He’s sprawled out on the hotel bed for the cleaning lady to find in the morning. When she does, the world will see him the way he really is and not the way he presents himself on television. His vices and perversions that he has hidden from the congregation so carefully are laid bare in the room.

Gay pornography, homemade sex tapes that depict him on the receiving end of a Vegas gang-bang, tabs of speed that help him be so animated on the pulpit, a fifth of whiskey, and a phone book opened up to the escort section paint a picture of a preacher who doesn’t practice what he preaches. There’s child pornography on his laptop, but the police will have to find that one later.

It’s kind of amazing, to see him like this. His perfectly styled hairdo ruined by a dented skull, his icy blue eyes turning black with blunt force trauma’s pooling blood, his lips mouthing gibberish and gasping for air instead of condemning sinners, and a Viagra induced case of priapism standing bloody sheets up like a pitched tent.