A man sits in the valley, longing for a sign. While he sits, the rolling thunder reaches the town. The rain follows. Drenched, the man made his way down the hill's bottom.
The Preacher died alone, hanging by a rope, white with justice. His body was burned, beaten, tied, and quartered. All he did was preach.
He walked the tracks, as he did scores of times. A man of god, a minister named after the son of Abraham. A Holy man, a reverend, prayed to god, feared him, loved him, worshipped him, but that day, god did not love the Reverend. As Job suffered for god, as did the Reverend. It was god's will, rather than a life of splendor before and after, the man only suffered.
His grandmother was born as a profit to farmers. His mother, a lucky woman, had land rich with grain. The Reverend, his life taken. His land was stolen, and his death lay unavenged. Buried. Unmarked. Unblessed.
But the man did not give up; the thunder roars in the distance. The man moves to the damn with a plunger and wire. As the damn broke, the man laughed.
As the thunder rolled more, the Reverend's land flooded, and the righteous thieves and murderers called out for help, yet the man did naught but watch. Slowly the thieves sunk into the mud, drowning in their own shit. Lungs filled to the brim with mud and clay.