they would weave stories of wonder, sadness, horror, and triumph, just as any old walls would. Built on soft, fertile Mississippi soil, it now rested on the shoulders of the past. Sitting forsaken for nearly a century, tonight the walls would have a new tale to add to their repertoire.

Past drawn curtains, two men were conversing inside. One subject sat silent and studious, like a scientist studying an old dusty tome in an attempt to uncover some veiled secret. The other stood, never unmoving, giggling like a child who was reading his very first storybook. Waving his arms in exasperation, the giggling man made one more attempt to convince his companion of possible yet impossible facts he was certain were true.

“I jus’ don’t get it, man. I saw you singin’ them hymns with the rest of us. I bet you even said a prayer right when you were gettin’ put in the back ‘o that cruiser. And you’re sittin’ here, tellin’ me that ya don’t believe in not just my god, but any god?”

The other man sat with his hands on his face, a pensive look in his eyes. The pillars outside held in a modern day Aristotle. Finally, his concentration broke.

“I don’t know what the fuck I believe.” His adversary smiled and raised his hand in the air with all the glee of an a-ha moment.

“Then why don’t ya just believe in what’s good ‘n right? The thing that teaches right from wrong, and how ta live a life of virtue? Then, if all is good and well, you’ll be up in heaven laughin’ at the fools down here when it’s all said and done.”

“Have you read that book you’re preaching about? I’ve only read bits and parts, but you’re speaking of a god that has committed and sponsored genocide after genocide after genocide. You’re talking about a book that the residents of Hattiesburg live and die by, and look how they treat you!” The other man wasn’t listening; he was enticed by the wallpaper. “Michael!”

The other man spun around. Somewhere in the walls, a mouse sneezed.

“The people ‘o Hattiesburg?” He had been listening. “They don’t know