Novel Treatments / Prologue- Chap 1- Chap2

Young Master Reverend wasn’t sure how far he’d fallen.

Four meters up, to where he’d been staked to the cross?
Six …maybe seven hundred million light-years?
A billion at best?
Nothing really… A flicker is all

This time, he’d “arrived” in the open desert.

A merciless scrubby patch of forgotten dryness

He accessed the damage, as he lumbered to his knees.
The flames hadn’t just seared off his clothes and hair; leaving him shiny-smooth, slightly charred and smoldering… they’d also managed to weaken the ropes and pitch that had held the cross, bound together.

He ripped his hands loose and shrugged free from under the mast and its beam, exposing the incidental remnants of flesh and sinew that he was leaving behind.
When he lowered his arms there was a snap, as the shoulder joints were reacquainted with their sockets.
On his tongue, dusty sweat mingled with fresh bile and sand as he made to speak the words.
But before he could…
Nikolai heard something, inside himself …thinking.

“FORGET THE WORDS NIKOLAI REVERAND…
NOW …IN THIS PLACE WILL A WELL BE OPENED
…LET GO”

Nikolai felt no argument rise up within. What he heard was truth—unadorned, basic and simple. There was no sorrow, no fear… nor even the rage, which had fueled him thus far.

If he recognized a ‘sense’ at all, it would have to be curiosity.

Nikolai raised his hands up.
Up… to kiss the sky
He could see stars through the holes in his palms; black dots, against a background of heavenly white.

. . . Calming
Stretching his mind deeper . . .  
Down, into the twisting funneled plane.

Nikolai found the pattern . . .  by letting it find him
As he began to skry for the psychant, the voice told him…

“FOLLOW THE BREATH”

There he hesitated.
Beside him had The Evil One appeared… floating about, until… across from Nikolai, face to face… then did Synndyjnn squat down in half-lotus

“There will be hell to pay, if you keep thissss up!”
He came to say… with his persistently irritating hiss.

Nikolai opened his arms wide, then turned.

“Hell…?
Hell you say?”

… Nikolai closed his eyes and remembered.

“I’ve lived there all my life.”

The Evil One knew this was no lie.

“My dear Ibnis, what say . . . you and I …
Set our heading for another Shoal?
Ever been to Salvacean?”
…asked the Young Reverend

At that…

Synndyjnn -Sire to those who are legion…
An immortal malevolence, measuring success in the number of civilizations undone by its deeds… called by countless names, over endless ages… but, only called Ibnis on one other occasion, since the dawn of creation…

At that . . . ?
Synndyjnn actually flinched.

Slowly, Nikolai opened his eyes and where they should have flashed back a vibrant green, they now showed themselves as orbs of frozen smoke.
He held the Evil One’s gaze with a look of pure indifference, but the cadence of his words carried the message, in a slightly suggestive tone, rife with nuance …maybe more than there should have been… but, Nikolai Reverand couldn’t help enjoying this moment, just a little.

“NO! I have to exisssst!!” … screamed Ibnis.

Now it was Nikolai’s turn to smile, as he grabbed hold of Ibnis with his mind and consummated the release of his power, with a single clap.
The shockwave went out with the ferocity of a blast-furnace.

There was a flash and the crackle of a discharge, as the plane went flat again. Everything and Nothing were becoming one.

In another moment the world turned gray.

Aether had fused with matter in less than an instant, but just before it all disappeared… the Young Master – Nikolai Reverand, could have sworn he’d seen a crazed looking rodent, riding on the neck of a deformed white elephant

… and, in the distance …

… the sound of a …        
POP

… followed by a faint squeak!

… and the words

NOTHING
EXISTS
!

Chap 1

It had been a strangely balmy morning, even for a Chattanooga April… as Hannah Baines tended to her hallowed duties at chapel.

With images of the Baptizer still fresh on her mind – she’d put away the plates and cups, locked up the knives, silver and donations and gave a nod of recognition to the other volunteers for another successful luncheon. A nod was her way of showing appreciation.
She was always appreciative of an opportunity to help save someone’s – anyone’s – soul, from the flames of hell.
And no one would go hungry today, at least not in her town.
And maybe, some had heard the word – been saved as it were – like she had been.
Yes.
She was certain that had been done this day.

Still…
Something was off.
Hannah was sure of this too. She felt in her water.
It had been making her nervous the whole day.

No, not so much nervous… actually just perturbed.

She was being watched.

Hannah looked behind her, just to be sure, then… twice more; just to be ‘for sure for sure’. She closed the door, leaned against the wall with a sigh and made the signs. Then she knelt to say her prayers.

Generally, they were the same prayers every week.
“Bless” this and “thank you” for that, “praise be” and “amen” and…

“Oh ya… Can you please do something with that little Tidwell boy? He’s sick awful bad.
His mamma can’t afford no doctor’s bill.”

Her prayers had always involved this or that ‘poor soul’… asking for sympathies of some kind or other, always for somebody else.
But, today she thought it best… to add a ‘little something’.
Something special and important, even if was only important to her… maybe that made it selfish, something that shouldn’t be asked for… and maybe, that’s why it came out in a whispered trembling voice.
Nearly begging, she asked . . .

“Please. Please… Forgive me.”

Above her eyes, the mascara turned into a river of black spider veins. Eye-liner quickly followed in suit, filling in the creases and wrinkles on her tired face.
She dabbed and wiped the tears aside with the kerchief she kept in her sleeve and saw there, on her wrists, the scars.
She wept because she knew she’d never be forgiven.
But this time… the scars reminded her of something else too.

Be thankful for second chances.

That brought a smirk to her face.
Once collected… she decided all she needed was some fresh powder and a little rouge and she’d be right as rain.
Scoffing, she fished through her handbag and inventoried her belongings. Eventually she found and opened her compact – looked again, to make sure there was nothing missing and no one was there – and then set her attentions to the task of putting her face back on.
Dissatisfied with the outcome, she proceeded to scoff again while shaking her head from side to side in disgust “I’m getting’ too old for this.” She managed to find a few “out place hairs”, which she promptly patted and tucked into position. Further inspection revealed that a few of those hairs were ‘gray’ (which in Hannah’s mind was a color that had no business on her person, least of all on her head). Those she plucked out, in defiance of old Father Time himself… and continued to primp and preen. Finally, she examined her teeth (to make sure they were free of corn kernels, greens, tomato skin and/or any of the other possible offenders from the buffet of this afternoon’s services… then she remembered – she’d forgotten to put them back in.

“NUH uh uh!
Thith juth aint gonna du.

She rummaged through her handbag again, found her dentures at the bottom, brushed them clean and snapped them into place… chomped down a few times, to make sure they were in tight.

