I never believed him. He’d make up these stories, wild tales. Out and out lies. Real whoppers, he said. What do you do with a guy like that? Caught up in his own fantasy world, he lit a cigarette.

Shhh. It’s not nice to talk about someone when they’re dead. You know that, his wife told him. He just lived a different life than most of us. Was a different way, she said, putting on Chapstick.

The wind grew cold and swept through their bodies. They inhaled the cold air and blew out smoke like dragons. Shuffling feet. Moving side to side to keep warm.

If he were alive, he’d say he created that wind. That coldness. He’d say he was in charge, her husband told her.

What makes you think he’s not?

And on the third day, he arose. Pushed the stone aside in front of the tomb. You’re comparing him to Jesus Christ?

Well. He would. Christ said some pretty crazy things as well.

But he was the son of God.

So was Charlie. So was Charlie.

Now I’ve heard everything.

Maybe he wasn’t a liar after all. Maybe none of us are.

Come on now. You know the difference between truth and lies. And if you don’t, then it’s time to get wise.

So. Christ told the truth?

Yes.

So did Charlie.

He was a third-rate conman who sold used cars and preached on Sundays. You tell me what’s the difference?

He sold cars and Christ.

He sold his soul for a little bit of dough. So be it. So be it.

They walked swiftly back into the funeral home. Stepping on their cigarette butts. A hole had burned through his glove. He looked up at heaven and shook his fist.

Damn you, Charlie. Damn you.