Twisted Vengeance
After about three long days of recovering from an excessively unprecedented blend of drinking and smoking, T-Boy's body was weak but his heart was still heavy. The hangover had subsided, the fog in his mind began to clear, yet one thing hadn't changed—his burdens. His sorrows clung to him like a second skin, refusing to be washed away by alcohol or blunts. They stared back at him like ghosts from the grave, whispering all the things he tried so hard to forget.
But while he was absent from the streets—sick, subdued, and silent—the community had felt something they hadn't in years.
Peace.
For the first time in a long time, the air didn't smell like gunpowder. Laughter had returned to the lips of children. Mothers walked freely to the market. Fathers stopped sleeping with one eye open. Even the dogs barked with a different tone. Life dared to breathe.
But that wouldn't last.
It was early evening, the sky bruised with approaching nightfall, and T-Boy stood at the threshold of a decision. He had recovered just enough to feel the rage return to his veins. His eyes—dull from days of intoxication—were now sharp, feral, and focused.
He stepped out of his dark apartment with murder on his mind.
"Tonight… if I don't die," he murmured with a deadly calm, "then he has to die. Either by a bullet or by a gun."
He adjusted his black hoodie, tucked a pistol into his waistband, and locked the door behind him without looking back. The Preacher had disturbed his empire. Had disturbed his life. And now, he was going to disturb the Preacher's.
He walked for blocks, step after step, like a soldier on a death march. The dusk turned into full night. He stopped passersby, flagged down taxi drivers, cross-checked street names, and decoded winding routes using pieces of overheard conversations. Everyone knew of the Preacher—but not many knew exactly where he stayed.
Eventually, he arrived.
The place wasn't glowing, but it radiated. A modest building tucked into a quiet lane, darkened by the evening cloud, yet lightened by the bold simplicity of an architect's pride. The windows were framed with black steel, and warm golden light spilled faintly through the curtains.
He scanned the perimeter. No guards. No movement. No threats. Just silence.
He let down his gun and the rest of his "weapons of defeat" into a hidden spot behind a tree nearby—close enough to grab again if needed, far enough not to be seen. He approached the wooden door quietly, determined to strike. But as he raised his hand to knock—
"It's 8pm," a voice called from behind the door—before he ever touched it. "Are you coming to the Son of Man or to the Thief in the night? Or are you here to witness the manifestation of the Son of God… or perhaps to make me say, 'My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?'"
The door creaked open. The Preacher stood there—calm, composed, eyes full of light.
T-Boy froze. His feet wanted to turn back. His hands were cold. He managed to whisper, "Good evening, Sir. Please… can I come in?"
"The word 'can' depicts ability," the Preacher replied with a slight smile. "You can come in, but what's the probability that I will let you in? So—'May I come in?' That's the right thing to say. It's about permission. It's about certainty. Then I would say yes or no."
He paused, examining the discomfort on T-Boy's face.
"But what if you don't really want to come in? What if someone else is coming? Then you'd say 'I will come in.' That's discipline. That's intent. You may come in. But I'm not a 'Sir.'"
He stepped aside and gestured with an open palm. "Come."
The apartment was the opposite of what T-Boy expected. Clean. Cozy. Modern. The walls were painted in soft cream, lit by golden pendant lights. A large flat-screen TV mounted neatly. A top-tier AC unit hummed quietly. The scent of lemongrass floated through the air.
T-Boy's eyes widened.
"This your house? Pastor?" he asked, disbelief painted all over his face.
"Not my house," the Preacher said as he walked toward the kitchen. "It's a rented apartment. I came here to spread the Gospel in this area."
T-Boy still didn't believe it. "damn!, look at the painting… split unit air conditioner, flat screen TV. I'm not sure you are only a pastor. What do you do? I mean… who are you?"
The Preacher chuckled faintly. "I'm whoever you think I am. Take a seat. Why are you here?"
He disappeared into the kitchen to prepare a drink. T-Boy scanned the room for weapons, for anything that could be used to hurt him—or that he could use to attack.
"You said you would pray for me the day I die," T-Boy called out. "And that's the best day for anyone to repent… but… you killed my guys—my men. Why didn't you kill me too?"
The Preacher re-emerged, holding a tray with two glasses of chilled juice.
"I don't know why, when, or where people will die," he said, setting the tray down. "But I only know what kills people—and that's Death. I'm neither Death nor a killer. I didn't kill your men… they killed themselves. I only redirected the focus of the guns and weapons in their hands."
He handed T-Boy a glass.