“I needs a wacathun.”

Hannah whistled to make sure she wouldn’t slur when she spoke… and then smiled to herself, pretty as you please.

“A vacation… hallelujah brother amen!”

The chances of that happening however…?
‘Decidedly improbable’ would be a fairly accurate description.
In the general vicinity of – “when pigs fly” – would be another.
The closest she was going to get to a tropical paradise was a matinee showing of “Blue Hawaii”.

Hannah – like millions of others – was positively in love with “the King”… Elvis, that is.

“Forgive me Lord… but dayum!
I coulda made than man proud.
You can bet your life…
I wouldn’ta let old Lucifer get his hands on that boy.
No sir.”

Oops, that sounded bad.
Today being what it is and all.
        
“Forgive me lord. I is only talking, you know.
I knows you got a plan for each of us.
And it ain’t my place to question.
Just that…”

… Hannah scoffed again and forgot to be irritated …

“Most handsomest white boy I ever did see.”

She was still chuckling as she approached the crucifix.
One look… and she was back to the world of the moment.
She hadn’t forgotten. Something was waiting for her.

Hannah cracked the door open a sliver and cast her suspicious eyes, up and down, the narrow alley-way.

Nothing there

Once outside; she adjusted her girdle, righted her hat and looked down – to make sure her shoelaces were tied.
It was then that she felt it, that . . . ‘something’ – electric.

Hannah leaned back and looked up into the sky.
Water vapor – mixed with thick, nitrogen-heavy air and sunlight, conspired to create a blind with their intense glare. She blocked it with her hands as best she could. High up above, where eagles fear to fly – a forgotten, but not unfamiliar tint of green . . .

There it was. Right there.
And actually it was aqua.

Radiating from a solitary cloud; thick, puffy and swirling directly overhead – an impatient, roiling, sea-foam green.

Aqua!
And, it was doing a nice job of following me.

Hannah walked across the street and bought a grape snow cone for a nickel (a birthday indulgence), then came back up the street and stopped to sit at her usual spot – on the same wobbly stool* she’d sat at, from 10 ‘til noon, each day, for the last 23 years.
Hannah stifled a little cough, as she placed her tattered handbag (filled with pamphlets, a handful of toothpicks, a deck of cards, 6 peppermints, 2 bent bobby pins, a small comb, some Maybelline, her white gloves and a mirrored compact) on the stilted decomposing beams that… leaned against the sun-soaked wall, just left of the entrance – to ‘Callaghan’s’ sandwich shop.

(From the perspective of the person presently occupying the stool however – “Hannah looked an aged Amazonian queen. If Amazonian queens wore taffeta skirts, pill-box hats and knee high panty hose… all in black, and were followed by their own personal weather patterns – emanating static discharges of yttrium green.” )

• (Silhouetted by this oddly flattering light, glowing like an emerald on the verge of going nova… stood Hannah: bent, under-weight and slightly ashen, with deep-brown saucer eyes and disproportionately large breasts – which caused her to hunch, not so much from the mass of them, but from the shame.)

To Hannah, the beams (no matter how they teetered or yawed) comprised what she offhandedly referred to as, “The Table”.
Most jokingly referred to it as her “alter” or… “That heap?”
Marcus Callaghan and his wife Matilda, had long ago thought to…

“Throw the old ‘thing’ out.
Get Ms. Baines something new…
That can support more than another coat of paint”.

But Hannah wouldn’t hear of it.
She liked her furnishings as they were.

‘The King of England never had a better table’, she said.

Although… even she had to admit that referring to the tottering debris as a piece ‘furniture’ was an exaggerated kindness, calling it an actual table—a bald-faced lie.
It was nothing but a worn-out piece of plywood, some corrugated steel and rusting bolts, all bound together with 100-mile-an-hour tape and Wrigley’s.

But… it had sentimental value.

The Callaghan’s had offered the spot directly under their shingle (as a signified level of acceptability and protection (aka: their seal of approval you might say)) to Hannah… as a form of gratitude.

“Brought the ‘table’ with me accordingly…
In gratitude, for services rendered.” *

• (GSEF — Omni-Times Review; (Printed on 108% recycled Ground State Energy)
  Excerpt: In so far as the “table” was concerned, this way was good. This meant it hadn’t been forgotten? Nor was it useless? No sir…! Just seldom used by anyone but Hannah… seldom . . . but, not always.)
  It had been designated as the only non-smoking ‘table’ in the tri-state area, something unheard of in 1975. Yet, for whatever sniggers and resentments it had originally garnered – amongst the townsfolk at least – it became something of a novelty piece…

“Something to separate this backwater little town from all the rest”
“Is she serious?”
“A forward-thinking, big-city kind of maneuver”
“The type of idea that sets a precedent for the coming of a trend”
“There went my chesterfield stock.”

In other words – somethin’ to talk about!

And no one ever forgot that this had been done solely in deference to Hannah and her disdain for all things tobacco. As anyone who’d ever met her learned – very quickly – Hannah loathed anything to do with the ‘demon weed’. No matter what form it took: from the robust fumes of a beautifully hand rolled cigar, to a bit of snuff and its accompanying ‘Aaahhhchoo’… the disgusting cud-like emissions of Red Man spittle and even the aromatic offerings of a reliable old corn-cob pipe – she hated them all, despised them in fact – but, especially loathsome, were . . . Cigarettes. Her contempt for them (and occasionally their users) was so well established that the local denizens swore they’d…

“Seen that woman’s scorn take on a life of its own…”
“Wrapped itself around that old lady, like a suit of mossy armor!”

There was no question that Hannah’d come by her malice honestly.
She’d inherited half and earned the rest. Having once had a very substantial, pack-a-day (+) habit, which had sustained her without fail (through the lean times of want and deprivation) for the better part of three decades.
In those days, her Jones was serious.
It would beckon with excited yelps and whimpered pleas, like the hypnotic purring of a witch’s familiar. Hissing out the spell, until firmly anchored into the real and present moment of, NEED!
That type of “need”, where, people are apt to say things.
Stupid things they often regret.

Like… “God, I’d kill for a smoke right now!’

Hannah was smarter than that though.
Even if she weren’t, she would never think to take the Lord’s name in vane… not now anyway.
Oh no, not now.

The Hannah everyone knew now… was a kindly, soft-spoken, genteel woman (a polite way of saying ‘old maid’), with the face of an angel (confessedly, a slightly pruney, wrinkled angel that had been around the block a few times) that’d been handing out ‘The Word’ for as long as anyone could recall.
Some probably thought she was a crack-pot, but all of ‘em positively knew she was a god-fearin’ woman… whose worst offenses were the gift of foresight and an over obsessive enthusiasm for righting the wrongs of backsliders.

