@bogisms wants to be saved.

Jesse Custer is gettin’ real used to havin’ guests in his chapel.

It’s a modest two room place, the chapel itself taking up most of the room. There’s a small kitchen in the front by the entry, kind of shielded off in a make shift wall he’d put in when he took over the church from the last Reverend. Most of his congregation can fit in the kitchen with ease-though lately it’s getting bigger and bigger, more faces and strangers joining to hear him talk.

More of them means more guests that approach him when he’s sitting on his front stoop having a smoke and cradling a beer. Like this fella here, it seemed.

There’s a figure coming out of the darkness that Jesse Custer doesn’t recognize, and it doesn’t seem to have a gait he recongizes as one of the folks in town. Sure as hell ain’t Cassidy either, who’d just driven off for a pack of smokes or some shit like that (leave it to Jesse to give him the truck). No, this fella here in the dark had old preacher man straightening his back, not scared, but ready for a fight or a talkin’ to, should it be Donny again, only this time with something heavy, like a shotgun or that big old bazooka thing he tried to keep hidden in his back yard.

“I wouldn’t come any closer,” the preacher warned, climbing up to stand, setting out his light, “Not unless you reckon you tell me who ya is, first.”

He waits for the shape to move-ain’t no way he’s dealing with another one of those freaky things that body slammed him a few weeks ago.