Wiping his greasy hand across his craggy and pockmarked face; rubbing two fingers hard and deep in his eye sockets until tears appear. “I spose, I shouldn’t a killed her, that girl. The junkie hooker. It wasn’t my fault, entirely, you got to remember, I went there to preach to her, to heal her. I put hands on her and before I know’d what was what I fucked her. Then it all came apart right quick.”

“I kept layin’ hands on her and a prayin’. Then I felt the comfort and presence of the Lord and I know’d I’d done the right thing. I could tell by her sad eyes and the way she smelled her life wasn’t no good and I saved her from that life; in a harsh way, I suppose. She didn’t even put her panties back on and she was a stickin’ that needle-spike in her arm. The devil was in her. I saved her from that.”

“It was Christmas Eve, 1968. I turned on the TV as she lay there bleeding and I saw them Apollo spacemen men showing movin’ pictures of the moon and back to Mother Earth. I heard the one spaceman readin’ from Genesis and talkin’ about all of us on the good earth and I know’d I done right. I kept my hands on her as I watched the spacemen. When the TV program was over I saw the dead hooker’s blood had dripped on my Bible. I know’d that was the blood of the lamb and I’d done Gods work.”

“Then I got the Hell outta that motel, I’ll tell you that, Boy. I know’d I’d done Gods work, but the police wouldn’t a see it that way… Besides, I had my preachin’ work to attend to. Souls to save.”

—Reverend Jimmy B. Tester