But, definitely with an eye for respectfulness!

At least that’s what everyone saw when they cared to look, even when it was them what knew the truth of it that was doin’ the looking.
And Hannah was happy to have that be the case.

It made doing the Lord’s work easier.

• (Hannah’s passion had occasionally been said to border on the left side of obsessive. *)
  
  
  
  • (Considerably more regularly it was regarded as the far right of “explosive!”)
    And although she enjoyed being thought of as a wallflower, when it came to tellin’ about truth of it… all anyone had to do was ask.
  
  

“Back in them forgotten days…when I was livin’ the life of a sinna’… a heathen life that was leading me straight to hell . . . Well…
I’d’ve sold my good right arm, for nothing mo’a than a long, grati-fyin’ drag, on a nice, refreshin’, icy-smooth, machine-rapped smoke.
If one of those wasn’t available, an ol’ rollie would do jus’ fine
And if’n there wasn’t enough to roll, well… there were always a few castaway butts to be found in the ashcan or the gutta’
You’d be surprised what’s worth savin’ that some people will jus’ throw in the gutta’.
I should know, I’ve spent enough time sleepin’ in it!”

It would be no exaggeration to say… whatever self-respect hadn’t been hammered out of her, early on (by Life’s anvil-of-circumstance), was mercilessly chipped away, one addicted minute to the next, by the ambitious little monkey on her back.
Eventually, after she’d been beaten down… day in and day out, for over thirty years… all that was left (of what had once been the shining smile and unadulterated enthusiasm of a little girl named Hannah Meriwether Baines) was the degenerate and deteriorated husk of an aging derelict, stumbling through life without the slightest inclination towards anything resembling interest or civility.

But that . . . had all changed, years ago – on her 43rd birthday.

Exactly twenty-three years ago today  
Thanks be to God!  

Hannah would never forget that day, when the doctor’s at the clinic had told her about the cancer. “Maybe six months? At best… a year.” …had been the exact words. Simple as that, she’d resigned herself to the inescapable.

The bill of reckonin’ finally come due.

“Not like anyone ever gets out alive anyway” … said Hannah, aloud, but to her self, as she’d stopped not ten feet outside the enormous archway of the clinic. “To hell with it then” she decided, doing an about-face and marching back inside, to the little convenience-store come pharmacy.

An unduly attentive clerk peered up at her, from beneath the racks of pills and paraphernalia.
He leaned forward with his name tag pinched together between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand and pointing at the letters, avidly, with his right index finger.
The tag read ‘PHILLIP’ in big engraved letters, right next to the Hermetic insignia.
He pronounced it “Fill-Up” *… with an exaggerated chuckle.  

“Pun fully intended!”

(Hannah could read, but Phil was the worst kind of bigot: i.e. – a good ol’ boy that fancies himself ‘educated’ and likes to assume that other people aren’t …the kind of egotist that knocks others by making fun of himself, before anyone else can.)

When no one laughed, he moved right along.

“Beautiful day isn’t it ma’am. What can I do ya for?” …he asked while conspicuously examining her ‘attributes’ from behind pupils so tightly focused they could have cut diamonds.

• (“Fill-up” had all the ear markings of a personal invasion looking for an alleyway. This was effectively enhanced by neatly clenched jaw muscles, pulsating rapidly – just a hair’s breadth from completely predatory.)

Hannah reckoned that anyone who’d watched ‘Fill-up’, would have been remiss not to notice… he’d been using far too many of his own products; most likely the kinds with long names that ended in suffixes like ‘-eine’ and ‘-done’.

She counted out her change, “5, 10,17…32……45 …” and when she’d counted high enough, Hannah merely pointed to the rows of prettily packaged carcinogens lining the wall above the clerk’s head, flipped up two fingers …and said but one word …“KOOLS”

I just loved that cute little penguin on the box.

He barely brushed the side of her check while handing her the cigarettes, it was enough.
Hitting the street at a half trot and ripping open a pack with an angry zeal, Hannah lit-up and trudged on down the block, found a shady little section of curb at which to station herself and hammered down her coffin nails… as if to inaugurate the first chain smoking marathon.

A little under two hours later, she was crumpling up the spent box and begrudgingly ripping the top off the second.

That’s when the miracle happened.

To say that Hannah found god… would be less than accurate.
To be wholly truthful… one would have to admit…

The Lord found me.

God . . .  stumbled over her, in the form of an emissary.

So enters Mortimer Cabot.



Mr. Ichabod Mortimer Ignacious-Cabot –

Aka: “Icky”, “Ignatz”, “Morty”, “Mort” – as he will become known to you – had been called by quite a few names in his long life… not all of them flattering.

He had been a tenacious wrestler and an all-star running-back in his hey-day, as well as a straight ‘A’ student, class-clown and… a philanderer of sorts – not intentionally mind you, ladies just tended to swoon in his wake.

A handsome, soft-spoken sort ‘a cuss, who’d been known to partake in strong spirits, ballroom dances and occasionally bar-room brawls… he had the swarthy charismatic air of a self-confident charmer; a masculine air which leaves a certain ‘impression’ without even trying.

‘They’ (the ladies that is) had affectionately dubbed him their  “Little Icky”, a moniker he’d never really paid any mind, but… one which gave him a justifiable little giggle, every time he heard it.

Unfortunately, he heard it a lot!

So much so, that he’d wriggled from one Betty’s waiting arms, into another’s (usually with a bottle of bathtub gin in his own), every night (except Sundays), ever since he’d discovered an insatiable thirst for both wine and women.

Of course the nuns had warmed him about such things.

They were called SINS.

Problematic and complicated things they were.
The worst kinds were called cardinal sins.
Or carnal sins . . . or, something like that.
He couldn’t be bothered to remember.
But the concept was clear and straight forward.
“Sinners go straight to hell!!”
Icky saw no real stake in going to hell.
Seemed like an awful place.

Somehow though…
Neither the sisters nor the Deacon had ever mentioned just how much fun sinning could be.

“If word ever got out thered’a’beena riot!”

As might be presumed, Mortimer was no choir boy.
He was worse.
He was an orphan!

At best guess, he’d been deposited on the doorsteps of ‘THE DOOR of HOPE’ at 8 months of age.

