Altar Call

He looked down on his congregation. Round, peach pit women. Big eyed, big titty women. All ready to worship at his altar. They were his, and he was pleased. Pleased with soul made pies from arthritic fingers, pleased with the too tight red dresses and the sales tags lurking under the sleeves, pleased with the beads of sweat that lit the way to their secrets. He could save them. He could save them all. He could reach his righteous hand beneath their breastbone, exorcise their lonely, douse it with holy water until it wiggles and collapses to steam. But as they raise their hands to receive him on this Sunday morning of fan waving and toe tapping, hip swirling and Glory Glory Hallelujahs! as stained glass flashes of red, yellow and blue fires whimper in eyes aged by desperation, he shouted and sang his sermon exalting chastity, knowing with a clearing of his throat he wielded the match.