“I make no bones about it,” says Cactus John, “the Lord speaks through me. Jesus chose me to be His new prophet.”

To look at Cactus John, you really wouldn’t think him much of a holy man. His arms are a tapestry of obscene tattoos, his breath reeks of Smirnoff, and a Frankenstinian scar pierced with barbed rings wraps around the top of his skull.

“It’s my crown of thorns,” Cactus John explains to those caught staring.

Truly, there is more to Cactus John than meets the eye. Truly, I thought, there is something altogether unholy about this booze-blooded riffraff.

Cactus John smiles like a mechanic who has you and your broken car by the balls. “I’m basically half a can of Jesus Lite, man. I’m here to spread his unsullied message, a message tainted by the foreign faiths it became amalgamated with. Woah, I just had a little Jesus moment there. I don’t even know what amalgamated means.”

Jesus Lite, indeed. My mind reeled. Such blasphemy! Such arrogance! That was why I was going to kill Cactus John.

“I’m going to kill you, Cactus John.” I shot him a piercing glare. At least I hoped it was piercing, as I had no reflective surfaces aside from a frost-fogged bottle of Sam Adams to gauge my reflection.

“You are?”

“I’m getting to it, John. You’ll never see it coming, blasphemer. Now, tell us how it all began. Tell us how Satan transformed you.”

“Satan?” He asked innocently. “That’s not how it went down. Basically, I was sitting on my porch reading Mopar Magazine and having a Hot Pocket and Bicardi—”

“What kind of Hot Pocket?” Probably a Satanic one!

“They all taste like cheese paste, so does it really matter? Anyway, I’m getting good and liquored up, combined with the pills I stole from Aunt Gretchen, and I’m starting to hallucinate that there was a Ford ad on page 23. Next thing I know, I’m in the desert. Sun’s blazing down, I look around, and there’s nothing there but a cactus. Big sucker. Had big arms, all flappin’ around, and it’s yelling, ’Hey John! Come give me a hug!’”

“That cactus was Satan,” I explained.

“Nah, it was Jesus, totally. I wouldn’t have hugged Satan, man. Hurt like a bitch. Anyway, I told Jesus Catus I was thirsty, and he says, ’Take and drink, this is my water given for you.’ So I’m just standing there looking confused, because, you know, there was no spigot or anything, and he just punches himself in the cactus gullet with his big cactus arm, leaving a bit gaping hole in his trunk. Jesus was all, ’Grab some pulp, John.’”

“What happened after you suckled from the pulpy entrails of Satan?”

“Well, after that—hey, is that a gun?”

“Yes.” I left out the part about the silver bullets.

“You said I’d never see it coming,” Cactus John whined like a sissy.

My gaze was icy. At least it looked icy in my fog-frosted reflection on the bottle of Sam Adams. “Bullets travel too fast to see.”

“Who’s going to take care of my cult?” Ah, a pity tactic, I thought. I imagine I smirked bemusedly.

“Your cult?”

“Yes, all those girls who ran away from their families to hear our message and share the beds of the converted.”

My jaw dropped slightly. My mouth began to water, and I heard the heavenly chorus ringing out.

The look in his eyes moved me. He looked really concerned. Really concerned about getting back to those gullible runaway girls who believe anything you tell them. Perhaps Cactus John was right. These girls needed guidance and love—love most importantly.

I looked at my sixshooter, emptied the chamber, and handed the bullets to him. “These bullets are silver, friend, so you’d best put them on Ebay to help fund this cult.” The new age Jesus smiled knowingly.

Cactus John truly worked a miracle on my faith. I let him into my heart that night. He soon let Daphne, Tracy, and Delores into my bed.