The Neighborhood Preacher
“One more outburst from you, Mr. Ericson, and I will hold you in contempt of court.”
Judge Sonia Kagan’s face had turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the exit signs above the double doors. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh; her expression was almost comical, like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.
“Mr. Young,” she hissed, turning her ire toward my attorney, “I strongly advise you to control your client.”
I had been warned. Several times, in fact. But it’s difficult to filter certain words from your vocabulary when they constitute a significant portion of your daily lexicon. A guy once told me he’d never met anyone who could turn profanity into poetry the way I did. Maybe I do curse a lot, but it flows like water downhill—without thought, without resistance.
As I opened my mouth to offer a rebuttal, I saw the judge tense up, her gavel hovering like a guillotine blade. My attorney, Bert Young, shot me a look that screamed, Shut up unless you want a cellmate named Bubba tonight. Even the court reporter stifled a giggle, her fingers hovering over the keys, likely bracing for a torrent of expletives to paint the official record.
To my left, the gallery of traitors looked like they were attending a funeral. Robin, my soon-to-be ex-wife, looked shamed and downtrodden, her eyes fixed on her sensible shoes. Bruce, my former best friend, sat with the defeat of a conquered general etched into his sagging features. And Cheryl, his wife, just looked angry. She clearly didn’t appreciate her dirty laundry being aired in a municipal courtroom, especially when that laundry was stained with the sins of her husband.
By now, you might wonder how a guy like me—a thirty-two-year-old city maintenance foreman—ended up being scolded by a judge in a black robe. It wasn’t just bad luck. It was a calculated demolition.
It all started on a Tuesday. Let’s call it Doomsday.
Chapter 1: The Perfect Neighborhood
My name is Jack Ericson. I run the city maintenance department for Stonemore, Colorado. I started with the city two days after tossing my high school graduation cap. In the winter, I plow the major arteries of the city, battling blizzards to keep commerce flowing. In the summer, I’m the guy who fixes the potholes you curse at and clears the storm drains you ignore. I know the anatomy of this city better than I know my own blood vessels.
Robin worked a few hours a week at the church, mostly to take a break from the housework she barely did. We lived in a nice four-bedroom, two-story home in an older, established neighborhood. We couldn’t afford the rich side of town, known as “The Hill,” but we didn’t live in the rough parts either. We existed in the comfortable middle, flanked by neighbors we thought were family.
Tom and Jerry McBain lived next door. Ron and Cindy lived directly behind us. And Bruce Harris—my childhood friend—lived behind the McBains with his wife, Cheryl. Our four households got along so well that we had no fences separating our backyards. It was a communal green space, a symbol of trust.
Bruce and I had been inseparable since middle school. I was the roughneck; he was the golden boy. His parents were devoutly religious, while my dad often told me, “Jack, as long as you don’t knock a girl up or cost me money, I don’t give a damn what you do.” If Bruce’s parents were going to punish him for a transgression, I’d take the blame. I knew they hated me anyway, so their opinion was currency with no value to me.
Bruce grew up to be a preacher at a local church. I only darkened the door of a sanctuary on Easter and Christmas, mostly to appease Robin, who attended religiously. While Bruce was at Bible College, he met Cheryl. She was a knockout—five foot seven, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a figure that stopped traffic. Despite her looks, she was devoted to prayer and service.
I thought Bruce was the yang to my yin. I would have taken a bullet for him. I would have buried a body for him.
I was about to find out he was the one holding the shovel.
Chapter 2: The Storm
Monday evening brought a nasty June thunderstorm that battered Stonemore with high winds and hail. My quadrant took the brunt of the abuse. I had six crews running dump trucks, picking up shattered tree limbs, while I drove around in my pickup checking storm drain complaints. By the time I cleared the debris and managed the street sweepers, I was running on fumes and caffeine.
When I finally got home Tuesday evening, I heated up leftover meatloaf. I didn’t mind the leftovers, but it stung that my wife hadn’t cooked a fresh weekday meal in months. I wanted to drink a twelve-pack and pass out, but the red mark on the calendar meant I was on emergency standby. One beer was my limit.
I ate alone while Robin showered upstairs. It was seven o’clock. She offered a half-hearted “How was your day?” before disappearing. This routine had been the soundtrack of our marriage for months. The intimacy was gone. Our love life, once vibrant, had reduced to twice in three months, and even those moments felt like she was performing a chore.
I watched the Rockies play the Padres on TV, wishing for something stronger to numb the silence of the house.
Around ten o’clock, just as I was drifting off, my phone screamed. City Dispatch. A water main break near Birchwood Mall.
I packed snacks, kissed my sleeping marriage goodbye, and headed into the night. The job was brutal—breaking pavement with a backhoe at one in the morning, hauling mud until dawn. By noon the next day, we were ready to repave. I returned the equipment to the yard, exhausted, grime under my fingernails, and pulled into my driveway at one forty-five.
