Memories of a Ghost Ramp Up

He reached beneath the tattered and torn seat and pulled out a leather sheath. It was his Samurai sword, his weapon of choice, next to the Bible, of course. He’d found the blade at a flea market in Iowa and it had sung to him, wanting to be part of his crusade. Two-hundred dollars was a small price to pay for such a weapon, and he was sure that the Lord had intervened on his behalf when the vendor had agreed to let him have it for a hundred and fifty.