Forgive him, said Padre Petrovich to the man huddled over a glass of cheap brandy. Forgive him and you shall find peace within yourself.
They sat at a ringstained bar served by a dispassionate bartender who idled between orders and added to the smoke stuffed atmosphere with his filthy smelling cigarettes. Woss dat? queried Johnny B. Walker, the B being Bourbon on account of his parents being blue blood rednecked bona fide alcoholics with a fucked up sense of humor who drank themselves to the grave. Who’s there to forgive?
The Lord, of course, the padre stealing a snort of Johnny’s brandy said, for being such a selfish sumbitch as to create a people like pigs.
The fuck I care! indignated Johnny as he grabbed his drink back in a splash of amber spots.
God speaks through me, as he does you.
At least He doesn’t steal my drinks, you fuck. An’ that’s the Lord speaking. Christ, padre, go back to confession, where there’s a wall.