“Naked, and you did not clothe me.  Then they asked, Lord, when did we see You naked, or sick and did not take care of You?  Then He will answer them, truly I say to you, to the extent that you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me.  You will go away into eternal punishment old man, but the righteous into eternal life.”

            “Isn’t that a little obvious?” I asked. 

            “Every cake needs a little icing.”

            “But does the icing need to read Davis did it?”

            “Your negativity,” Davis stopped, pulled out a phone and turned to me, “is ruining the moment.” 

            “Who are you possibly calling right now?” I asked. 

            “Calling the cops on this untraceable burner,” Davis said.  “Someone’s gonna learn a little humanity today.”

            “Aren’t you worried about the consequences?” I asked. 

            “What are consequences compared to this?” Davis asked.

            “It is pretty,” I said.  “I’ll give ya that.”

            “Looks like a goddamn postcard,” he said, and brained me upside the head with a rock. 

—–

            It’s the color I remember most.  Gold paint on my arms, legs, genitals, hands, and stomach.  Brown rope tied tightly around my feet and silver handcuffs round my wrists.  At least he cuffed me with comfort in mind, didn’t wrench my arms behind my back or try to hogtie me like some people would have.  The note taped to my chest read Judas Iscariot.

Matt Pachmayr attends the MFA program at the University of Missouri-Kansas City.  His works have been published in the undergraduate literary review at the University of Missouri-St. Louis and the alternative newspaper The St. Louis Sinner.