September 11, 2007
Trapped in the Confessional
Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 11, 2007 6:44 PM
Permalink |
Cancer Crisis!
| Digg It
To get to the confessional of my church, the Church of Rafelman, you have to go into the pizza place next door (they also sponsor the Church), go past the booths and tables, past the front counter, to two doors hidden in a narrow alcove: MEN and WOMEN. Go into the one labeled MEN, walk past the sinks and urinals, to the two toilet stalls on the with OUT OF ORDER signs. There, among the sounds and smells and flesh of other men, co-founder and current High Priest Gambol Gutenberg waits. Rumors persist about what he does in that stall for most of the day, but I can’t imagine anything a fey man might do in a public restroom other than hear confessions.
I hobbled into the bathroom and sat gingerly in the stall, careful not to displace the bandages on my wounded knees. Gambol touched his lilac-colored cowboy boot to my sandal, then reached a hand under the stall. I muttered, “Forgive me, High Priest, for my improper use of the confessional.”
“It’s quite all right,” Gambol breathed, trying to reach even farther into the stall.
I smacked his hand away and said, “I have a moral dilemma.”
Gambol sighed and withdrew his hand. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.
“Well, my friend and former paramour, Sarah, has cancer. I tried to cure it and failed, so now she has asked me… to kill her.”
“Look into your heart, child,” Gambol said. “Whom do you worship?”
“Myself, of course,” I said. “Paoponicheleus, the demigod who brought understanding of soil pH levels to ancient farmers.”
“Oh, hey Girth,” Gambol said. “Did you recover from the party?”
“Barely,” I chuckled. “How’s Colby doing?”
“His ass is sore, but what else is new?”
We shared a hearty laugh, then I said, “What should I do?”
“Do you remember the fable of Paoponicheleus raising land taxes in economically depressed city-states to allow Demeter to foreclose on failing properties?”
“Of course,” I said. “Paoponicheleus and the Unshared Burden.”
“Remember the lesson learned there…” Gambol cajoled.
“Wait…” I mused. “The guy who takes over the farm will also take over all its problems?”
“Indeed, my child.”
“How does it relate? Tell me.”
“If you take her from this world, her problems will force themselves upon you. Are you prepared for that?”
“Not really,” I said. “But she thinks I can do it. I wrote a whole book about it, so she thinks I can do it and get away with it.”
“But…you served for two years. And you were innocent.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “I don’t have murder in my heart.”
“But do you have mercy? Paoponicheleus did. You’ll recall the subsidies and dirt farmers…”
“Will the law see it as mercy?”
“Nobody has to know you’ve done anything. It’s not like you’ve posted it on an Internet blog.” Gambol chuckled.
I laughed uneasily and said, “Of course not, but it’s the way she wants me to do it.”
“How?”
“Slit her throat while fucking her.”
“Awesome.”
“Yeah, but…harder to prove my innocence. They already have my, uh, DNA on file.”
“Girth, you’re as intelligent as your original guise,” Gambol said. “You must find a way.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
I spent the next few hours thinking of how to do it and get away with it. Failing to immediately figure out away, I drove my hearse back to the Valley and asked Margo what to do.
“She what?!” Margo screeched.
“It’s a woman’s dying wish,” I said.
“A pretty fuckin’ fucked up one. Does she even know what she asked you to do? What kind of meds is she on?”
“Meds?”
“You can’t do it, Girth. I can’t lose you to prison again. Or, uh, a first time, you lying prick.”
“This sounds like something that’d be up Riffs’s alley,” I said. “Maybe I should ask him.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe I will.”
Will I? To be concluded…
Post a Comment
Powered by Ajax Comments