She looked good at the funeral. Classy mascara. It rained sly drops, beating as the banter of whispers shook slow.

A bit high. That dress. Youngest one there with a half on. Tights at least. No.

Then Father Whatshisface, pietic clone, could be anyone, steps fourth out of a brella

"If there's anyone here who thinks these two should not be married then, no wait."

Father Drunkatnoon. Priest whiskey. Good conversation among asexuals. No need to laugh for parry, grunt for scorn. Good clothes too. Rain runs right off and free smiles from the elderly.

"We are here to remember the life of..." and a second to think. Father Whataprick. Remembers the price of gin. Names: None.

"Yes, yes of course, Deborah Clancy, tragedy." Wrote on his hand in playboy ink. Front row slow motion tut.

Shortdress lifts both arms above her head to stretch. A really good one. Loud stretch. No better.

The priest gets caught in the view. Stams a few words, begins to worry.

Priest against his will. 4 years now and nothing to show. Ferrat.

In the kitchen. It twats. Twooos. 5 in the morning. Proves there's no god. He does it for the money.

The cake. Free wine. You should see the amount of crisps on easter week. Turn a blind man deaf.

"As Jesus said, let him without sin cast the first HAAATCHOO, the first Huh Huhhh HAATCHOO."

A little blood never hurt anyone. Happening awhile now. Secret White Powder. It's nice. Like a mute mistress. Adult Playdough. Mixed with the cute malt, a toxic bliss.

'Hosanna you bitch I love you best on the cross.' He does'nt say it out loud. Just like the collar scenario.

Whenever she arrives at the hotel room door he already has his silkfelt collar in the drawer. Just in case she gets paid AND enjoys it. Not very godlike.

The coke is wearing off. Funerals are normally a good way up.

To keep things fun sometimes he swallows a couple of viagra and starts mass to see how long he can fight it.

His record is 27 minutes. A double murder. Smoked like mackerel in the loft. At psalms he felt it in his pants and had to grin off stage. Funerals.

They're a good way to meet women. As a priest. Trust. The way to a woman's heart. Trust. And denial.

He picks them up in the dozens. Sometimes two at a time. Grief. Way to a woman's soul.

Because a man's soul is lost in the woman he loves. And if he doesn't love anyone

He become a priest for the money. Sounds like a rap song.

A priest in the alley

Playing knuckles with the kids

A priest for the money

And the wine and the digs.      

Never work. Irishmen rap better with silence. Drink more appropriately.

The priest is an enemy of the Vatican Stash. You get em.

She has bubblegum. Long legs at the back there.

'Who the fuck brings bubblegum to a funeral.' he thunk.

It's almost over anyway, it doesn't matter. He's been here before. Shake the god man's hand. A little bit of good in his fingers. A flock of broken people leave the graveside. Only her left. Shortdress Bubblegum. He knows what to say.

"How long since your last confession?" That's all. She follows him in. Trust.

Inside the box both sectioned off on different sides. Net like nectar hive.

She says 4 sentences and starts to cry. Lonely maybe. He knows that voice. Grief.

He says he will return in a few seconds and walks briskly to wherever priests keep their rohypnol.

 

                                                                                                                      End.