THE PARSON
They called him The Parson. From the day he rode into town on an ostrich, the town folk regarded him warily. From the top of his white beaded black Stetson hat to the tips of his blood red boots poking out from the long black curtain of his purple velvet coat he exuded power and evil in their most elemental forms. And on that first day, when he entered the bar and all occupants there first froze, then melted away in syrupy drip through the floor, leaving only a few stains of fear, the remaining populace, informed by Ike Davis, who had observed the melting while peering into the barroom through the open doorway, gave The Parson a wide berth and in fact scurried to cover whenever he hove into view. The Parson remained in town for three weeks, idly examining at his leisure anything he felt like examining, be it the library’s card catalogue or saddles in the livery stable or whatever else he fancied. Then one morning he left on his ostrich. The ostrich turned its long question mark neck from here to there and all around as it strolled out of sight.