It was where he would be fed and educated, taught math, words and music… and about right and wrong.
Life here was going to consist of eating, sleeping and being trained ‘how’, through hard work and prayer, to serve… and, gain his redemption in the eyes of God.
This would prove to be no easy task -

At first he didn’t understand his plight, so he approached Sister Pete. This he did reluctantly having been warned about “the look”.
Her exasperated “look” was feared in 6 counties, it was her mark in trade: something that comes more naturally to some folks, than others. It was something… “In the genes” as they say. And Sister Pete – wore her denim proudly, beet red and swollen.
He pony’ed up enough courage up to ask the usual why’s and wherefore’s that everyone does at one time or another, and was told…

”You must redeem yourself… in the eyes of God!”
“Redeem myself for what?” … he’d asked innocently enough.

“You were born… of sin”… the Sister told him.
“But I didn’t do anything!”  He replied in obvious ignorance.

(It should be noted: Sister Pete was possessed of some divine affliction, which caused her to gasp when she spoke. The wheezing – caused by a flabby exhalation through her nose – only worsened the more fervently she felt about the subject of discussion.)

• 
  
  
  
  • (Needless to say, she was constantly out of breath.)
  
  

She began to sweat profusely.
“You are here to repent …
To pray for the salvation… of your immortal soul…

Her eyes bulged.
“And for the souls of … others … like your self

Her head gyrated – like a buoy floating atop an unhealthy portion of wobbly pink jello.  
“Those, who suffer … … for the vile actions
… of drunkards … hop-heads … … fornicators …

She’d begun wringing her hands until they were a dull, bloodless white.*
“And all the other… …
… idolatrous practitioners
… of the Devil’s… dark deeds!

“I just don’t understand”

She lifted up her skirts.
”Maybe… you need …to be shown?”
And then she gave it to him. The “LOOK”. *        
Icky then understood why so many feared her. *

(The “look” left a lasting impression on the psyche of its victim by stifling the sexual appetites  - something equivalent to the reaction of a castrated bull, being asked to mate with a transgendered elephant; “Just not quite “up” to the  challenge.)
*(There she stood: enough hair on her legs to crochet a good sized curly tablecloth, black sock suspenders like Mr. Tarfiel, the gardener always wore… and baby blue gentleman’s boxers, with a small but distinguished tattoo on her right inner thigh, which read “THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT” in red ink. The maniacal grimace, a slight twitching of her head, combined with her pawing at the air like a tigress making “pffffffffft pffffffffffft” sounds, made vows of celibacy seem almost palatable.)  

But all it really taught him was …

”In this world…
Not knowing one’s father makes you an abomination unto god.
Not knowing one’s mother … merely makes you invisible.”

There was only one person who’d ever seen him for who he was or wasn’t – Tom Hatfield, his best friend – until he was taken away because of tuberculosis – Icky grew up with few other friends. Not because he was unkind, or unlikable – he just realized there was no point in making friends, or caring about people who were just passing through, leaving him, one way or another.
Probably why he never asked or bothered to look, for his parents.
The older boys were always sent away in the mornings, as he would be one day – to work, watering road gangs or ploughing or shucking corn on the farms.
New children came only by way of ‘direct deposit’ – when young mothers and sometimes fathers would scrounge up whatever valuables they could and leave them on the doorstep – along with their child and a note, tucked under its bum – in a basket glistening of fresh tears.
Actual “social workers” had completely put-off ‘sentencing’ anyone there. “Something just not right about that place” …they’d said.

As for adoptees – you were there until you weren’t.
Usually that hour chimed right when you were presumed to be 18, when you were old enough to be considered an adult – legally – a responsible citizen. Not many were ever actually adopted.
Few enough families would bother to make the drive out to the sticks. The overall feel of the place was overtly unwelcoming. Staff was always ‘seeking to fill vacancies’… with big smiles and cheeky comments, yet it took tenacity and tolerance to withstand any dealings involving the Mother Superior.
She seethed the uncomfortably formal words, slowly and methodically. Over pronouncing her ‘T’s with little balls of spit, she was basked in an incontinent perfume, a perpetual pong of effervescent ammonia.
Make no mistake… this was a way station to hell.

(A minimum 16 year stint in Purgatory, where you were tortured and tormented (for being “what” you were, not who you were), before being sent out into the “real world” to embark on an endless spiraling trek – along the path, between the halls of Heaven and the lands of Lucifer.)

But, for Icky . . . it was home. And in a terrifyingly small way . . . it was safe, even for a sinner. Although… Icky was always a little – hazy – on the concepts of good and bad. And that worried him, because the more he knew about right and wrong, the less he understood.

Sinning was bad and bad was the opposite of good.
Only good was good!
Good got you supper.
Bad got you beat.
Sinning was bad, definitely bad!

Something to be “exterminated”, according to the sisters and yet, ‘THE DOOR of HOPE’ owed its very existence to just such sins and their consequences. Seemed odd to Icky, that if not for such ‘vile practices, he’d never have existed

And since I am rather fond of life . . .
And can’t imagine a world without me in it . . .

He had to assume that sins weren’t always bad things.
No matter what the clergy told you

And they told you heaps!

To say the least, religion was confusing.
Everything hinged on one small pillar.
BELIEF

(Belief: A paradox, a charade – 1/3 of the supreme trios of ‘Conceptualized Misconceptions’)

Icky had never seen ‘real’ belief.
The nuns, for all their bluster and fury, had never been able to convince Icky they really believed in anything, except soap.

Their whole lives revolved around it and its uses.
Fresh garments, cleaned floors, fresh linens, cleaned tubs and well scrubbed toilets not to mention what they’d do to your skin with a bar of Fels naphtha and a bristle brush – over a few impure (aka: unclean, dirty, sinful) thoughts. Or making you eat a bar, if you so much as cursed while they ripped off your hide.

: came packaged in a waxy paper and was most often found in a ‘general goods’ store. While sometimes sold next to body-soaps, caution should be taken not to use it as such – it is a skin and eye irritant – although often used as a home remedy in the treatment of poison ivy, poison oak, and irritations from other skin-irritating plants. Known world wide as the preferred soap for washing out a child’s mouth – as numerous fatalities from the era have attested – “The size of it made the disciplining all the more dramatic. The only things that should ever come in bars that big are gold and chocolate”.)

As for Icky – he believed in what was solid and “real” and logical.
He’d never believed in “belief” just for the sake of believing … until that is, in his final year at the Door of Hope, when he encountered the Deacon for the very first time.

The Deacon… was all about “belief”.
His posting at the ‘THE DOOR of HOPE’ (the “DoH”) had come in the new age of reformation after the Kaiser’s downfall, as a response to the declining number of adoptions.
He was there to be the front man, get things rolling again and set everyone straight. He always liked to start by tackling the largest problems first.

