To mark an even dozen

Follwers, that is. One of my collection of what I like to term Flannery's Killer Metaphors. Gosh, but that lady could write!

(background: the protagonist has just taken a swig of moonshine)

“A burning arm slid down Tarwater’s throat as if the devil were already reaching inside him to finger his soul.”

Short story "You Can’t Be Any Poorer Than Dead"

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