When Judas was troubled, his scar ached. He reached inside his shirt, and he traced the puckered ridge of scar tissue that ran all the way up his stomach with his thumb, from the third belt loop at his waist to its grisly terminus just below the knot of his tie. He shivered. And well he might, because this was his beginning. He remembered that night, the night of the great betrayal, and as usual it made him feel sick. His knees went weak, and acid raced up into his mouth. A quick kiss on the cheek and the damage had been done. The one man that could have saved them all gone, all for a few measly little silver coins and his own worthless freedom. Why hadn’t God just let him die that night? Why hadn’t HE just let Judas swing from the branch of his suicide tree, and let the crows pick him cle
