Canonical Inquisitions

The day before the man in the hat found the cadet’s cap and the monger careened out of control, the dogmen came to town looking for Dejesus, who they claimed pilfered a rack of dried eels. The biggest dogmen at the front, his feet beating the ground like piledrivers, the littlest at the rear, they marched into town, a beastly southeast wind picking up behind them. The alms man was the first to catch sight of them, the biggest dogman pounding the barrel of his chest with both fists. Across the sideways huddled under the Seder grocer’s awning sat the legless man, a smirk on his unshaven face, another day having begun in the shadow of the Waymart clock. The harridan, who awoke that morning in a sweat, the night’s shivers deep in her bones, stood facing the Greek deli, her skirts bluffing in the southeasterly wind. On the topmost step of the church, poking out from beneath an upturned pew, one of the Witness’ pamphlets rustled in the churchly breeze, the byline under the front page reading, Melvin J.K. Melvin, attorney at law, Canonical Inquisitions. ‘…fuck this…’ said the alms man, ‘…I’ve had enough of those mucky cunts…’.