Who Needs a Sermon?
From the floor Sid let out a noise, somewhere between a moan and an inarticulate cursing of either his bad luck, Randon’s uncouth nature, or both. The preacher swallowed hard and sipped his seltzer water.
Randon just threw back his fourth shot, even though nobody could clearly recount when or how he had downed the other three, and slurred down to Sid, “Ah, quit yer gum flappin. Pain is how you know you’re still alive. Scars are how you know you’ve lived.” Shots five and six followed quickly thereafter.
“In the Lord, all our wounds can be healed,” the preacher offered, gingerly retrieving his slightly bloodied bible from the bar.
“Easy preacher,” Randon corrected, “Jes cause I can’t stomach you bein harassed don’t mean I want a sermon.”
“Lord knows you could use one, boy.” All eyes turned to the stranger in the door to the saloon, a slender figure with grace to match his apparent bravado.
Randon slammed back number nine, “I know you don’t, pearls fer swine er somethin. Ain’t that right, preacher?”