Deke Sexton, Jr.
Deke is a bulky man who talks enough to reveal he probably shouldn't.
Deacon Sexton, Jr. looks like a man of about thirty-five, physically imposing with a presence that dominates a room obtrusively. He stands maybe 5’11 while managing to pack a good fifteen stone onto his frame. Watching him move, nobody would accuse him of grace, but there’s obvious strength under there — and the body language suggests he’d be more than ready to show you how much. An immaculately glabrous dome; small, watery brown eyes; and puggish nose complete the picture. His clothes are well-made and -fitted, and he stands with a certain erect attention little seen in a decadent era. But he evinces his decadence in other ways: a diamond stud in his left ear and gaudy gold watch on his right hand suggest his relatively subdued taste in clothes doesn’t extend to accouterments. He also takes great joy in chewing good cigars, and is rarely found without a few.
Mr. Sexton regularly goes by “Deke” (spelled “Deke”), because a “deacon’s a priest, and I ain’t no priest.” That bon mot appears to exhaust his knowledge and interest of the church. Indeed, any relatively discursive conversation demonstrates that his knowledge of many subjects is equally rapidly exhausted. He’s an avid enough conversationalist, though, until he realizes (usually much belatedly) that his interlocutor is nodding a bit too much. All the same, he’s not at all unperceptive, if obviously a few sticks short of fagot, as the Brits might say.
As for the “Jr.,” he has little to say about his geniture, though he has been heard to note that he’s the third Deke Sexton. There is similarly little talk about his upbringing (“Grew up in Titus”), how he came thence to New York (“You got to go to where the jobs are”), what that job might be (“Worked at construction for a while”), or any degree of formal education (a resounding silence). He drives a preternaturally shined GMC Yukon, usually with great gusto, considerable profanity, mild to moderate intoxication (from alcohol, weed, or both), and little concern for traffic laws or parking regulations. Shotgun is always reserved for Beeman (“B”), an almost manically-loyal German shepherd who is loathe to surrender his seat.