I was off until Friday. I expected a quiet house.
I grabbed a beer and a sandwich. As I closed the fridge, the suction seal popping was the only sound in the kitchen. But then I heard it. A noise drifting down from the second floor. The unmistakable, rhythmic sound of a woman in passion.
“No wonder you don’t touch me anymore,” I muttered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I walked to the coat closet, reached to the top shelf, and grabbed my Kimber forty-five. I racked the slide.
I moved up the stairs, a ghost in my own home. The noise grew louder—a guttural, primal sound. I checked the master bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. The guest room. Empty.
That left the craft room.
I kicked the door open, weapon raised, adrenaline flooding my veins.
Empty.
The sound wasn’t coming from inside the room. It was coming from the open window overlooking the backyard.
Chapter 3: The Window
I moved to the window and looked down. What I saw defied logic. Tommy and Brenda, the McBain children, were by their pool, engaged in an act that I can only describe as shocking. I froze. My brain couldn’t process the data fast enough.
“They’re watching us! Look at them!” Brenda cried out, looking up toward the houses.
She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking to her left.
I followed her gaze.
In the window of the house next door—Bruce’s house—I saw a bare back. A man was clearly with someone, moving with a fervor he never showed in the pulpit. I watched, paralyzed, waiting for him to turn around, praying it was Cheryl.
Then, he turned.
It was Bruce. And beneath him, her face twisted in ecstasy, was Robin.
“Holy hell!” I yelled, the sound tearing from my throat so loudly that the scene below ground to a halt.
Across the yard, Bruce froze. He looked up, locked eyes with me, and stopped.
I raised the Kimber. I had a clear shot. Center mass. But my peripheral vision caught Tommy and Brenda scrambling, naked and terrified, toward their back door. The distraction broke my focus for a split second. By the time I looked back at Bruce’s window, they were gone.
I ran downstairs, swapping the pistol for my Mossberg twelve-gauge. I loaded it with buckshot, my hands shaking not from fear, but from the sheer desire to destroy.
I stormed out the front door, the shotgun heavy and comforting in my hands. But halfway down the driveway, I stopped.
The cool air hit my face. I looked at the shotgun. I looked at the quiet street. If I pulled this trigger, I lost everything. I would trade my freedom for their lives, and they weren’t worth it.
I understood everything now. The dirty house. The lack of meals. The neglect of us. She wasn’t tired. She was exhausted from servicing the neighborhood preacher.
I threw the shotgun into the truck, got in, and left black tire marks on the asphalt as I sped toward the hardware store.
Chapter 4: The Confrontation
As I drove, my mind raced through the logistics of revenge. Violence was too easy. Too quick. I needed something that lasted. I bought three new locksets. When I returned, the driveway was empty, but I didn’t care. I walked inside.
Bruce was there. In my house. Sitting at my kitchen table. Waiting for me.
“What are you doing in my house?” I demanded, dropping the bag of locks on the floor.
“I came to talk to you as a friend,” Bruce replied, his voice trembling with a false righteousness that made my stomach turn.
“Friend?” I laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
“Jack, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said, holding up his hands.
“You’re right,” I said. I slid a butcher knife across the table toward him. It spun and came to a rest pointing at his chest. “Pick it up.”
He stared at the knife, then at the Kimber I had tucked into my waistband. “Come on, Jack. You can’t seriously expect—”
“Pick it up!” I roared. “You love Jesus so much? I want you to meet him. Now. Pick up the knife and let me put the self-defense law to use.”
Bruce jumped up, his face pale as milk, and bolted for the door. He stopped on the porch, safe behind the threshold, and turned back. “Jack, we’ve been friends forever. Are you willing to throw that away?”
“I lost two people today, Bruce. But I think when I get past the anger, I’ll realize it’s no real loss. Where is she?”
“She’s at my house. She’s afraid to come over,” he admitted.
“Tell her she has five minutes to get over here if she wants any chance of staying married to me. Now get off my property.”
Bruce scurried off like a cockroach exposed to light.
Four minutes later, I heard the sniveling. Robin walked up the sidewalk, tears streaming down her face, playing the victim perfectly for any neighbors watching. She reached to hug me.
I stepped back. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
“But I love you! I only want to be with you!” she pleaded.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, my voice cold. “The neighbors don’t need tickets to this circus.”
We sat in the living room. She tried to sit next to me on the loveseat.
“No,” I said. “Sit over there.”
“How long?” I asked.
“He loves you like a brother, Jack. He’s your best friend.”
“Friends don’t sleep with their friends’ wives. How long?”
“It’s just physical, Jack. I still love you.”
