The Devil's Gone South In The West

The Preacher arrived with a leather bound book in one hand and a charred wooden cross in the other. He bypassed the church, where his congregation waited & headed straight for the bar where he ordered seven whiskeys.

Lined up in front of him, he set each of them on fire, laid the cross over the top, waited for it to catch, then downed each whiskey in turn.

On the seventh, he paused, turned to survey the scene of deadbeats and depressives supping their final dregs of hope from dirty glasses with rotting souls. He whispered under his breath, ‘Jesus rose from a cave for this shit and nobody noticed. Well, no wonder.’ 

He picked up the leather book, swiped the last glass through the air, smashing it into the mirror behind the bar.

The Preacher turned to face the punters.

‘And on the seventh day, the Lord shattered illusions that Sunday is a day of rest. Now get your lazy, godforsaken souls to church. We have some toil on us to save this town before the devil himself comes take it.' 

You ain't ever seen them people move so quick.

In the silence and as the dust settled onto the saloon floor, the Preacher looked at his reflection. The cracked glass distorted his features and contorted his face. He blinked away a glint of red that briefly appeared in his left eye.

‘You fuckin’ dare’, he shouted, pointing at his image smiling back at him. ‘I didn’t cross two states on a dying horse and wearying resolve to deal with the goddamn devil over a bar room brawl.’

He pulled his pistol and shot the glass into smithereens before circling it into his holster, tipping his hat at the cowering barman and bidding him good day.

Written for @microcosms 193. Prompt: Demon/Cave/Action