When Icky (helpless to do anything but exercise his nature) described his views and what he thought (of people who told him to tell the truth, but really… meant for him to lie, to himself and everyone else: just as they did) – he did it standing tall and prideful… to show the Deacon just who he was dealing with.
He did so using adult words, 10-penny words – words with more than 2 syllables – like ‘ridiculous propaganda’ and ‘absurd conundrum’.
And he made a point of speaking them slowly and pronouncedly, so the Irishman would be able to keep up.
Your system, as I understand it –
Hinges on an unsubstantiated collection of controls
I.e. Bias, belief and bigotry
Akin to the priests of old, who thought to balance the weight of a feather against that of Pharaoh’s heart . . . proclaiming him a god… or a fraud, thereby. How is your ideology any less foolish?”

“To state the obvious weakness in a ‘Belief vs. Logic’ method of understanding…

Deacon Fitzpatrick remained unimpressed, but not impassive.
Icky could see from the Deacon’s thawed expression that he’d awakened something, if only a little. In fact, the Deacon seemed to really be warming up to icky: his face was five shades of pink, his neck had begun to bulge quite a bit and the veins on his bald (follicly challenged) pate were swollen in the extreme.
There was even a little throbbing near his temples.

“You look like a German to me boyo.
Are ya lad? Are ya’a kraut?
Oh… that’s right, you don’t know what you are. Do you?!
Well, I’m telling ya’… them ideas a yours… pure blaspheme.”
…said Deacon Fitzpatrick, as he lunged for Icky.
“Not knowing what you’re supposed to be believin’ in?
‘T’ain’t no excuse for a lack o’ faith boyo!”

Grabbing hold by the scruff and forcing him into the refectory – in front of all 27 of the girls (as they sat eating breakfast) – Deacon Fitzpatrick locked and rattled the doors, rolled up his sleeves and removed his glasses. It was time he made the first move towards setting the kingdom of god, back, on the right track… at least his branch of it.

… eventually he saw it as wisest to suppress his secular instinct to “kill the Kaiser kisser” and instead decided that it was his duty and unquestionably his right – as it would be the right of any god-fearing man – to beat sense into the Little SOB.)

It started with a cast metal ruler and a smack on the knuckles.

And . . . it ended with a broken jaw.

The ruler became progressively harder and heavier, the more times it was used… and, it was used excessively. In total, the Deacon had recourse to wallop Icky on seventeen separate occasions, in that one day alone. Icky learned “belief” alright.

The whole time it was happening – he ‘believed’ he was going to get hit again if he didn’t shut up. He couldn’t do it though.
Not ‘til he felt good and done on his own score card.

Some of his fingers were broken that day. They mended up ok.
The bruises though, they were another story.
They took months to heal.
Like the skin had died, deep down… and was working its way up.

Probably god’s doing… seeing as how… on the occasion… of smack #18 (when Deacon Fitzpatrick was about to poke out Icky’s eye with the sharp end of that damn ruler)… Ickabod Mortimer Ignacious Cabot could take no more.
His fight with god wouldn’t end with him just lying back and taking it. Not in this life time.
When faced with unreasonable men or even unreasonable gods… rules of conduct don’t apply.

Rules are for civilized men.
Civil gods.
This was more like civil war.

There are no civilians in war.

Icky hit the old man – twice; right jab, left cross.
Deacon Fitzpatrick never saw it coming. Icky was that fast.
He collapsed into a heap on the floor, like a lifeless puppet whose strings had been yanked free.
Old Fitz lost quite a lot of weight on account of not being able to eat solid food and for six weeks.

But that would have been nothing, compared to the treatment Icky would have suffered, had Ophelia (the galley girl) not reached over and grabbed a soup ladle. When the girls opened the doors for the Sisters, there was sweet old Ophie . . . what sayin’ she’d done it…

“Couldn’t take seeing the boy get beat that way.
Ain’t right a thing like that”

Years later, when he questioned the experience and thought about what he’d learned from it… Icky concluded he really had learned a valuable lesson. It taught him – never to question another man’s beliefs… at least not out loud!
Still, at the time… when he inventoried the storerooms in his heart and mind… Icky found ‘belief’ to be in short supply. On the scale of importance he’d attached to certain words, ‘belief’ ranked right up there with ‘truth’. The way he saw it…

“All faiths and beliefs are subjective.
None of them compare to ‘IS’.
On one side you have ‘might be’s’ ‘to be’s’ ‘will be’s’… and honey-bees… and on the other side, you have ‘IS’.
‘Is’… is! IS isn’t thinking about ‘IT’, or trying to ‘BE’…
‘IT’ is what it IS, and that’s fine… as was ‘WHAT’.
‘WAS’ was important too of course, it came after is.
But “IS” just IS …and there’s no other truth than that!”

This at least was the case with Icky’s view.

Although… judging by the scowls and the frequent smacks against the back of my head, not everyone saw things as plainly as I did.

And as if to further complicate matters… regardless of the contradiction, Icky ‘believed’ in a God (he just wasn’t sure who’s).
He felt he had a fairly solid grasp on ‘right vs. wrong’ (even if his tally sheet didn’t match the one the nuns had made him write across the chalkboard, thousands upon thousands of times) and while his personal morality was what kept him from ever really getting into trouble, it was mostly this hard nosed image that got him into trouble and attracted the girls.
It wasn’t that he caused trouble or was stupid, quite the opposite, he just really stood out… and while the term non-conformist was too mild and terrorist too severe, ‘bad boy’ was right on target…
‘A bad boy, with a heart of gold’ …was what they called him.

The general misconception being that while Icky was; smart, funny and hard working (“When he wanted to be!”) he was also (“one day”) going to be a prime piece of matrimonial material . . . “eventually”.
He just needed regular B’s (beatings and bathings) and the love of a good woman to set him right. But for Icky, doing ‘right’ meant having to do what everyone else expected and never what he wanted, or what he thought was right – even though he wasn’t yet certain – or that he wanted to do or be anything. It also meant that he’d end up hating life and himself for letting it be that way.

What point was there in that?
Why bother with life at all if that’s all there is to it?

He wasn’t sure about his own soul, let alone whether or not another soul (even one with a last name, which was loved and cared for) should be brought into this world.
He wasn’t sure he could be a good husband or a decent father or even a successful … whatever? But he was certain he could and would end up in trouble if he didn’t let the facts be known.

Facts are funny things though.

Two people can see the same thing at the same time and still come up with a set of stories that go together like chalk and cheese. In either case, they (the facts that ‘IS’) usually let themselves be known.

For example: there were always the same questions, soon as things got serious with a woman… he almost always gave the same old answers…

Q: “What do you want do with your life?”
        A: “Live it.”
Q: “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”
A: “In the mirror, same as always.”

And he’d smile and pretty soon, things weren’t serious anymore.

