Preacher is not a preacher, though death's vicissitudes clamor around him in a disturbingly ecclesiastic manner. When he finds a pit bull puppy by the side of the road and gets a job at a boxing manufacturer, he declares his luck changed. One small-town cop has doubts: "It ain't your luck needs changing, but the folks you meet." And so it stands, as the sun and moon revolve in their tango—or is it a waltz?—and whisper to one another.