Episode 2: THE Pastor
As I am discovering, the slough of cars never actually leave my yard. They parade in circles creating lovely mud colored tracks in my lawn, slowly blending the dirt road and lawn into an adobe sculpture. The people who belong to the cars do not actually live in Willis. They live in the city and only vacation in Willis on Sundays. They belong to a secretive dark cult called Southern Baptists. What macabre rituals take place in their 150 year old country church is beyond my comprehension. Now you must understand that I pondered like a classical philosopher over why the road my house was located next to was called Church Street. In my mind it was an allusion to a fairyland I would never travel to. Now reality hit me hard. Materializing before me stood a man; at least I think he was a man. This man could very well be a homunculus summoned to torment my soul. I was right! He was bean-pole thin. There was a wisp of smoky colored hair dancing under his broad brimmed hat and his round glasses reminded me not so much of those of an old librarian but were more akin to those worn by a former fascist officer in hiding.
Reaching out with a cold, sweaty, ghostly pale hand he muttered in falsetto tones that he was THE Pastor. I wondered briefly if knowing his true name would grant me special powers over him but quickly dismissed the notion. “Some of my parishioners have informed me that you have a problem with them parking near your property” he said. “Hi, my name is Dean and I don’t have a problem with them parking near my property, I don’t want them on my property” I said. “I didn’t appreciate your followers yelling at me or telling me I don’t have the right to ask them to leave just because they are accustomed to doing what they want” I said. I could tell THE Pastor looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and frustration but quickly collected himself and with a Cheshire grin and a commanding voice said “I do hope we will be good neighbors, I had considered buying this house myself until I saw how much work was needed. Ruby, the former owner was very understanding of our needs and often allowed us to worship inside her garage when we had an event”. I nodded to him and asked him if he would try to convince his minions to park in the church lot. As quickly as THE Pastor had come he had vanished and I was hopefully that this was the end of my run in with the local church. That evening the portly volunteer fireman got into his 12 ½ ton fire-engine-red pickup truck and peeled out on my crabgrass all the while sending me a single fingered salute to my ancestors.
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