Icky wasn’t trying to push anyone away, wasn’t even afraid of commitment, he just thought it wise to remove whatever misconceptions might exist between ‘The Huntress’ (that is ‘woman’) and her prey: i.e. himself.
As far as the evidence was concerned (at least from his perspective) it was better to keep things fun and light.

The only reason to go through all of this is to live it.
And that means living it to the fullest.

You live, you die… the end!
The most you can hope for is to have a little fun while you do it.

Icky’s, was the heart of a true hedonist.

And the best fun he’d found, was that enticing combination created by a late night breeze, a flimsy dress and a bottle of 50 proof, which invariable lead him (like a puppy who’s shaken loose of his leash and gone in search of a familiar bone) to a woman in the flimsy dress, with the sweet wiggle, a submissive whine and a longing moan.
The ‘longing’ was important, that’s what won Icky’s affections, which were purportedly very gentle if not excessively passionate (passion considered so note worthy in fact, gossip had it that had he not possessed a tin ear, Icky might well have trumped Casanova’s prowess as a lover and made his career as a troubadour).

“Little Icky” probably would have continued right on doing just that, frittering his life away, having fun and enjoying every minute of it, had he not enlisted in the army to serve his country in time of war.

• (But alas… it is well known that any wandering minstrel worthy of his salt must be enamored of an appetite, for all three of the ascribed vices; wine, women and song*.)
  
  
  
  • (Except in the case of Castrati.)  
  
  



Master Sergeant was an angry rough-neck.
Ugly and intimidating – a blast of his breath was enough to make lesser men stammer – a lot like the mother superior on both counts.
He even looked a little like her, only his mustache wasn’t as thick.

Drills, scenarios and hand-to-hand were what the Sgt. preached and practiced. Icky’s smallish frame worked in his favor as it had on the football field… after two and a half months of combat training – constantly having his skills and natural athleticism put to the test – he was shipped off to France, to work with the underground, where he proved to be effective, quick and lethal.
Icky took to the military, as if – of the manner born.
He didn’t like killing other men or, having them try to kill him… but, the fight was a just one and he didn’t let the bloodshed bother him much. Honestly, after growing up a catholic school orphan, nothing bothered him much. The infantry felt like day camp by comparison.
The Sgt. was so proud.

Icky still wasn’t sure this was what he should be doing with his life, but …at least he had a purpose.
Still, he often wondered who he was and what he’d be doing when this – the newest installment of his life – had ended.
In these, his daydreams of peace, there was a world that made sense and there were moments of clarity to be found.
One of these was what prompted his prayer.
His first ‘real’ prayer.

All the other times they’d made him pray – it was just mumbles and occasional wishes, sometimes even ‘promises-in-exchange-for’, quid pro quo sorta deals. But this time, he really prayed.
Not to anyone. Not to the sun or the moon or the four winds, not to his unknown ancestors or the powers that be… not even to God in heaven. He simply said the words as the thoughts came . . .  honestly.
He asked for a reason.

And some understanding!

Midway through a second tour, there was a land-mine.
Icky was flown to Bern, operated on for 8 hours and then two days later worked on again for another 14.
The night after that, Icky died.

His heart stopped at least half a dozen times.
They resuscitated each time, but his vitals had gotten progressively weaker… right up until the last, when there were none.
Chief of surgery (Dr. Goldbaum) was checking the clock and about the make the call on time of death, when ‘a man of the cloth’… who had apparently been summoned to give the last rights… entered.

Maybe it was because he seemed in no real hurry, or because he wasn’t wearing a cross or holding onto a bible, that the holy-man didn’t really have the look of a ‘Priest’… more like a parson or a preacher.

As he walked past, he took time – to eye each one of the wounded. Many of them later told stories of how their pain ceased right then, of how they felt calmed and at peace…
“For an instant…everything made sense.”
The collared man continued walking, right on through the scrub room and straight on into the operating theatre. With a cadre of doctors and nurses all soaked in blood and sweat… there he stood; untainted, unmasked and unimpeachably in control. Like a lean, Santa Claus, scowling just enough to make you afraid the magic would be undone if you peeked… the Preacher, who wore no name tag, no dog-tag and no insignia (save for the black of his suit and the starch in his collar)… ordered all within, to bow their heads in a moment of silence.

An event which was odd, only in that no one thought to question his authority …but, at a moment like this one, sometimes even surgeons (who all tend to think of themselves as gods) will defer to someone whose job it is, to have God’s ear.

Instead of putting his hand over the dead man’s eyes and making the sign of the cross, as tradition would have it . . .

The Preacher checked to be sure that not one of those present was looking… and when he was sure, he removed his spectacles and laid-hands on my abdomen.

Of course, no one saw… but, they could hear the mumbling.

The sound had something of a lyrical quality, like bird song or music… or, like that low pitched whistling of ‘white’, one hears – just before falling asleep.  

The chant ended with a resonating clap.
From beginning to end, nearly two full minutes went by, before they heard the doors swing open and close… and still, not one of them looked up.
It was only another few seconds afterwards, when they heard the sputtering cough and… Cpl. Ichabod Mortimer Ignacious-Cabot asked…

“Can I get a glass of water?

Oh my . . . !
…And some pants!”

No one saw the mysterious ‘Preacher’ leave; in fact it was several days before anyone was brave enough to bring up the question of his identity. Once they did, it was all shoulder shrugs and questioning looks… and in the end, it didn’t matter.
Most were happy just to let the miracle be.

Icky remembered nothing of the previous weeks, not even the explosion which had left him ‘impaired’, but he clearly recalled where he’d been just before ‘returning’.

As for what he’d seen when he awoke…

“The collared man was standing over me, surrounded by a faint green glow, eyes like mirrors… and the indescribably grimey ‘Shadows’.”

Creatures were what they were.
‘Things’ … not of this world.
Limbolians, limbonese!

Scurrying behind the glassy-eyed man, like demonic will-o’-the-wisps… they had the stink of greasy scavengers, covered in carrion, offal and soot.
They had been terrifying at first glance, but once Icky realized they couldn’t quite make it through – to this side – all their seething and gnashing seemed like childish posturing.
When Icky’s attentions were returned to the Preacher, he realized the man had already gone.

To late to give thanks, or ask who he was.

He would make a point to give thanks in other ways.

Icky never revealed any of it to anyone.
Who would have believed him even if he had?
He kept the truth to himself and left everyone else with a little more hope than they might have had otherwise.

“The case had rejuvenated a lot of people’s faith, why ruin that?”

