Eric Davis by Kouns & Weaver

If I had all the money Eric Davis had in 1990, I would buy two assisted living facility towers and live in them, just me. Just me and that ol' bluebird of happiness. When I fall off the roof of that tower and the sky is as red as the rawhide stitch of a baseball, when I have my heart attack and the world is as dead as a Louisville Slugger left out in the rain for two weeks, who's going to dig me up when I'm in that frozen Ohio dirt?

See, God does what She wants, Eric. If you come to the kitchen and God is drinking bromine from an oversized Dow Chemical barrel in the middle of the night, you ought to tiptoe quietly back to bed. But if the floorboards in the drafty old house your family shares with God creak underneath your feet, then there is nothing you can do but shout down the attic stairs and wake your uncle who was blinded in the last war and ask him to tell the starving, thirsty, insatiable God stories of the unspeakable cruelty His lost little children are capable of.

rickjweaver.com