No Strings Attached
Added 2024-01-06 23:13:15 +0000 UTCThe sermon is fervent, inspiring, and improvised. The desperate congregation crowd around him, calling out to be saved.
Offering material goods for immaterial security.
The bag goes around, as it always does. It jingles with gold and silver and copper, and whatever junk these poor fools surrendered.
In a week, he'll be gone. In two, the bag will be empty once again.
Later, while the evangelist is sitting in a borrowed study, counting fat stacks of coins, there's a knock at the door.
In his holy voice, the preacher man asks "Mighty late, isn't it?"
"I come seeking absolution." The voice is like the desert wind; dry and brittle and howling.
"I don't offer absolution after midnight."
Suddenly, there's a presence in the little office. Something big. Something neither cold nor warm, neither alive nor dead. Staring right through him like a bug.
"You misunderstand. The absolution I seek is not my own."
