“I don’t suspect it would be,” drawls Gus. “Not unless ye hung him up by one ball and waited for the rest of ’im to come fallin’ down.”
“Huh! Some asshole like that oughta be shot with a ball of his own shit!” says Roy scornfully, baring his teeth in anger.
“Well, what I’d do with some no-good sonofabitch like that…” volunteers Gus, taking time to relight his pipe afresh and drawing on it, “…is take ’im out into the bush behind my property, sit ’im down on a log, nail ’is balls to it, then push ’im over backwards and leave ’im there.”
“Fuckin’ right, fuckin’ right, Gus!” Roy exclaims as Frank, with his watery, weary eyes, nods his agreement.
Happy Henry at this time has settled himself on a stool at the counter with a cup of tea. From the pocket of his overcoat he has taken a bible and laid it before him on the counter, resting his hands on either side of it, and his head at the end of his long thin neck dances back and forth towards and away from the bible as he studies it, every so often pausing in his concentration to gaze hurriedly about the coffee shop then returning again to the bible, the fingers of his hands clenching and unclenching, the upper area of his body swaying from side to side on the stool.
At this point a massive transport truck pulls off the highway and comes to a slow lumbering whissshhing steaming stop in the parking lot outside the window—the cab opens and a compact little man clambers out, the bottom of his boots slapping the pavement as he slams the door and trudges up to the coffee shop, his arms at each side held at a considerable distance from his torso with elbows bent as he walks briskly in through the door, an angry frown fixed on his granite face as he steps up to the counter.
“Coffee! Regular!” he commands, and stands shaking his leg impatiently as he waits for it. He’s wearing grease-stained blue jeans and a T-shirt with a jacket over it, the zipper half down. He strides with his coffee past the group of men who glance up at him as he passes. He rewards them with an angry glare and drops with a thud into a nearby chair, his hands clasped around the coffee cup, staring stoically before him with a sort of abstract, floating, all-encompassing hostility—the lower half of his face covered with a rash of black prickly whiskers. He perspires heavily from beneath the cap clamped tightly down on his head, the visor of it shadowing his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
Happy Henry swivels on his stool and looks shyly over at the man. Feeling his gaze, the man turns to Henry and stares balefully at him, like a bear through the bars of a cage. His eyes widen as Henry smiles, lifts himself from the stool and comes hobbling over to his table. The man’s mouth falls half-open in outraged surprise as he looks up at Henry and Henry says, “Some reading material? For free…” while placing a pamphlet gently on the table before the man, bowing slightly and smiling.
The man’s eyes slowly tear themselves from Henry and take in the pamphlet—ETERNITY IS FOREVER. He stares sullenly down at the words—HAVE YOU MADE YOUR CHOICE?—and then cranes his head slowly up to Henry again. His mouth hardens into a compressed, furious sneer and his dark eyes beam at Henry, smouldering with hatred.
Henry smiles and nods, licking his lips. “You’ve accepted Lord Jesus as your own personal saviour?” he asks pleasantly.
The man parts his lips slightly, revealing the tiny tightly clenched white teeth. His eyebrows arch and his eyes widen and his glistening, sweating face shudders with rage—the coffee in his cup quivering and splashing up over the side.
Henry looks down at the man and a faint doubt causes his smile to falter. “You… you’ve been cleansed in the blood of the…” he begins, but the man leans forward and a deep guttural sound, something like a growl, burbles up from his throat behind his clenched teeth, causing Happy Henry to step away hurriedly, blank faced, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickle up in a quick, cool wave as he shuffles back from the man, something in the man’s dark eyes causing his heart to skip a beat as his hands jerk in little aftershocks.
Happy Henry stands in the centre of the coffee shop floor, his eyes troubled and unfocused, until he turns and spies at a table in the far corner, a gentleman sitting peacefully paging through a newspaper, a middle-aged man of average height in a sky-blue shirt neatly tucked into his pants, wearing a brown corduroy sport coat, his calm eyes perusing the paper from behind silver-framed spectacles, his placid mouth a thin gentle curve within the strands of his trim, conservative beard. Henry approaches the man meekly, shyly observing his absorbed and down-tilted profile as he reads the paper; he makes ready with a pamphlet.
“Good morning…” Henry lisps timidly.
The man’s head lifts from the paper, his distracted eyes focusing in upon Henry quickly. He smiles pleasantly. “Well, hello, good morning,” he says softly, his smile widening, causing friendly wrinkles to form around the edges of his eyes, the irises green and glittering with unguarded warmth from behind his spectacles.
Henry, uncertain, falters a moment in the sincerity of his attention. “H-how are you?” he asks, fingering the pamphlet restively.
“Quite well,” replies the man generously, nodding. “And you?”
“I’m… very fine!” exclaims Henry, his head suddenly pumping up and down on the end of his long skinny neck like a piston.
The man stares at Henry, smiling, blinking with bemused forbearance. His eyes take in the sight of the strange, trembling, black-coated individual before him with a sort of cheerful, genial curiosity. He folds the newspaper and places it on the table. “Would you like to sit down?” he asks quietly.
Henry nods and seats himself quickly on the edge of the chair, licking his lips and beaming at the man excitedly and all of a sudden it comes out of him in a tumbling, exuberant rush, the pamphlet sliding swiftly across the table: “Some reading material,” he offers, his upraised eyes glistening hopefully.
“Mm-hm,” the man says, glancing cursorily down at the pamphlet. He looks up at Henry and with a sigh he reclines back in his chair. “My name’s Sam,” he says, extending his hand across the table.
“Henry,” says Henry, grasping the man’s hand hungrily and shaking it. “Have you accepted the Lord Jesus as your personal saviour?”
The man smiles wistfully, glancing down at the pamphlet. “Well,” he says.
“The Lord Jesus loves you,” murmurs Henry, “and He wants you to know that whatever sins and bad things you’ve done are forgiven… an’… and’ve been paid for up on the cross… for as God’s only begotten son, He has died so that we may… may live and know His love and mercy of God’s grace.” He whispers breathlessly, his body bending towards the man, his neck craning and the features of his pale face gyrating with a terrible urgency.
“Mm-hm,” says the man.
“An’… an’ to be lifted up into heaven to sit upon the right side of the Lord. Not to fall into the eternal fire and weeping and gnashing of teeth of… of…”
“Hell,” says the man.
“An’… an’ to trust in the mysterious ways of the Lord, for the wages of sin is death,” recites Henry, his eyes closing as if his speech is written on their inner lids. He sways a bit in the chair.
“Mm-hm, well, yes,” says the man, nodding