“What a load of garbage. How convenient.”
“You still have me,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. You’re choosing Bruce over me. You can’t give me five minutes, but you can give him anytime? How wonderful.”
“We can stay married,” she said, her eyes widening with delusional hope. “I’ll just be with Bruce. I don’t love him. Just physical. He says I can take care of your needs once or twice a week.”
I stared at her. The sheer audacity was breathtaking. “How kind of him. I think I’ll find someone else to take care of my needs.”
“No! You’re my husband! No one else should be with you! We are still married!”
“Not for much longer. You want to have your cake and eat it too.”
“I… I think Bruce wants me back in three minutes,” she stammered, checking the clock.
“That’s it,” I snapped. “Go. Go get what you want. Get out.”
“I don’t see why we can’t keep things as they are,” she whined at the door.
I slammed the door so hard I felt the frame shudder.
I spent the next hour changing every lock in the house. I sat down, opened a beer, and turned on the TV.
I fell asleep, exhausted. I woke up at nine to pounding on the door. It was Bruce again.
“What do you want?” I growled.
“I need a favor,” Bruce said. “Robin is crying. Can’t you call her and tell her you’re not angry and everything will be okay?”
“Tell her everything will be okay? I’m done with both of you. What’s Cheryl going to say when she finds out?”
“She knows,” Bruce said, dropping the bomb. “She’s happy the sneaking around can stop. She wants the three of us to work it out.”
I stared at him. It wasn’t just an affair. It was insanity.
“Get off my porch,” I said. “Tell her that her stuff will be out here in the morning.”
Chapter 5: The Investigation
The next morning, Cheryl Harris came knocking. She didn’t want Robin’s clothes. She wanted me to let Robin move back in because “We have an image to protect at the church.” She actually suggested I house and feed Robin while she slept with Bruce, all to save their reputation.
I slammed the door in her face and called a lawyer.
I got the name of a law firm: Young and Associates. I met with Bert Young. Scruffy, but sharp.
“Mr. Ericson,” Bert said, reviewing my situation. “I think we can get you everything you want and make your point clear.”
I packed Robin’s life into garbage bags and left them on the porch. I canceled the credit cards. I emptied the joint accounts into a new account in my name only.
Then, I went to work on Bruce.
First, I called the City Accounting Department. I had allowed my crews to haul several loads of gravel to Bruce’s church for free—a favor for a friend. I kept the paperwork.
“Janice,” I said to the clerk, “Make sure that bill for the church gravel is entered as unpaid. And add the transportation fees.”
Bruce now owed the city seventy-five hundred dollars.
Next, I called the water department supervisor. “Hey, you know that church on Vinewood? Pretty sure their water meter isn’t up to code. Might want to check it out.”
That was another eleven thousand for a replacement and inspection fees.
I called a buddy in the Fire Department. “Tony, I think the Vinewood Presbyterian Church might be a little lax on their occupancy codes. Might want to pay them a visit.”
By noon, Bruce was calling me.
“What are you trying to pull, Jack?” he screamed. “The inspectors are telling me I have to redo the whole parking lot! You said everything would be fine!”
“Seems I forgot to turn in some paperwork,” I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy. “Don’t worry, I’m sure your congregation will help.”
My supervisor walked in, heard the conversation, and smirked. “Remind me to put a note in your file, Jack.”
“I’ll remind you to remind me,” I joked.
Bruce was getting hit from every angle. The Fire Marshal shut down the sanctuary for code violations. The County Assessor found an “error” in his property tax assessment. The Police Department started patrolling the area around the church more vigorously after I mentioned some “suspicious activity.”
But I needed the knockout blow.
Chapter 6: The Evidence
On Saturday morning, I was working in the garage when Brenda McBain appeared. She held a USB stick in her hand, her face flushed.
“Hi, Mr. Ericson,” she said quietly. “I have a video you might find useful. Taken a week ago.”
I took the stick. “What is it?”
“Just watch it,” she said. “It explains a lot about what’s been going on.”
That night, I plugged the USB into my laptop. The file opened. It was footage shot through a basement window of the abandoned King James Hotel downtown. The city owned the building; it was supposed to be boarded up and empty.
But inside, there were lights. And people.
I saw Bruce. I saw Cheryl. I saw Robin. And I saw others from the church congregation. It was shocking. But then, the camera panned to a man sitting in a velvet chair, watching the proceedings with a glass of wine.
My jaw dropped. It was someone I recognized from city functions—a prominent local figure.
And next to him, adjusting her glasses, was Dr. Landers—the court-appointed marriage counselor everyone in the county was required to see during divorce proceedings.
I sat back, the glow of the screen illuminating my smile. I didn’t just have evidence for a divorce. I had leverage.