Later, after he’d had time to consider the event privately, Icky was sure about it being …more the tone, than the words… and more the ‘warmth’, than the Preacher’s actual touch …which had brought him back, out of the tunnel and away from the light that night.
He’d tried all throughout that next day and the following weeks and all throughout the brief remainder of his tour, which was spent in hospital, to discount what he’d experienced and forget all about it… but, it couldn’t be done. No amount of denial would change it.
He knew what he’d seen.

2 Purple Hearts, 3 Bronze Stars and 1 Silver Star later… I was to find my calling… not behind a pigskin, a bayonet, under a bottle or between the gams of a gorgeous gal. . .  but at the hands of – a gentle-man-of-God.

You might say his eyes had really been opened.
You might also say, he now had reason to believe . . . now, he had a second chance. After that . . . he changed. Everything changed.
Now he had more than just belief, he had actually seen.

Something.
Something more.
There IS definitely something more

It had taken a while to sink in, but once it did, he made it a point to have everyone call him Mortimer.
A few of the fellas refused and instead, insisted on calling him “Miracle Morty” and eventually just Morty… and that was OK.

Minister Morty… would have a nice ring to it.

Two months later, they operated again and fitted Mortimer with the surgical steel and hoses that would allow him to live a decent and almost ‘normal life’. Four months after that, he was up and walking. Slowly.
They promoted him to Captain, nominated him for the Congressional Medal of Honor, discharged and shipped him stateside to convalesce.
Mortimer waited two years, until the day after ‘The Big One’ was over – not only for him, but for everyone – and used his savings and the last, “best piece”, of New Deal legislation (the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act: aka the G.I. Bill) to get into the university over in Nashville.
It took him an extra year to earn the degree, on account of the winter of 49’ and a case of double pneumonia, but after that, he came back to his home town, to start his parish.

That had been 33 years ago, today, on his birthday.

Spry and still agile for a man, now older than dirt and nearly blinded by glaucoma; Minister Mortimer – was at a point in his life where he blamed the dog whenever the tubing slipped and he noticed ‘someone’ had peed down his leg.
So archaic in fact, that the laws of physics no longer applied. As evidence: the long revered rule – ‘The bigger they are the harder they fall’ – was proven false that day, as all 5’4”, 127 lbs. of tiny “Little Icky’s” wee frame, toppled head-long over Hannah with enough force to fell the mightiest of oaks!



Hannah had taken no notice of his approach.

Hate-filled tears and a cloud of mentholated-smoke insulated her from practically all of her senses.
All the nicotine made her a little queasy.

Neither had Mortimer taken any notice of her gaunt-figure, as he sauntered absent mindedly, half-bent, fishing around in his coat pockets for his keys… but, just as his feet caught under her back-side… and his knees connected with her head, he felt himself about to be launched.

Given that it was eminent, he chose to go for it in style… completing a midair summersault, with a half-twist …and nearly sticking a perfect landing.

Only just missed, on account of a pile of cigarette butts that caused me to put the weight on the heels and fall back, landing squarely on a fire-hydrant nozzle, with a resoundingly inelegant ‘THUD’ …an unintelligible ‘clank’, followed sharply by a little ‘jingle-jangle-jingle’.

He hit hard.
Hard enough to devastate lesser men (who might still have possessed genitalia) but… with a good long sigh and a little chuckle at his own folly …

“At least I know where the keys are”
… Mortimer was on his feet, tending to business, in 3 seconds.

Hannah on the other hand, having landing upside down and ass-backwards, could barely manage to find her bearings… but, never to be confused for a ‘silly woman’ – who, when faced with danger, reacts with a whimper and a loss for words… Hannah was all woman, her mouth was in full gear by the time she’d discovered which way was ‘UP’.
Ready with an arsenal of purified hate and pasteurized venom… Hannah spat in her assailant’s general direction, whilst righting herself into a side-saddle posture (to properly cover herself) with one hand …and balling the other, up, into a fist.

“IF THAT’S YOU PHILLIP…
YOU WEASLY, REDNECKED, CRACKER-ASSED,
NO-GOOD HILLBILLY RAPIST MOTHERFUCKER…

IM GONNA BEAT YO’ ASS!”

But when she turned and looked up…
Hannah’s mouth dropped.

Had he been able to see past his nose, Mortimer might have wondered at the green cloud, glowing, overhead… and the strange haze of vines, enveloping the crazed giantess sprawled at his feet . . . he might even have been scared.

Instead . . . a good natured smile creased Morty’s lips.

“Been called a lot of things in my life …but …weazly?
Now undo your coil, little cobra.
So I can save what’s left of my honor… and maybe yours.”

For all intents Hannah looked to be in a state of shock, as she relaxed into his grip… like the good serpent obeying a Charmer’s command.

What surprised Hannah most, wasn’t finding herself – inexplicably sitting in the middle of the road (that had happened before).
Nor was it the unexpected kindness of the elderly white-man, placing his hands upon her shoulders to check her for injury and then under her arms to hoist her upright.
Nor that the wizened white-haired little man seemed to have some kind of super-human strength …or, even that such kindness was being offered to a poverty stricken middle-aged black woman (which she happened to be).
What shocked her, was that, she knew…
Beyond any possible question…
Absolutely KNEW, without the faintest doubt in her mind…

“This was the hand of God at work”

It had been a long time since she’d had faith in anything more spiritual than a good night’s sleep – one where the nightmares never came – but, when Hannah finished dusting herself off and readjusting her chapeau, brazier and skirt (in the specific and orderly fashion of a true professional)… she looked down into those blue-gray, cataracts coated eyes of his …and remembered.

The look and ‘feel’ of unconditional, loving, benevolence.

She’d not had that sensation since the day her Papa died.
It was a sensation she’d barely remembered, let alone, thought to ever have again …but, she was having it now.

And this was something of a shock indeed!

Chapter 2

The life of Nikolai Reverand had its unceremonious beginning, in an eager little village, just outside Budapest: a hamlet called Aszód.

His mother, Magdolna Pomaniczy (affectionately called Maggie and sometimes Magpie) stood a voluptuous 187 cm and had risen to a degree of fame for being the regions freestyle diving champ, and its biggest scandal.

Known as true competitor in every respect, Maggie had all the charm of a pit-bull in heat; obvious, oblivious and lustfully self absorbed.
This came as no shock since Maggie had been forced to grow-up without much in the way of ‘feminine’ guidance and far too much of her father’s company.

Even as an adult, she’d been left to do as she pleased, and please who she did. Wayward, unruly and disturbingly rebellious… what she ‘did’ was more than her portion!

To give credit where it’s due, she had excellent taste in both jewelry and lovers. Not surprisingly however, procurement of the former often required necessity of the latter.

Not to say that her affections could ever be bought.
No, definitely not… she’d been raised better.
But, they could …and on occasion were… ‘Rented’.

