Deacon Jon navigated the paths of darkness with a sense of purpose. He wasn’t a deacon, he was just Deacon, last name Jon. His mother had been raised in a strong religious community, the kind that burned books. Over the years, Deacon had come to suspect that his mother had hoped to be another Mary and had been rather disappointed that she had needed another person to make a baby. Deacon’s image of his father was that of a tired alcoholic whose time spent sleeping seemed like an eternal concession to life. Life was something that happened to other people, Deacon’s father dreamed instead. The man Deacon knew made few decisions and those that he did make were often overturned by his wife who wielded the Bible in one hand and God in the other. All in all, Deacon’s childhood was shaped by a combination of blind zeal and weary hopelessness.

The large man paused, fighting against the tide of negative memories.

“Nice try, Demon. All you accomplished was letting me know you were here.” Deacon said.

“Poop.”