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Preachers Chronicles - A Woman’s Touch Softens The Hard Hands Of A Badman - Excerpt 5

Updated: Mar 8, 2023

A Woman’s Touch Softens The Hard Hands Of A Badman

Excerpt 5

He sat alone, shrouded in darkness save for the headlights of car lamps as they brought temporary light to the insides of his black Fiesta. The puffs of grey smoke which opened up into patterns of spiraling ghosts kept the interior as fog.

He held paper lit at its end like the fiery red of a dragon’s breath to his fat lips sculpted in a shape, reminiscent of his mother’s. Taking a long slow pull of his fire starter he turned up the words on the stereo to the voice of J Hus saying, “Even when we never had a penny, yo we always had spirit, they can burn my flesh, but they can’t touch my spirit, they want take way my freedom but how they gonna take my spirit....”

He slid back down deeper into the black fabric of the ripped seats and his brain felt as if it was traveling from here to the Himalayas. Like he had the answer to the meaning of life, now knowing the true religion, and it all was as simple as two plus two. His answer to life’s equation was broken as a nonbeliever knocked on his window, with eyes wide like the highlights from kohl eyeliner. The cloud from his mind dissipated, his overriding programming of survival of the fittest, set into motion. He was ready for action and greeted the regular stranger, Blocka with

“I keep on telling you not to beat on my windows like that G.” The response back was quicker, “And I keep on telling you not to talk to me like that B.” Unwittingly, the ego of man had entered them into a standoff that was tense; each one unwilling to surrender his position. Jerry quietly stretched his fingers towards a man-made black knight sharpened to a tip, with the sole intention of checking lost kings. “Aight listen, you want this work or you want me to take it elsewhere?” The bigger older man looked at him harshly, “I hear all that B, but I ain’t having no yout talk to me...” Jerry cut him off, “I ain’t no yout G, I’m a ask you for the last time, you want this work or not.”

Blocka had thoughts of robbing this slick-mouthed child for his night’s wage wrapped in plastic. In days gone past, few would have dared talk to him with such open disrespect; as in that era, he’d been the main contender in a roadside coliseum for urban gladiators, pitching any adversary in a shower of public blood spray. Though at the time, few realised that Blocka’s fearlessness for life originated from being a naive teen of 13 and introduced to a white widow that sapped life under the pretense of fool’s gold. He fell weak to the demon, needing a fix to lace the insides of his nose white every few weeks. As time went on, the need for the beast only increased, making him reckless and wild...

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