• (Names she abhorred, due to a brief infatuation with Rod Stewart… and, a very lonely Saturday afternoon, involving a 12-hour Heckle and Jeckle marathon.)

Until, she came to be, ‘in the delicate way’…with child

She was away at university (Trinity College, Dublin) and in order to give the child a good and proper name (something deemed mandatory in the era) one of the cronies was called in on short notice: one discreet enough not to comment on the swollen belly. Where by: Maggie was quietly wed to one Michael Reverend; the nice young catholic boy (who’d impregnated her with his seed, while studying hard in hopes of one day making his mother proud) and son of a wealthy statesman, from County Cork.

Under the auspices of Maggie’s maternal whim “To be with her family while giving birth” (which wasn’t altogether a lie) she and Michael promptly returned to Aszód, before Maggie ballooned enough to become undeniably obvious.
The delivery was long but uncomplicated; the mother in perfect condition… and, when enumerated, the newborn’s digits were found to coincide with the usual guidelines for a male.
Nikolai Reverend was alive and healthy and apparently very hungry.
6 times a day, the nurses would bring Nikolai to suckle.
Unfortunately, no matter how big her breasts swelled… and they really had swelled (for a better understanding, look under “jugs”) …Maggie was unable to give milk. Instead he was fed by a wet nurse, and then formula and finally cows milk and sugar teets.
Shortly there after, she began to have unexplainable fits of anger and frustration. The slightest thing would set her off.
All Michael knew was that she was “Being a right evil cow!” and wouldn’t come near him, or the baby, “Yesterday she threw a milk bottle at me for saying ‘good morning!’”, he complained to his Mum on a long distance trunk call.

In truth this was only because she was miserably unhappy, experiencing ‘a condition’ that hadn’t yet been recognized, or diagnosed, let alone given a name: PPD (post-partum depression).

Questions spun around in Maggie’s head.
The same depressing thoughts, whipping by again and again…

What femininity of figure I’ve taken for granted, all throughout my youth, has been rearranged by pregnancy.
The rest of the wild years and yearning ways, are quickly being traded-in for good cannoli and a recent addiction to marzipan.

These had resulted in an unhealthy spreading of her buttocks and thighs, encasing her like cream-filling amidst a rising, lumpy, bread-dough.
If that weren’t enough, other anomalous aberrations were compounding her malaise; a recent rash of crow’s feet and a forest of facial hair (mostly on her chin)… her arches were falling but not as quickly as her ass, her gums had receded so far – that if she smiled her tea-stained teeth looked like pylons for a rickety pier… and all of this was served-up cold, without warning; a dissolute dish of disillusioned dreams.

It had been a mistake and she knew it.

Made a go of it …anyway, the boy will never be called a bastard!
…thought Mrs. Magdolna Pomaniczy-Reverend

Ultimately, she concluded it best to make the next ‘Go at it’ on her own, at which point she subsequently sought and obtained ‘an arrangement’ from Michael.
She did so, knowing full well she’d probably never find a more devoutly devoted dolt… yet, reconciled herself with being rich and, making a point of never letting anyone forget it.

Mother wisely invested the support money*, along with her percentage of father’s fortune, back into the boarding school …which, was owned by Glenn… and took to lounging near the gardens, while eating away her sorrows.

She’d…
“Never have to work again, even if father hadn’t been the wealthiest man in Pest County.”

Young Reverend was three at the time this began.
By the boy’s tenth year, her investment had already paid off.

Far better than expected.

An offer was made by ‘some sultan-or-other’ to procure the school for the grand sum of 31.4 million dollars (just the school mind you, not the actual castle, or lands, or any holdings).
Proviso that the staff remained contracted for another 6 years and that the family continued to manage the estates and not the educations.

$3.14 … crackey!
It had been at least two years since Maggie had stepped off the grounds, when she went with Glenn to sign the contracts.
Mamma Maggie lithely tipped the scales at just under 19 stone… slipping into a size 22 moo-moo with a grimace and a wrinkle’s worth of room to spare.

Her limitless loneliness had gnawed thru more than the national product of some South American nations.

The next day, with her percentage at $1,400,000.00 and change, she’d decided to make a fresh start.

“Practice will begin, poolside, tomorrow.”

Maggie emerged from the dressing room at 6am, covered head to ankle, in a black one-piece ice skater’s racing unitard… with her hair all neatly tucked under the speed-hood, as if that insignificant reduction in drag was really what would make all the difference.

For all her contempt and confidence even Maggie was surprised, when she walked through the side gate without getting stuck.
Wouldn’t have mattered even if she had though, Maggie wasn’t leaving anything to chance… she’d brought a sledge hammer for the cinder block, and a ‘secret weapon’… just in case!

When Glenn came to stop her, saying…
“Magpie…! Don’t be foolish…You’re not a competitor anymore”

She put down the hammer and a gallon tub of lard (the ‘secret weapon’) and blithely said… “Go back to your work papa” …brushed him aside with a look, and a kiss on the forehead …and went about her routine of old – through a series of stretches (which she finished a little too quickly) and bounded up to the 3 meter spring board.

For the approach, she paced back 10 foot-lengths, heel to toe, and turned. She jumped up and down on the back end of the board …one, two, three times… to test her resilience.

To Nikolai –
It looked like a squadron of saggy bowling balls, were doing a Charleston in a jellyfish skin-sack, full of puckering octopi.
How else to explain the gyrations of the six bulbous flab’s, in the front and the two on her back… or, the inch-deep inverted suction-cups of cellulite on her thighs that moved freely from side to side, like surfing slurry, riding a tidal wave.
Any larger, and she’d have formed her own gravity well!

Then with a little skip and a stutter step, Maggie ran full speed… but, had failed to account for the effects of reciprocal vibration.
She was subsequently blind sided, by the most extreme aspects, of her abused and angrily inflated body; ‘the Behemoths’… her boobs.
Her head snapped back, as the twins slammed into her face and the spandex suit gave way. It appeared to be a deliberate series of self-inflicted sucker punches.

Maggie slipped, hitting her head on the steel railing.
She was immediately taken to the school infirmary, where she has since healed, physical, but with extensive brain damage. She has remained bedridden, in a semi-vegetative state, for lo’ these many years.

Twice a day, religiously, Maggie is still not so much rolled as… sloshed …to keep the bed sores from worsening.

All in all, if you were to sum her up …‘Drama’ ‘Debauchery’ and ‘Debacle’ …would all draw-dead, on Magdolna’s tally sheet.
Fortunately, she was not to be the strongest influence in Reverend’s life.

That role was reserved, for Giovanni.

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