What they called a church was an add on to a small house, and you can see the kitchen plainly from the front door of the church. The pastor of the church the oldest son of the family who built it. Two women whom he slept with were present that mornings congregation and he stood there in the doorway and smoked and thought about the women. He ashed the cigarette and shook his head at the firmament.
Joe and Richard had pulled the boot from the man who near emptied the church of its parishioners with the stench of his rotting foot, and the pastor observed the man's foot half consumed by maggots with a kerchief held to his face he pulled aside to smoke.
You ever seen this?
No, said Joe.
The pastor pointed at the desintigrating flesh, his finger shaking, what, what is to be done here. We don't got no damn doctor.
What's a doctor gonna do.
The man lay there, his voice vulgar and hallucinatory