The Gospel
Tools

I quit the confines of the truck in haste and slung a well-used harness over my aching shoulders, at once noticing that the wear had become quite extensive along the multitude of creases, straps, and buckles that crisscross the garment. Once bold and dark, the slate-colored fabric had faded to a dull and washed out gray, akin to the humdrum tone of an overcast sky. There was little doubt that the years my trusted old tackle had spent carrying my tools across a thousand miles of burning sun and stinging snow had started exacting its toll. A smile etched its way across my face highlighting the myriad crow's feet and creases age had kindly blessed me with, as the motions of a carefully honed ritual commenced. Of their own accord my arms danced in familiar patterns, my shoulders shrugged against tight stitching and my chest heaved against heavy glass infused metal; for my body needed no guidance as it had performed these rites countless times.

My sacred exertions, if viewed by the layman, could certainly be mistaken for the maniacal fumbling of an amateur. The display would earn me a chuckle from an...