May we beat our knives into blessed can openers, so we might open our knives into blessed-openers, so we might open the jars of grease bestowed upon those faithful to the story,

and might we beware the stranger and disregard, all please for help, for the unknown man is the agent of your demise, and charity is the

false promise of the dead. We say, the story must be told. Fear, the path less traveled.

The Samaritan is a coward.

He has no place in the story, for our story is all stories and his is forsaken.

Nothing awaits him.

Anoints the top of your doors with the grease of your labor as

instructed, for your labor is your own, and the sword heals the damned. Believe these words as we

recite them with foaming mouths.

I saw Toby in his 88 Chevy, speeding through a Wendy's parking lot.

Jumping off my speeding motorcycle, I stood in the drive-th lane and held up my hand. You cow fuck, you're gonna pay! I'm gonna fuck up your life and shit on your grave!

I charged his car, and his face blanched.

I kicked the windshield hard with my heel.

It shattered.

Glass fell to the ground, like heavy snow as he screamed.

I reached in my arms, ignoring the deep cuts of the broken glass.

I pulled him out, arms bleeding. He didn't even struggle. Pining him to the

asphalt, I reached in the back pocket of my dirty jeans and pulled out a hefty glop of Greek

yogurt. I jammed it in his face. I smeared it. I anointed him. We became one,

sharing tender hugs, smearing Chobani. When the sirens came, we had to laugh.

I think I speak for the church when I say I'm hungry for that hot, strained dairy.

Ooh, the levity and love at the end of the song warms my heart and quivers my bowels in the finest of ways.

...