"And yes, the best day to repent is the day you will die. But not just anyone's death—your death. I have repented and I'm still alive. For in the beginning was the Word… and the Word was with God… and the Word was God. My beginning is filled with the Word, and that is God."
T-Boy tried to suppress his trembling fingers. He needed to keep the Preacher distracted—long enough to plan his attack. His eyes darted to the windows, the positions, the angles.
"Okay," he said. "But that song you sang earlier… I remember it."
And then, the Preacher began again—his voice calm and deep:
> "In Christ alone,
My hope is found,
He's my light, my strength, my song…"
T-Boy's breath hitched. That song. That memory. The moment his world shattered.
"My mom loved that song," he whispered. "She was a lead singer at a church downtown. She sang it the day she died…"
He paused, blinking back something raw.
"Mom couldn't make it through. Her health was bad. Dad wasn't around. I'd call him—he'd say he's busy. He'd say he's coming by weekend. Weekends came. He never did."
The Preacher stayed silent, listening.
"She needed help. Medical help. But I was too young. She told me she'd be fine—I should go to school. I left… and when I came back… she was gone. I called Dad. He hung up on me. I dropped out. I joined the street boys. They fed me. Trained me. I learned to shoot."
He looked down at his hands, now trembling.
"I became a killer the day I finally found my Dad. He was surrounded by women. I reminded him who he abandoned. I killed him. That was five years ago. Mom died ten years ago. I'm 26 now. I've been through hell… Tell me—don't I deserve to die?"
The Preacher took a deep breath.
"Your mother was a Lead Singer. But you've become a Lead Gangster."
T-Boy flinched.
"She died ahead of you so you could live. You have her life inside you now. There's no need to die—except if nature decides to take you away. I'm sorry about your mom. And your dad. But you need Christ. You need peace."
He poured another glass of juice and offered it.
"The more terror you bring to this city, the more the spirits of its people are disturbed—and the less peace you'll ever find. Let Christ give you rest."
T-Boy accepted the drink and downed it slowly. The sweetness made his heart ache.
"Won't you pray for me still?" he asked.
The Preacher nodded and bowed his head.
> "Father, thank You for this son of Yours—
Whose past he has recalled,
Whose present he regrets,
And whose future he desires You to be part of.
Let this be a prayer of repentance if he seeks salvation.
Or a prayer of protection, if he is not ready.
Save his soul. In Christ's name, Amen."
T-Boy left around 9:13pm. But peace was not in his heart.
From a nearby rooftop, he set up his sniper position. He'd calculated the angle. The Preacher's Bible reading desk faced the door directly from the inside. He'd be sitting there… exposed.
At 10:27pm sharp, T-Boy exhaled.
Six bullets fired within three seconds—clean, precise, and deadly—ripping through the door in a tight circle.
He grinned, muttering, "Even prayers can't save you. It's better to die than to think of death."
He climbed down slowly, made his way to the house, and knocked.
No answer.
Again.
Still no sound.
He twisted the handle and stepped inside, gun in hand. The room was cloaked in darkness—thick, complete. He couldn't even see his own fingers.
Then suddenly—a hand gripped his neck.
He gasped. Dropped his weapon. Felt his body lifted off the ground like a ragdoll.
> "The kingdom of God suffereth violence… and the violent take it by force.
For the war of the church shall end in victory…"
The voice thundered. His back slammed onto the Bible desk. It cracked beneath him. His head hit the floor.
Lights came on.
T-Boy lay gasping in pain, coughing. Blood in his mouth. The Preacher stood above him.
> "I prayed with you before you left—
For you and for me.
A prayer of repentance.
A prayer of protection.
Maybe you didn't understand the prayer…
Or maybe you want to understand the one who prayed it.
Just like Paul said—
That I may know Him and the power of His resurrection."
He washed his hands, then paused.
"I came to you like the Son of God—and like a Thief in the Night. But tonight… you will witness the manifestation of the Son of God."
He checked his watch.
"It's 11 seconds to 10:27pm. The door is locked. Too late to escape this experience. It'll only last for 30 seconds."
Lights off.
"Please! Please, don't kill me!" T-Boy cried.
> "It's said in a song:
One day, the killer of mankind
Shall be killed by mankind.
But I am neither mankind nor killer.
I know how to hurt.
I know how to heal.
But I don't know how to kill."
The final light switched off. Stopwatch activated.
Then came the fists.
For 30 seconds, the Preacher's hands became divine instruments of reckoning. Blood filled T-Boy's vision. His breath stuttered. He couldn't fight back.
