The Preacher

The man sitting in the large brown leather chair had a disdain toward his balding head, his chubby round face, and the bulging waistline that prevented him from moving closer to his desk. He sat motionless with the cigar he enjoyed sitting in the glass tray making a bold attempt to burn itself out. The room was dark with a foggy appearance and a musty smell in the air. This was the office of the Dark Man, a leader in the community, and a constant deafening voice in Family Church. Years ago, he opened an office in the area where he surprised the community by quickly becoming a powerbroker and a dominant player with the city fathers. His love for money and power drove him to create an image of authority that greatly pleased them. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk. A clean-shaven face joined with a sour frown made it easy to see he was disgruntled. He was painfully aware the preacher was trying to rebel against his guidance. He liked this one, an influential speaker with a desire to build big and attractive things, with a mild-mannered preaching style and a positive attitude. This preacher seemed like the right man for the role, however currently he appeared to be self-destructing. The Dark Man needed the church so he could have access to the people. What he didn’t need was rebellion in his ranks. This preacher must get back in line, now! Therefore, the Dark Man was forced to entertain the person on the phone. The voice spoke with a terse tone using big words with short sentences that pierced his ears, increasing his discomfort. The colossal number of words made him think about the bogus position the voice held inside the church and his own lack of achieving greatness. His heart burned with the thought that even now he was being reminded of his need for control and the total lack of authority he seemed able to exhibit. Just the thought of being disrespected sent the Dark Man into a fit of rage. Most of his church leaders were simply errand boys for their mysterious commander. He kept them in this role as a way of attaining societal rank and financial independence. To accomplish this plan, he was required to spend endless hours listening to the voices who thought they were far more important than they were. The world he created owned their soul while he was forced to sit and receive the lashing. If only the voice on the other end of the phone knew the Dark Man actually held all the power. Someday soon that will be made known to all. But not today, as the man on the phone paused then made a poor attempt to convince the Dark Man that he could pull the preacher back in line. Few leaders could accomplish the amazing success of the Dark Man in such a short period of time. He would handle the preacher himself. He only needed these church leaders to apply continuous pressure and advance his agenda. It was time to levy his own aggressive tactics of correction. He had no trust in those detestable morons and without him the lineup would have no voice. He felt a red burning anger rolling up his neck as he was forced to stay quiet. Muting his phone, he said to himself, “someday I will be running the big show.” He reached down to the glass tray, picked up the cigar and leaned back into the comfy leather. He allowed his mind to salivate his ego as his back sank deep into the cushion, relaxing his tense shoulders. Slowly he raised the cigar and turned it toward his face as he pondered the taste that he was about to enjoy. He moved it to his mouth and puffed it as he watched the smoke ascend. Still listening to the ranting voice on the phone, he let his eyes move around the room until he was staring at the wall in front of him. His eyes fixed on a large fancy picture of the old west he deeply treasured. A smile appeared as he looked with delight upon a stagecoach being pulled by six beautiful black horses racing down a trail blazing through the old wild west. Majestic mountains of rock painted the background, along with glistening sand and rustic trees joining in the distance. Behind the stage were six cowboys on strong thoroughbreds carrying shotguns, with pearl handle pistols on their hips. Their faces worn and crusty from the western wind, their hats set low on their foreheads concealing their steely eyes. Their vests tightly fastened to their chest, bandannas matching their high and shiny black boots. He' d bought the picture at an auction because he loved the powerful image of the old west. “Uh I am sorry but I must go,” he said to the voice still ranting on the phone. “Please move forward with your suggestion and I will make it a priority to follow up with you later.”