“H-O-L-Y-B-I-B-L-E.”

Holy Bible. He knew this book. He remembered his mother making him read from it when he was just a child. He remembered also that none of its promises had ever come true, for him at least.

A thin strip of white ribbon, attached to the binding, protruded from the book. It appeared to have been placed there with great purpose. A bookmark. The old man fumbled with deadened fingers to open the leather-bound scripture and pulled the place marker aside. By the firelight he could see that a passage had been deliberately highlighted. He rubbed the back of his chapped hand across his tired, clouded eyes and concentrated on the words. He sounded them out under his breath, which wasn’t easy since his mouth was still watering from the imagined smell of grilling meat. “EX-O-DUS. TWEN-TEE-TWO EIGHT-TEEN. THOU – SHALT – NOT – SUFF-FER – A – WITCH – TO – LIVE.”

The old man stared at the passage and tried to understand what its significance could possibly be. His eyes hurt, and all this concentrating was giving him a headache. He would much rather think about what Tracy wasn’t wearing under that sweater she had on tonight. Concentrating on THAT didn’t hurt. It felt good. REALLY good. Maybe thinking about Tracy would keep his mind off his hunger too, for he would almost swear he could smell burning meat. With a lecherous cackle, he closed the book and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Tracy, Tracy. I love Tracy. Tracy with the big, big tits!” he sang gleefully to himself, making cupping gestures at his own chest as he wriggled in place while turning slowly back to the warmth of the fire.