He sits on the couch naked. Belly overlaps his sexual prowess. Chest has become a size c bra. Hips stick out like an old tire on a ’72 Ford truck. Hair is greasy. The fat man’s in need of a shower; a good cleansing. Areas he can not reach.

A bottle of Evans Williams sits on the coffee table, along with a dirty glass. The fat old man pours three fingers full; neat. At first, he sips at it. Washes it around his gums and yellow teeth, then drinks the rest in one fell swoop. A cigarette is lit.

There is a knock on the door. Go away, he says. The knocking continues. I said , go away. Get out of here. You mutt. The knocking continues.

I’m here to offer salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, is said in a squeaky voice of fear.

The old man picks up his bottle and says he’s found salvation already. He pours another drink.

So you’re a Christian, the boy says. What church do you go to?

The church of spirits, the fat man says. The holy trinity. Williams, Paddy’s, and Schlitz. Now go away.

I’ve never heard of them before. Are they saints, the kid asks.

Yeah. My saints. The fat man adjusts his balls. I’m giving you a warning. On the count of three, if you’re not gone, I’m opening the door. And you are not going to like it.

Sir. Just a moment of your time, he requests.

Three. The fat man stumbles to the door and opens it. Exposes his naked flesh. Places his pointer finger on the boy’s chest. Now leave. He blows unholy smoke in the kid’s chest and growls like a bear.

I never thought I’d see Satan here on earth, the messenger says. But, here he is. Right in front of me.

The fat man slams the door. There is no more knocking. He pours another whiskey and turns on the radio. ‘Round Midnight plays through the tinny speakers. He raises his glass. Here’s to Miles, he says. Here’s to life. He laughs. Dear sweet life.