“Blah, blah, blah, fire, blah, blah, blah, brimstone…do unto others and all that crap,” Horacio rambled from his makeshift pulpit. He flourished his hands and slammed the pulpit with conviction he didn’t have. He raised his voice in inflection and softened to push points he didn’t care about. But, he knew his audience. He knew which words would bring them to their knees while grabbing for their wallets. These words spilled from his mouth that held less meaning to him than a week old grocery list, but they would bring him value in the end in the form of money, vitality and time, lots and lots of time that he could hoard or sell for further profit.
The smell around him attacked his nose like a swarm of bees. Sharp and stabbing. It was a mix of body odors, overly sweet perfumes, port-a-potties, boozes from late night gatherings, and dirt, it was a smell that would linger long after his show closed up and moved on. It would taint the soil giving the Crossroads Demon more evil to work with. Horacio stood before the crowd of nearly five hundred men, women, and children, including the sick and currently dying, which added largely to the stench. They were all dying. Some knew and some didn’t and some faster than others. Only a handful were worthy of the gift he could provide, but fewer still could afford it.
New Ink. Used Ideas. 