Every day I meet my maker. Standing at the bus stop, sweating in the sun, soaking in the rain, a bible in one hand, a megaphone in the other. He never misses a day of preaching the Lord's word. He wears shorts and sandals and a fanny pack, his stomach bulging, his toes dinosaur toes. He warns daily of the coming Apocalypse. I haven't seen him since Katrina.