“While Anthony Hopkins was leading a revival in a small church on the outskirts of Jackson, Ala., Monday night, the body of a woman, presumed to be his wife, was stuffed in a freezer at his house in Mobile, waiting to be discovered by police. Acting on a tip given by Hopkins’ daughter, the eldest of eight children, police said they knew where to look and what they were likely to find when they searched the Rylands Street house. Clarke County Sheriff’s deputies found Hopkins at the church a short time later, still preaching and ministering to people in the crowd, according to the pastor of the congregation hosting the revival. It could be the last sermon he preaches as a free man. Hopkins now sits in Mobile County Metro Jail, charged with murdering his wife, 36-year-old Arletha Hopkins… She might never have been discovered if Hopkins’ 19-year-old daughter hadn’t come forward and talked to police attached to the Child Advocacy Center. Detectives found out about the body during the interview, Garrett said. They also found out that Hopkins had been sexually abusing the eldest child, Garrett said. In addition to the murder charge, Hopkins also faces charges of rape and sodomy.” — Alabama Live (US)

(Thanks to Geek Space for the link.)

For those whose voyeurism points not at the windows of half-dressed women but at perversions themselves, there is nothing more fun to contemplate than the preacher with his pants down. Somehow it is delectable to see a person who’s always spouting off about God and morality reveal himself as human and immoral. Probably the fun is related to the conceptual pleasure some people taking in deflowering virgins. It’s a matter of seeing the “pure” brought down into the world of filth that everybody else lives in.

There is a terrific poem by Charles Bukowski titled “The Shoelace.” It goes like this (PervScan is transcribing from a performance Bukowski gave, so the line breaks and punctuation may not be exact):

A woman,
a tire that’s flat,
a disease, a desire,
fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them like pieces on a chessboard…
It’s not the large things that send a man to the madhouse.
Death he’s ready for,
or murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
No, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the madhouse…

Bukowski goes on to enumerate all those little things — like a “shoelace that snaps” — that can drive a man mad. You half wonder if they can drive a man to this insane level of hypocrisy as well. Here you have a preacher. Does he wake up one day and realize that he has the same name as the actor who portrayed Hannibal Lecter? Does this meaningless little coincidence start to reverberate in his mind? Tease him with visions of criminal genius? Make him toy with thoughts that never would have entered his mind if his name weren’t Anthony but Bob or Chuck?

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