And when it ended…
He lay still.
Broken.
But not dead.
Blood dripped slowly from T-Boy's split lip, painting the tiled floor beneath him in deep crimson. The once-cozy apartment—tucked within the fourth floor of an old brick building on the South Side—was now drenched in tension. The broken Bible table lay in ruins beneath his aching back, shards of scripture-stained wood scattered like confetti of judgment around his bruised frame. The Preacher's silhouette loomed over him, calm as ever, his knuckles bloodied, not from anger—but from purpose.
The clock struck 10:28 PM.
T-Boy groaned, trying to lift himself, but his limbs failed him. All the strength he once used to command fear in others, the might that built his reputation in back alleys and abandoned warehouses, had vanished under the thunder of divine justice.
The Preacher stared silently, then knelt beside him. The city sirens in the distance howled like wolves beneath a moonless sky, but inside that room—it was silent as a grave.
"You think this is vengeance?" the Preacher asked, voice steady and low, like the slow burn of a sermon you didn't want to hear but needed to.
"I didn't kill you… because I don't kill. I correct."
T-Boy's bloodshot eyes met the Preacher's. "You corrected me with your damn fists."
The Preacher stood again, exhaling. He walked over to the window, looked out over the skyline of neon-lit gas stations, flickering streetlights, and late-night pizza joints. Then he turned back.
"No," he said. "That wasn't correction. That was mercy."
He walked to a nearby shelf—lined not with weapons or trophies but with journals, theology books, and a faded photo of a woman and child. He pulled down a small wooden box and opened it. Inside was a torn bulletproof vest, the one he'd worn when those six shots pierced the door earlier.
He tossed it to T-Boy. "You think you missed?"
T-Boy stared at the vest. It had six bullet indentations, one of them cracked but not pierced. His face twisted. "You wore that?"
"I prayed. You fired. The rest… was God."
The air in the room grew thick.
"You think you run this city, T?" the Preacher continued. "But the city ain't yours. You're just renting pain. Someone else paid for the deed a long time ago."
T-Boy tried to rise again, this time using the remnants of the table for leverage.
"Why didn't you kill me?" he spat.
"Because God didn't permit it. You came to take a life, but tonight, one was given instead."
"I don't get it. Who gave their life?" T-Boy whispered.
"You did," the Preacher said, walking toward him slowly. "The old you died when you stepped through that door. You just don't know it yet."
T-Boy looked around, confused, exhausted, but somehow—oddly at peace.
A knock came at the door.
The Preacher turned. "Stay there."
He approached the door cautiously, peered through the peephole. A woman stood there—a familiar face. An Officer from the 9th District Police Precinct, the one who always tried to bring down T-Boy's operation but never had enough evidence.
The Preacher opened the door.
"Evening, Pastor. We got a report of shots fired on this floor. Everything alright?" she asked, one hand resting on her holstered sidearm.
The Preacher gave a calm nod. "False alarm. No shots landed."
She tilted her head. "You sure? There were shell casings outside."
"Drive-bys happen in this neighborhood all the time, Officer l. Nothing new," the Preacher said smoothly.
Officer tried to peek inside, saw the broken furniture and blood but held her tongue. She looked the Preacher in the eye.
"Alright. But we'll be watching. You're not the only one preaching in this city," she said.
"Neither is the devil," he replied.
Officer smirked faintly, gave a nod, and walked off.
The door closed. The lock turned.
The Preacher turned back to T-Boy.
"You have a choice. The cops are watching. The city's on edge. The people are tired. But you—you still breathe. That means you still have purpose."
T-Boy coughed, struggling to sit up. "And what if I want out? What if I'm tired of running these streets, tired of looking over my shoulder?"
"Then follow me," the Preacher said. "Not as my disciple. As your own man. A man reborn."
The room fell silent again. A car alarm went off somewhere in the distance. The hum of a refrigerator buzzed faintly. And then…
"I ain't gonna lie," T-Boy said. "I'm scared."
"So was Gideon," the Preacher replied. "But he still won the war."
T-Boy laughed faintly through his pain. "You're one crazy dude, you know that?"
The Preacher grinned for the first time. "Crazy enough to believe even killers can be redeemed."
T-Boy slowly got to his feet. He limped toward the door but will not go anywhere because he can't.
"Preacher?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think my mom sees me now? After everything?"
The Preacher looked at him, eyes soft.
"I think she's been watching this whole time. And I think tonight… she smiled."
To Be Continued…