Dark deeds on a foul night - Ed Brock  Calvin Prichard stared
vacuously at the body and wondered how he would explain this to
the kids.  It was a bad night, a foul night, a night from which
no good could possibly come no matter if God, Jesus and all 12
disciples were standing at your shoulder.  The moon hung low in
the sky like even it didn't want to be there and would disappear
at any moment, an orange, half-bitten piece of moldy pepperoni
stuck against a flat black wall. Blotches of fog twisted the
shape of the trees and absorbed the meager light of Calvin's
lantern from the view of any car that might pass by on the road
a scant 100 yards away.  Calvin sat atop a tree stump, breaking
from his stupor only to take long draughts from a flask of
whisky followed immediately, and each time, with sucking
inhalations from a menthol cigarette burned nearly to the
filter.  The light from the cigarette, more than the lantern,
illuminated his face, half covered with a beard like a yard left
to go to seed. Lines of moto