The Coke Head Jesus Freak

the guy they used to call the Party Dude stumbled out of the joint after doing his time, eyes bloodshot from staring at concrete walls, and now he's handing his sorry ass over to Jesus. yeah, he's got the fire in his gut, spouting off about his Lord and Savior to every poor bastard he bumps into on the cracked sidewalks—the checkout girl at the five-and-dime where he stocks shelves for peanuts, the drunks slumped against the liquor store wall, even the stray dogs sniffing around the dumpsters. he's crashing in his parents' basement, that damp hole smelling like mold and regret, with a bare bulb swinging overhead and a stack of dog-eared Bibles on the milk crate he calls a nightstand. mom's upstairs frying eggs, dad's glued to the TV, and he's down there on his knees every night, whispering prayers into the stale air, promising to stay clean this time.one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow after stacking cans of beans, he spots an old buddy from the wild days shuffling down the aisle, looking like life's kicked him in the nuts one too many times. the Dude's eyes light up like he's seen a miracle, and he launches into the spiel: "brother, have you heard the good news? the light of the Lord can pull you from the pit..." the friend cuts him off with a grin, says there's a bash going down tonight, poolside at some chick's place, booze flowing, music thumping. the Dude pauses, fingers twitching on his Bible pamphlet, thinking, hell, this could be my mission field—preach to the sinners, drag a few souls kicking and screaming into salvation. why not? God's got his back.so he shows up, Bible tucked under his arm like a shield, stepping into the backyard chaos: bodies splashing in the chlorine-blue water, laughter echoing off the chain-link fence, smoke curling from joints passed hand to hand. the air's thick with the stink of beer and suntan oil, and there she is—the devil herself, slinking around in a string bikini that barely covers the essentials, hips swaying like a promise of damnation. she's got that look, the one that says she's seen it all and wants more, and when their eyes lock, she smirks, pulls him aside behind the pool house. tops come off easy in places like this, and before he knows it, she's got a line of that white powder dusted across her tits like fresh snow on a gravestone. "come on, preacher man," she purrs, "taste the forbidden fruit."he hesitates, heart pounding like a jackhammer, but the old hunger claws up from his gut—the one that never really died in that prison cell. he leans in, snorts the devil's dandruff right off her skin, and bam, it's like the gates of hell swing wide. the booger sugar hits his veins, firing him up, and next thing you know, he's guzzling whiskey from a plastic cup, chasing it with beer, laughing too loud, preaching slurred sermons to the half-naked crowd. "repent, you fornicators! the kingdom's at hand!" but his words tangle with the coke rush, and he's dancing on the edge, one foot in heaven, the other knee-deep in sin.days blur after that. he's back on the rails, sniffing lines in bathroom stalls at work, nursing hangovers in the basement while flipping through scripture, verses smeared with powder residue. still a Jesus freak, though—can't shake that cross-shaped scar on his soul. he corners strangers in the parking lot, eyes wild and red-rimmed, ranting about redemption even as the bottle clinks in his coat pocket. the parents pretend not to notice the missing cash from mom's purse, the way he staggers in at dawn smelling like cheap perfume and regret.so here's to the coked-up Jesus freak, that walking contradiction, battling the devil with the good book clenched in one fist, a bottle of rotgut whiskey in the other, and a crumpled dime bag burning a hole in his jeans. he's out there fighting the good fight, or whatever the hell you call it, one line, one prayer, one stumble at a time. raise your glasses high—may his angels win, or at least call it a draw before the dawn breaks.