I needed to serve the papers, and I needed to do it in a way that would shatter their carefully constructed image forever.
Chapter 7: Sunday Service
Sunday morning. I walked into Vinewood Presbyterian Church. The congregation was thin, but the choir—Cheryl, Robin, and a few others—was singing loudly. I sat in the back. I caught the eye of Robert Donovan, the audio-visual guy. He owed me favors for fixing his driveway. I gave him the signal.
Bruce stood at the pulpit, talking about forgiveness, conveniently skipping certain commandments. He asked for guests to introduce themselves.
My process servers stood up.
“I’m here to see Cheryl Harris,” a young woman said.
“I’m here to see Robin Ericson,” another announced.
“I’m here for Bruce Harris,” the third man said.
They walked to the front. “You have been served.”
Bruce grabbed the microphone, his face purple. “Why have you defiled my sanctuary?”
That was Robert’s cue.
On the massive projection screen behind the pulpit, the cross faded away. In its place, footage from the King James Hotel basement flickered to life. There was Bruce. There was Cheryl. There was Robin. All clearly visible, all clearly engaged in activities that had nothing to do with worship.
The silence in the church was heavier than lead. Then, chaos.
Several elderly members reached for their phones. One elderly woman walked up to Bruce and struck him with her cane. Robin screamed.
I turned and walked out the door, the sound of their empire crumbling filling the air like music.
Chapter 8: The Court Battle
Days later, my attorney Bert informed me we had a court date with Judge Kagan. “She’s tough, Jack. She usually favors wives. And she mandates counseling with Dr. Landers.”
“I’ll go to counseling,” I said. “I have a few things to discuss.”
The session with Dr. Landers was predictable. Robin sat there, crying, claiming she was a “free spirit” and that I was “narrow-minded.” Dr. Landers nodded sympathetically.
“Mr. Ericson,” Dr. Landers said, looking down her nose at me. “Modern relationships require openness. You owe it to yourself to be more understanding.”
“I’m done,” I said, standing up.
“If you leave, I will report you to Judge Kagan. You could face consequences,” Landers threatened.
I leaned across her desk. “Tell the Judge I know about the activities at the King James Hotel. And I know exactly who was there. My buddy Mike Star, the investigative reporter, knows too.”
Dr. Landers’ face went from smug to ghostly white in a heartbeat.
I walked out.
The next day, I enacted the final phase. I went to the head of City Maintenance. I proposed turning the land behind the old King James Hotel into equipment storage. To secure it, we needed to fence off the entire property immediately.
“Great thinking, Jack,” my boss said. “This will save us money and secure a valuable asset.”
Within twenty-four hours, my crews were securing the property. The building was officially closed to all access.
Chapter 9: The Verdict
The court hearing was anticlimactic. Judge Kagan looked pale and distracted. There was a whispered conference at the bench between her and the attorneys.
The gavel banged.
“Decree granted as requested by petitioner,” Kagan mumbled.
I got the house. I got my retirement. I got sixty percent of the liquid assets. Robin got her freedom and very little else.
The fallout was significant. Mike Star ran a story about code violations and misuse of city property. Judge Kagan announced her early retirement. Dr. Landers closed her practice and moved out of state. Bruce was forced to resign from the church and left Colorado. Cheryl divorced him and moved back to her hometown.
Robin was left with almost nothing, living in a small apartment across town.
But I wasn’t there to see any of it.
I had sold the house, packed my truck, and headed west.
Epilogue: New Beginnings
Las Vegas, Nevada.
The desert heat was a dry blanket compared to the humidity of the midwest. I pulled my truck into the driveway of my new stucco home in a quiet suburb. The lawn needed mowing, but I’d wait until the weekend.
Inside, the air conditioning hummed.
“Hi baby,” a voice called out.
Brenda walked into the kitchen. She had changed from the awkward girl next door into a confident young woman. She was studying at UNLV, working toward her degree, and building a life with me.
“How was class?” I asked.
“Good. Professor Henderson says I’m on track to graduate next semester.”
“That’s my girl,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.
We had left Stonemore together. After everything that happened, Brenda wanted a fresh start too. Her parents, Tom and Jerry, had given us their blessing. “Jack,” Tom had said, “You’ve always been rough around the edges, but I know you’ll treat her right.”
They were right.
I walked into my den and turned on the TV to watch the Rockies game. My life was quiet. My life was clean.
I thought about Robin, probably struggling somewhere with the consequences of her choices. I thought about Bruce, preaching to empty rooms in some small town far away.
I took a bite of pizza and looked at Brenda, who was highlighting her textbooks at the kitchen table.
From one bad situation to a fresh start, I had traded chaos for peace. My life was finally on track. And for the first time in years, I could breathe easy.
The game played on. The pizza was good. And tomorrow was just another day in paradise.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
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