That was a bad move on the part of the local Jesus Freak outfit. I hadn’t been home ten minutes when two of them showed up on my front porch, ringing the bell like nobody’s business.
“Who sent you?” I barked, throwing the door open with one hand while balancing an Old Fashioned and a very expensive cigar in the other.
“Good evening sir,” said the first one, a meek fellow with a pockmarked face and a wispy mustache.
“How are you tonight?” asked his partner, a fat chick who unfortunately sported a wispy mustache as well. Then they launched into some crazy shit about Jesus.
Having no other choice, I whipped out Little Oz and urinated on both of them. That’s how we deal with Christ-lovers in these parts. Bank on it.