A great man needs a great house. Tight, irregular brick work, texture crumbling like the skin between your toes. The windows set central, letting water pour in and allowing the occasional drip of light, the interior sepia bland. Unbecoming and childish, the house was ugly. It was a face to Leon, for it was not mutilated; four wooden bound windows, a sturdy central no nonsense door, the climbing ivy, choking the windows of light and burying into the epidermis of the milky red brickwork. The face had been constructed by a mad man however, eyes on top of each other where the nose should have been, the door a mouth, too short and too wide like the mouth of a horse with a thick wooden lipping. Ivy was screwed in like a womens moustache, lightly covering but obtuse in its camouflage. It fell on the face like 60s side burns running along the house, but also creating oasis of foliage around the lower portions of the house, like vertigoes ivy.
The mad man in question was a Rev. F.R Sacking. Proof of his strange idiosyncratic nature can be found at his birth place of Hartsville, S. Carolina. Brought up on one of Carolinas many Atlantic tributaries, wooden housed, god feared, bare footed and happy. This F.R in question spat dying mans bile onto the darkly meandering Pee Dee at the thought of the blasphemous Englishmen. Egged on by a lay man, who had through countless hours of research ascertained that the further N.E a man went the less scrupulous he became. The lay man basing his claims on prejudice (everyone knew NewYork was a hot bed of papishness and Jewry), set the newly ordained Sacking to work, pious to the extreme and ultimately naïve. Sacking neglected his flock for two weeks and kept irreligious hours, rulers and compasses were bought, lines were made, now he knew that the centre of all evil to be a small island east of Iceland.
So it was that an locust eyed preacher, dressed in every fur from mink to moose joined the miserly, buck limbed crew of a sailing ship heading east to London.
There on the scummy flesh of the Thames, the story could have forked, one Sacking would have headed north, smelt bitter artic air like a horses mane, seen icebergs as big gods fist and in an attempt to assimilate with the locals try to club seals in the ice flows.
The wind however does not blow forever. After smelling the turbid air of London, so thick it could be bitten, Sackings sails spilt its wind lazily and the great ship Sacking was marooned in a sea of heathens. The Rev. F.R Sacking was made of a sediment of faith built up over time, true some years had seen more faith than others but the affect had always been cumulative.
He set about building a house , a grand house, a house to spread the message and put the fear of god into the heathens. He employed no architect, the pencil began to scour the paper, he was inspired, spires rose to touch the sky. Thin, buck toothed men with shallow foreheads began to work. They knew nothing of parapets or spires, these were men who thought in straight lines, square windows and green rectangular doors. They sat on their hams, in shifting autumnal light as the wind scoured their face of their summer tan, leaving only rotting apple red on their rotund cheeks. They laughed hacking coughs at the swirling lines of the house, and began to build straight, wilful and angry walls.
In the end zealousness got the better of Sacking. The city was covered in syrupy fog as dark and bitter as malt vinegar, the hungry eyed men prowled and sniffed the air, porous souled men who lived for today. Sacking was clubbed to death like a seal, leaning on ochre wood leathery and as dead veined as a cadaver, in the door step of his madmans house.
The mad man in question was a Rev. F.R Sacking. Proof of his strange idiosyncratic nature can be found at his birth place of Hartsville, S. Carolina. Brought up on one of Carolinas many Atlantic tributaries, wooden housed, god feared, bare footed and happy. This F.R in question spat dying mans bile onto the darkly meandering Pee Dee at the thought of the blasphemous Englishmen. Egged on by a lay man, who had through countless hours of research ascertained that the further N.E a man went the less scrupulous he became. The lay man basing his claims on prejudice (everyone knew NewYork was a hot bed of papishness and Jewry), set the newly ordained Sacking to work, pious to the extreme and ultimately naïve. Sacking neglected his flock for two weeks and kept irreligious hours, rulers and compasses were bought, lines were made, now he knew that the centre of all evil to be a small island east of Iceland.
So it was that an locust eyed preacher, dressed in every fur from mink to moose joined the miserly, buck limbed crew of a sailing ship heading east to London.
There on the scummy flesh of the Thames, the story could have forked, one Sacking would have headed north, smelt bitter artic air like a horses mane, seen icebergs as big gods fist and in an attempt to assimilate with the locals try to club seals in the ice flows.
The wind however does not blow forever. After smelling the turbid air of London, so thick it could be bitten, Sackings sails spilt its wind lazily and the great ship Sacking was marooned in a sea of heathens. The Rev. F.R Sacking was made of a sediment of faith built up over time, true some years had seen more faith than others but the affect had always been cumulative.
He set about building a house , a grand house, a house to spread the message and put the fear of god into the heathens. He employed no architect, the pencil began to scour the paper, he was inspired, spires rose to touch the sky. Thin, buck toothed men with shallow foreheads began to work. They knew nothing of parapets or spires, these were men who thought in straight lines, square windows and green rectangular doors. They sat on their hams, in shifting autumnal light as the wind scoured their face of their summer tan, leaving only rotting apple red on their rotund cheeks. They laughed hacking coughs at the swirling lines of the house, and began to build straight, wilful and angry walls.
In the end zealousness got the better of Sacking. The city was covered in syrupy fog as dark and bitter as malt vinegar, the hungry eyed men prowled and sniffed the air, porous souled men who lived for today. Sacking was clubbed to death like a seal, leaning on ochre wood leathery and as dead veined as a cadaver, in the door step of his madmans house.
