He has a furrow between his brow you could lose your keys in. A buttery complexion and a stiffness to every joint. He is held together by bitterness and fear. His cast iron constitution continues to bless us with his presence. Neither heaven or hell wish to take him. He may tell us of all humanities faults forever. I sit in his living room in a tacky chair. Both tacky in design and due to the film of scum on the arms that stick and pull at the hairs on my arms. The old man lets out a wheezing sigh and starts to creak, his bones slowly rise from his chair. As he passes near there is a stench so strong I can feel it against my eyes. I go to stir my tea, pushing the spoon through a film that wraps around the stem as I twist it. I leave it standing in the curdling tea. He returns and tosses a parcel onto my lap. Wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string. He looms over me and says “Open it”. I pull at the string’s bow, the paper opens revealing a book. Yet another bible stares up at me.




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