He leans over the pulpit, staring out at his congregation. He studies each and every one before centring his gaze on the camera. He pokes out his bottom lip, nods slowly, draws in a breath, then closes his eyes. He runs a firm hand through his slicked-back hair, adjusts his tie and drags his tongue across his teeth, lingering on the golden crown and rubbing it gently until it glimmers. He smiles as he steps out from the pulpit, the microphone in hand.

“When He wept, He didn’t just weep for you and me, He wept for them. The non-believers. The ones He knew would never walk the path. He chose to care not just for His children, but for all children, saint or sinner,” he says, his voice drenched in conviction as his arms sweep in perfect rhythm, each step choreographed, every breath planned. Rehearsed. Designed. Sold. Every movement another part of the lie, every word another dollar in the business of salvation, and he was its centrepiece.

“I-I spoke to Him, and I asked, ‘Why defend those who don’t deserve it?’ And do you know what He said?” he asks.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. He smiles and nods.

“Yes, He did! Yes, He did!” he shouts, his voice cracking with a feverish kind of delight. “He said He was Father to all, and like any good father, He forgave His children. For in forgiveness, they could find hope!” he screams. As the crowd erupts in fevered agreement, he throws his arms wide and collapses to his knees.

“Our Lord, He knows me, and He knows you, and He has a place at His table for all of us. So send me your donations, send me what you don’t need, and I will make sure those who cannot help themselves, those who cannot forgive themselves, are given the opportunity to sit with us at His side.”

“LIAR!” a voice calls out from the back. His smile wavers, and his lips quiver.

“W-What? W-Who dares challenge my convictions, my path!”

“I dare!” the voice calls out again. Every eye in the room turns towards the older man standing in the doorway at the back.

“A-A-And who, may I ask, are you?” he stammers, lips trembling as sweat pours down his glowing orange brow.

The stranger smiles. “I am your god, so bow before me!” he commands. Hushed tones ripple through the crowd as many drop to their knees.

“S-S-S-STOP IT!” he calls out. “HE IS THE LIAR! HE IS THE SINNER! HE IS NOT OUR GOD! HE IS NOT OUR SAVIOUR! HE IS A HEATHEN!” he screams, thrusting a finger towards the stranger, his face twisted and fierce.

Murmurs spread through the crowd again, growing louder as many rise from their knees and scream, “Liar! Liar!” at the top of their lungs. The evangelist’s smile wavers, and he dabs a handkerchief against his sweat-drenched brow.

“Are you a devil? Have you no shame?”

The stranger smiles and gestures calmly as the crowd parts, a clear path opening toward the minister.

“You’ve been a naughty boy, Derrick, taking these people’s money and twisting it into sin,” he says, slowly raising his eyebrows.

Hushed tones spread through the congregation. Derrick’s lips tremble as he forces a nervous smile and dabs harder at his brow with the handkerchief.

“L-L-Liar! Y-Y-You will not sway my followers, you will not win them over with your tales! I am in His image, and like a weapon, I will be thrust against evil!”

The stranger’s smile widens a fraction. “Then, Derrick, thrust away,” he snarls.

Derrick hurtles forward like a bullet and slams into the stranger’s chest, his own body folding inwards with a sickening crunch. His ribs cave. His jaw shatters. Blood erupts from his mouth, shattered teeth scattering across the floor. He slides to the ground, twitching and gasping, every desperate breath clawing at his throat as crimson spreads beneath his broken form.

“D-D-Devil,” Derrick stammers through bloody, broken lips. “Y-Y-Y-You will not have my soul, for I am-”

“You are a weapon, I remember,” the man says as he flicks his fingers, and Derrick shoots upwards, hitting the ceiling with a wet slap before dropping in a bloody heap to the floor, his white suit drenched in red, bone shards tearing through the fabric.

“Are you done? Ready to concede? Ready to be mine, heart and soul?”

“I-I-I,” Derrick murmurs as he wearily stumbles to his feet, blood flowing from his torn flesh. Through swollen eyes, he looks around at his congregation, their faces smeared with fear and disgust. He drags in a jagged breath and turns to the stranger. “WE will n-n-not fall to you, demon,” Derrick stammers.

“Oh, I think you will. All of you will,” he says as he lifts his hands. Then the room shifts, quick and violent, as a defiant cry breaks from Derrick’s followers and they erupt between the two men.

“For the glory of He who is our Saviour!” they scream as they rip into the stranger, snapping bones, clawing through flesh with frenzied purpose. They tear him apart piece by piece, and with a wet, sickening rip, they hoist his severed head high like a trophy, shrieking, singing, praising the lord they believe watches from above.

Derrick drops to his knees, a carved smile stretching across his lips as his tongue gently traces his golden crown. He forces himself upright and turns to the camera, clutching the microphone.

“Give me what you can, give me what you can’t. Give me some, give me it all, it doesn’t matter, just give, and if you give me your soul, well,” he proclaims, forcing a wide smile as his golden tooth flares like a star caught between his lips, the sudden burst of light blinding everyone for a moment. When their sight returns, he stands reborn, his suit brilliantly white, his wounds fully healed. “Salvation will be yours!”