A letter arrived today that brought back some interesting memories. It was from a man who came to the Bеаυty Pаrk about a year ago. He was not too thrilled about having such an establishment in his town and was going to let me know this in no uncertain terms. He was a pastor at the local community church, just down the road. When he came to my door (at 8:00 in the morning on a Saturday, which I thought was rather inconsiderate) I could see a fire burning in his eyes. I wasn't sure if it was a fire from God or the fires of Hell that burned there, but I decided to find out. I asked him to come in and to take a seat in my living room. "What can I do for you, Pаstоr Mоrrіs," I asked.
"I'll make my stay short, son," he said.
I found this amusing since he was no more than five years older than me. "The parishoners of my church don't want your compound of sin and debauchery around here anymore." Again, I almost laughed. The word "compound" made it sound like I was running some sort of cult.
No comments:
Post a Comment