[Ed. Note: The first installment can be found here.]

Sheriff Roy needed a drink after his encounter with Aunt Cindy at Brauner’s, and he needed one in peace. Fortunately for the Sheriff, he knew people. One in particular owed him a bit of a favor.

He picked up the phone in his office and dialed a number. “Custer, it’s Sheriff Templeton. You remember when you said if I ever wanted to do a confessional you’d be there? How’s tonight at 7 sound?”

The voice on the other end of the line said something to make Sheriff Roy smile. “Thanks,” he said and hung up.

Later that evening Sheriff Roy found himself outside The Grassy Knoll Pub, the one honest to goodness bar worth a damn in Mud Lick. A sign on the door read “Closed for Private Event.” Sheriff Roy paid no mind to the sign and entered. The event, after all, was about him.

On entry, the Sheriff noticed the “Conspiracy Theory Chic” decor had been replaced by a sort of jailhouse vibe. One wall featured loads of mugshots and press photos of various criminals throughout history in a display designated as “Grassy Knoll Rogue’s Gallery.” Bonnie and Clyde, Billy the Kid, John Dillinger and Al Capone were among the luminaries on the wall.

Sheriff Roy stopped by one photo that looked different from the rest.

“Where did you get this one and who is he?” the Sheriff asked Jesse Custer.

“That was a Cassidy find,” Custer said, gesturing to the Knoll’s Irish doorman at the entrance to the pub. “Ray ‘The Bruiser’ Walsh. Allegedly a leg breaker for the Dixie Mafia. Last known area of operations was Southern Alabama.”

“Never heard of the guy.”

“Fair enough.” Custer beckoned Sheriff Roy to a seat at the bar. The lapsed reverend produced from under the bar a bottle labeled “End of the Line Apple Pie.” He broke the seal in front of the Sheriff, an old bootlegger custom, and poured two glasses. Passing one to Mud Lick’s top cop, Jesse gestured at the bottle.

“Want to hear something wild, Sheriff? That’s made at a distillery currently housed at Brushy Mountain in Tennessee. Isn’t that amazing? One of the world’s worst shitholes housing convicts is now home to a distillery, barbecue joint and a museum.”

“Only thing amazing about it is the state of Tennessee’s commitment to lawlessness and godless behavior. I shouldn’t expect any more from people whose school color is felon orange.”

“Fair enough.” Custer sipped his moonshine and Sheriff Roy did likewise.

“So how’s this confessional thing supposed to work?”

“However you want it to, Sheriff. I usually tell people they can tell me what they want and I’m always ready to listen.”

“I don’t know how that holds with Catholic doctrine.”

“Sheriff I’m a lapsed Southern Baptist minister. I know nothing about Catholic doctrine other than what I see on TV. Way I see it this is basically a confessional of sorts for people who don’t really follow traditional religion. I just do away with the Papist stuff and listen as best I can.”

“I can believe that.” Sheriff Roy took another sip of moonshine.

“I cut someone out of my life eight years ago because they were poison to me and my family. It was a hard decision to make and one that I don’t take lightly because a lot of people close to me weren’t happy about it. But now I have to face a reckoning of sorts for that decision and I’m not sure whether to be grateful or apprehensive about it.”

“That’s a hell of a moral quandary, Sheriff. Usually when people tend to cut someone out of their lives it’s a net positive if that person was toxic.”

“Well, when it’s someone related to you, then it gets a whole lot thornier. And tell you what, I’m not really happy most nights with what I did, but I had to do it for my own health and sanity.”

“Well what has you doubting this decision?”

“A meeting with a relative who’s very well intentioned and also one of the most clueless people I’ve ever met.”

“That tracks.” Custer poured fresh glasses for both men. “You know how they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions? I’ve always thought ‘And the streets are lined with useful idiots’ was appropriate to follow that. “

“You’re pretty wise for a lapsed man of the cloth. Do you think the sins of family can affect children?”

“I’ve never been one to put much stock in that,” Custer said. “I believe we’re all born sinful as the Good Book tells us, but let’s not forget that Jesus loved children. You know, ‘Suffer the little children for theirs is the kingdom of heaven’ and all. I believe that’s God’s way of telling us that yes humanity is born into sin, but there’s something about childhood innocence that dulls the sting of sin. You get a clean slate in God’s eyes when you’re a child, and that innocence either turns into virtue or vice depending on one’s upbringing.”

“This makes sense.” Sheriff Roy finished his glass. “You have any prayers for family members who are trying to make peace with estranged family?”

“Oh, it’s a great one,” Cassidy said, leaping from his perch at the door to Sheriff Roy’s side. Clasping his hands and bowing his head in a mocking version of prayer, Cassidy intoned the following in something imitating a Gregorian chant.

“Oh Lord please make the dinner table conversations less fucking awkward! AAAHAAAAMEEEN!”

“GO SIT IN YOUR CORNER, YOU DRUNK IRISH FUCK!” Custer bellowed. Cassidy, properly shamed, skulked off.

“Let me guess,” Sheriff Roy said. “You’re sorry, but he’s drunk, old and Irish and there’s nothing you can do about that.”

Custer laughed and toasted Sheriff Roy. “That’s about the lay of the land around here. Hey did you know they last saw Ray Walsh at Belle Reeve Penitentiary?”

“No. Like I told you I don’t know who that is. Isn’t Belle Reeve in Lousiana?”

“Yessir. Hell of a place for a low level leg breaker to end up. Well, Sheriff, I reckon you’ve got a lot of soul searching to do. I’ll be praying whatever decision you do make brings you peace.”

“Thanks.” The Sheriff stood up. “How much do I owe you?”

“On the house.” Custer smiled. “This was nice, Sheriff Roy. Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Hopefully I won’t face another existential crisis like this one, but I appreciate it.”

With that, Sheriff Roy headed for the door.

He was stopped by Jesse Custer’s voice.

“You spoken to Fire Chief Thomas lately, Sheriff?”

“No sir.”

“You might want to ask him for help, Sheriff. He seems like he’s ready, able and willing to assist you in matters like this.”

Sheriff Roy hid his face, white as a sheet of paper now, from the bartender.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” With that he made a beeline for his car.

“Motherfucker,” Sheriff Roy exhaled when he was alone.

(To be concluded—CLS)