The Devil All the Time

by Donald Ray Pollock

Arvin didn’t know which was worse, the drinking or the praying. As far back as he could remember, it seemed that his father had fought the Devil all the time.

The way she saw it, too much religion could be as bad as too little, maybe even worse; but moderation was just not in her husband’s nature.

“Poor little thing,” he said. “She looks just like her mother, don’t she?”

“Like my old mother used to say,” he went on, “you can’t trust any of them.” “Who?” Sandy said. “Them goddamn redheads,” he said. “Hell, they’ll spit out a lie even when the truth fits better. They just can’t help it. It’s something got fucked up in their evolution.”

“He claims he wants to work with poor people,” Sykes went on. “I figure he must be a Democrat.”

He needed for a woman to believe that she was doing wrong when she lay with him, that she was in imminent danger of going to hell.

Preston had never played baseball, but he could cry on cue; he’d never been in a fist-fight, but he could recite the book of Revelation in his sleep.

He’d probably have to deceive her, feed her some bullshit story, but he’d feel at least a pang of guilt, so that was all right.

You ever look at them country music stars? Those people got expensive teeth.

“Son, you know I can’t do that. Hell, that’s one of the first rules they teach you in law enforcement. You don’t ever give up your weapon.” “I can’t help it what they teach you,” Arvin said. “Set it on the ground and step away.”