Gibb's Hard Mustard

The man in the hat, who was standing behind a man with a tonsured bald spot, spat an oyster onto the pavement in front of him, barely missing the man’s shoe. Dejesus had begun his homily with a prayer about forgiveness and humility, his eyes two black cumin seeds, then throwing his arms up over his head exclaimed, ex pluribus abracadabra and so forth. The crowd of first-timers, all of whom had never been to a rally before, sighed, then began to stamp their feet, shoes scuffing and graveling the pavement, all eyes trained on Dejesus, who was so pale looking he looked like he might fall willy-nilly into the crowd. The man in the hat shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, his mouth dry and pasty from the curbside wagon-vended pretzel he eaten moments before the rally, smothered in Gibb’s hard mustard, and tried to spit again, this time expectorating a glob of Gibb’s mustard and mushy pretzel, his eyes watering like the devil’s.