A New Kind of Fear
Two days after the brutal incident that left five of his most trusted gang members dead, T-Boy found himself sitting in silence. He'd buried them—hastily, without ceremony—just enough to clean up the mess and erase the blood trail. The streets had gone quiet since that night. Even his own thoughts moved like shadows, whispering fears he couldn't explain.
Now alone in his apartment, a great weight of exhaustion settled on his shoulders. The once-boisterous presence of his crew was replaced by an unwanted deafening silence. As he scanned the photo on his cracked dresser—him and the boys, arm in arm, posing like kings of the underworld—he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and slipped on his headset. Smoke curled upward like a prayer to the lost.
"Adieu, boys," he muttered to the photo, exhaling a cloud toward the ceiling. "One day, memories gon' bring back your memories."
Still wearing the photo like a ghost in his eyes, T-Boy stuffed a few bills in his back pocket, tucked a lighter and some wraps into his jacket, and stepped out. Hunger clawed at his gut, but something else gnawed deeper—an unease he couldn't shake. The streets he once walked with pride now looked foreign. He felt eyes—judging, fearful, questioning if he'd finally met his match. He tried to convince himself that folks still thought his crew might be watching from rooftops or waiting around corners, ready to spill blood at his command. Unless... unless the Preacher had spoken.
That single thought wrapped around his spine like a cold chain. If the Preacher had spread word of what truly happened—how the boys had turned their weapons on each other while the preacher simply dodged and redirected—then fear of him might already be unraveling.
Still, he kept moving. As he turned the corner toward a small soul food diner, the few people walking the sidewalks froze. No one dared approach. Mothers crossed the street with their kids. Young men turned their backs and stepped into alleys. Even the old man who sold newspapers slipped quietly inside his shop and locked the door.
T-Boy entered the diner like a ghost from a Western—alone, brooding, untouchable. And just like that, the whole place erupted in panic. Plates clattered. Some patrons scrambled to pay before running. Others bolted with their food still in hand. A few left their meals half-eaten and their tabs unpaid. The air was thick with tension, as if Death had walked in wearing Air Jordans and a bulletproof hoodie.
He sat down at a corner booth, breathing in the scent of fried chicken, collard greens, and something that smelled like yesterday's regrets. His memory betrayed him—he saw the boys again, alive, rowdy, banging on the tables, teasing waitresses. He remembered the way they used to change hymns into street anthems, turning:
"Trust and obey, for there is no other way, to be happy in Jesus…"
into
"Chop I don't pay, for there ain't no other way, to be vibin' with T-Boy than to chop and don't pay."
Waiters never dared approach. If a young waitress came too close, they violated her. If a young man showed up for the bill, he got robbed—wallet, phone, maybe even his shoes. Cops? If anyone called them, the entire block turned into a battlefield. T-Boy ran his turf like a warlord, and no one questioned it.
But now, alone with nothing but memories and an aching stomach, T-Boy felt something he hadn't felt in years: grief. The tear that escaped his eye wasn't for the lives taken—it was for the power lost. He wiped it quickly, unwilling to look weak.
An older waitress approached, hesitantly. A younger server had started forward but the woman waved her back.
"Umm... T, I've got rice, beans, stew, some pepper soup, and only melon left for the swallow. What'll it be?" Her voice trembled with every syllable. She didn't know whether to expect a bullet or a tip.
T-Boy reached into his pocket and pulled out two crisp $20 bills, sliding them across the table.
"Ma'am, just give me rice and beans with that pepper soup. Two pieces of meat."
She stared at the money like it was a trap. He never paid before. Was this remorse or strategy? Either way, she turned on her heel and hurried to the kitchen, whispering a desperate prayer.
"Lord, don't let me die today. Please, blind him from beginning to end. Let my kids come home and find me alive."
She was still scooping the food when the bell above the door jingled again.
The Preacher walked in.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't pause. Just came in and took a seat directly opposite T-Boy—same booth, same table, same air. It was a bold move, the kind that made your name echo in the streets. But where were T-Boy's men? Who would stand for him now?
The old waitress paled. "Pastor, please," she pleaded, gesturing to another table. "His people might show up. You don't wanna sit there."
The young server had already vanished into the back. The older woman looked like she might follow.
"No worry, ma'am," the Preacher said with a quiet confidence. "He's my guy. We got unfinished business. Just bring me what he's having—two plates, $15 each."
The woman swallowed hard and disappeared into the kitchen, whispering another prayer.
T-Boy cleared his throat.
"I ain't here to cause trouble. I'm just hungry, that's all. I even paid—ask her. I don't usually do that, but I ain't here for violence."
The Preacher didn't flinch. He looked at the woman who returned with his order and turned his gaze to her soul.
"The Bible says: Come unto me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Seek first the kingdom of God, and all things shall be added unto you. Sister… do you have Christ? Or would you like to rededicate your life to Him today?"
The woman, wide-eyed and scared, nodded like her salvation depended on it. Maybe it did.
The Preacher smiled softly. "A soul won without a sword," he whispered to himself.
He took a bite of food, then looked at T-Boy.
"There are two types of pain in this world," he said between mouthfuls. "The pain that hurts… and the pain that heals. You've tasted both. But you've dished out nothing but the first."
He opened a folded paper and slid it across the table.
"In Isaiah chapter 6, the angel touched the prophet's lips and said: 'Your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for.' Then came the question: 'Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?'"
He nodded toward the empty room.
"No one else is here. So I'm sending you."
T-Boy looked at the paper. A figure was written on it.
"You took from her," the Preacher said. "Return it—within 24 hours. Bring her an extra hundred dollars within 48. Or wait 72 hours for the Son of God to make His move. It's 1 p.m. now. But your clock starts at four."
He stood and walked out, only to return moments later with three school kids holding hands. They froze when they saw T-Boy, faces streaked with fear. But the Preacher smiled and sat them down, fed them from his plate.
They ate silently, too scared to speak. Then, as soon as they finished, they bolted without saying thank you.
The Preacher left a $50 tip on the counter.
"You see them?" he asked T-Boy calmly. "At the sight of you, they were terrified. At the sound of my voice, they obeyed. That's the difference between a curse and a calling. What kind of legacy do you want to leave?"
T-Boy sat in stunned silence. For the first time, he didn't have an answer. Sixty seconds ticked by.
Then he stammered, "I'm not here to cause trouble, Pastor. Just food—I paid for everything. No threats. No bodies."
The Preacher placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Remember the task I gave you," he said. "And just like the Sabbath… keep it holy. The best day to repent is the day you die. I'll be praying for you."
Then he walked out, not a scrap of food left behind.
As customers peeked back into the diner thinking the danger was over, they saw T-Boy still there—and scattered again like leaves in the wind.
To Be Continued...