What you're about to hear is based on actual events.

Listener discretion is advised.

He walks the muddy streets of the rural African shanty town, head held high, back straight,

hands swinging by his sides like sledgehammers, though he is terrified.

He said that someone may meet his gaze and recognize him for who he used to be.

He strides forward without apparent trepidation.

Whatever will be will be.

And whoever should try to strike him down best do it from a distance and buy a bullet.

He is reborn, yes, but not turned meek.

And although he is certain that his lord and savior has accepted him into the light,

he knows that many still long to see his eyes go flat.

And for the hundreds of unrest spirits to flock from the shadows of the underworld, to swarm

him before he can reach the pearly gates.

I remember a time of great evil.

The large man says, holding the Bible in front of him, just over top of the pulpit.

His fingers play out along the back of the book as dark as the worn leather covering.

The walls of the church are lightly yellowed stucco, maybe older than all the faces looking

at him from the rows of warm plastic chairs, and then again, maybe not.

The windows of tidy square holes cut into the walls at even intervals and haven't held

glass in a long time.

Before this church was consecrated after the fighting, the pastor had told him, a farmer

down the road had used it for stabling and storage.

...