Brother Roy Ledbetter arrived in the Big Apple one hot afternoon on a Greyhound bus bearing a battered suitcase stuffed with religious tracts in one large raw knuckled hand, and the well-worn Bible his mama’d given him the day when at the age of six he’d walked that long walk up to the front of the little backwoods Tennessee church he’d been raised in to be Saved in the other, and a sweat-soaked polyester double-knit suit on his back – out to Save New York from itself.

However, the Big Apple proved harder to Save than originally anticipated.

The average New Yorker, of which there were millions, either avoided eye contact, or roughly pushed him aside whenever he tried to Witness, while calling him any number of astonishingly filthy names – in several languages at once.

Obviously, Brother Ledbetter’s chosen flock was not interested in being led to righteousness.

Instead, it sent him a cop; a harassed-looking woman with a large, hooked nose and a small gold Star of David on a chain around her neck who interrupted his heartfelt Testifying deep among the concrete canyons from the top of lungs rendered leather from giving long sermons in small churches with no air conditioning by asking him if he had a permit.

The Star of David transfixed Brother Roy – he’d heard of Jews, his daddy back in Tennessee had told him all about Jews, so Brother Ledbetter demanded an immediate apology from her for crucifying the Lord.

Instead of falling to her knees and weeping with shame at what she’d done, the cop asked him if he had a permit in a flat, nasal voice that hadn’t the slightest trace of guilt in it.

Shocked by her brazen lack of remorse, Brother Ledbetter stammeringly retaliated with random words of Righteousness – his daddy back in Tennessee hadn’t told him what to do should the Jew when confronted with his or her crime, refuse to repent.

The cop gave him a look, took out a can of mace, and gave it a meaningful wave in Brother Ledbetter’s general direction. Soldier in the Army of the Lord that he was, Brother Ledbetter backed away, Bible raised between him and this, this uncooperative Jewess; and in between bellows of John 3:16 and random passages of Revelations admitted, “No, I do not. The Lord needs no permit to preach to the lost, be you gone, Whore of Babylon!”

At this point, she arrested him, which somehow felt right to Brother Ledbetter: if the Pharisees of this corrupt city saw fit to persecute him for Witnessing, he was making progress.

Hours later, Brother Ledbetter’s teenaged wife managed to wire enough bail money to him at the risk of losing of a year’s rent and groceries for her and their six children should he skip town, leaving Brother Ledbetter free once more to pursue the salvation of an entire town, Babylon filled with idols and golden towers, ripe for Salvation even as Mary Magdalene was – and Jews who didn’t know their place in Creation… until he noticed a fine, upstanding looking young man in tight leather pants and a tank top beckoning him into a nearby alley with a coy toss of his head.

Certain he’d finally found someone he could Witness to, Brother Ledbetter, somewhat worse for wear from a night in Gomorrah’s drunk tank, followed him.

What Brother Ledbetter met in that alleyway was not a sock full of nickels to the back of the head followed by the rapid removal of what few valuables he owned – nor was it a willing pair of ears hungry for God’s Word.

No, what he got was a rapid slap-tickle affair of face to face, fly undone, rapid exploration of forbidden territory and heavy breathing, sweaty climax, and a rapid flow of cash from Brother Ledbetter’s wallet to his temporary partner’s – releasing with a gleeful shout the sin which had led to several congregations soundly voting him back onto the road– with the parents of violated, underage sons fuming, but paid off to avoid prosecution and scandal and a young wife who spent a good deal of time down on her knees despite her constant pregnancies, praying that the Lord would give her man the strength to overcome his weakness even as he ruthlessly ferreted out and revealed the same sin in others with the same zeal as his father.

Set loose on the streets of Sodom, Brother Ledbetter’s forbidden pleasures out-shouted the voice of God who constantly thundered threats of retribution at him with the voice of his daddy back in Tennessee – urging him to throw himself fully into the depravity of the city he’d come to save from itself with its bathhouses and bars, massage parlors and dirty bookstores with booths in the back; of alleyways, men’s restrooms, and one-room apartments- where a man could bury himself in willing flesh: beautiful boys, big, hairy men who liked it rough, cops, priests, and hustlers, the rich, the poor, the queen, the queer- all laid out like a succulent buffet as Brother Ledbetter greedily shed his wife and children, his Mission, even his own name… free to do as he pleased with whomever, whatever, whenever.

But still, late at night, lounging in his new freedom, the nagging fear of his out-shouted God would resurface: someday what was coming to him, would come… and drag him straight down to Hell just like his daddy back in Tennessee would whenever he caught Brother Ledbetter looking at or touching other boys “that way”.

So to drown out the nagging voice of Godly wrath, Honeyboy Dupree would pour himself a stiff one or inhale a line or two before adjusting his leather trousers and new hair in front of a cracked hotel mirror before going back out into the bowels of Gotham in search of new flesh to devour until the night Satan himself decided to pay the Big Apple a personal visit complete with guidebook and an “I (heart) New York” t-shirt.

Honeyboy Dupree was in a stall in the men’s room of a big bus terminal, enjoying a bodacious piece of South Carolina ass fresh off the Greyhound, mama’s home cookin’ still on his breath even as he slurped up Honeyboy’s sweet offering of hot buttered corn with righteous delight – can you say amen?

Amen!

Honeyboy Dupree, leaning back against the wall, fly unzipped, feeding man-butter all nice and hot to Cornbread, didn’t notice the screams and the breaking glass – no, his back was arched, his teeth were bared, too busy baptizin’ some pretty cracker to notice that retribution had finally arrived, can you say amen?

Amen!

He didn’t notice either when dark shapes streamed hunchbacked and drooling through the station; neither did the cracker when Honeyboy Dupree caught his breath and parked it on the crapper in time to drink from his strawberry’s fountain of youth – no, not until a phallic-headed dark shape tore the grafitted stall door off its hinges, snatching the feast away from Honeyboy Dupree so fast he spurted gravy all over Honeyboy Dupree’s face, leaving Honeyboy Dupree cowering alone at its clawed feet beside the base of the shitter in a pool of semen and piss - the belt had landed between his shoulder blades at last – amen!

With a broad, joyful grin lighting up his face, balding, sweaty Brother Ledbetter felt a stab in his side even as they stuck a spear into the side of his crucified Lord on that Day, bearing with it the gift of cold numbness which spread throughout his body even as his own personal demon dragged him down into the depths of Hell… oh children, can you say amen?

Amen.

Come on now, I can’t hear you!

Amen!

Say it like you mean it!

AMEN!!!