I wasn’t in much of a gaming mood this morning, so I dug out an old project. I blew the dust off my remote viewing book. It’s a beautiful day outside.
Our personal courtyard is sunken to one half of the residents in our condo complex, leaving my rear guard wide open to observers. It’s never been a problem until now.
Not totally aware of my surroundings in the moment, I heard my neighbor questioning someone’s condition. I thought he meant me, so I opened my eyes. No, he was looking past me.
“Gonzo, you good?” Yes, that’s what they call me here. Nicknames are given, not chosen.
I turned my head to see a full dressed g*ddamn Catholic priest standing on the concrete slab above me. He’d just been standing there watching me!
My neighbor asked wtf he was doing, and he just quietly walked away with his hands stereotypically cupped behind his back.
First of all, I’m glad he was Catholic, because that Protestant Kane Poltergeist 2 singing b*llshit doesn’t fly here. I have Catholic family and, although excommunicated & wallowing somewhere in the vicinity of Sith, I have the utmost respect for that faith.
The faith, not the faithful.
The middlemen, if you will.
Why must I always land knee-deep into lunacy?
Crackheads, I can stand. Shooters and thieves? Sure; why not? Clowns? Only if they’re Juggalo Chicks. Priests? Nope.
What was he doing?
A Curse Beyond Comprehension. A Power Beyond Belief. A Girl Far From Home. Katie Liberman is your typical eighteen-year-old college student…or at least that’s what her family thinks. Picking up five years after the events of A Taste of Home, Katie has dropped out of school and embarked upon a dangerous quest to find Kurt Jimmerson, the New York City attorney responsible for her family’s werewolf curse. Unknown to her, the attorney’s grip on the ‘City That Never Sleeps’ is tighter than imagined and she’ll need any and all help available to be victorious. But… where do you find friends when you’re Far From Home?
That’s it. I was holding out for mass violence, but this tops the taco. I HATE needing to be armed almost everywhere I go, but that’s the world the powers-that-be have chosen for us to live within. I never thought I’d have to bring it to the porch swing.
Yes, I’m excommunicated, but I don’t run up and down the street trying to rip people from their faiths (plural). I think everyone should be who and what they want as long as it doesn’t physically harm anyone else. That doesn’t mean I must be involved in your beliefs to survive.
According to the neighbor, there’s a condo in our complex owned by the Catholic Church. Not a Catholic church; THE Catholic Church. It’s occupied by whoever is chosen to be in this area at the time for whatever reason. This time, it’s obviously someone who’s taken a special interest in me and my shenanigans. And not just any priest; a full-blown, suited-up, caricature of the f*cko’s from The Exorcist; no disrespect.
It just creeped me out. I could understand if it was just someone who’d wandered into or climbed the gate digging through the dumpster. I would’ve confronted them, beat them if necessary (we don’t call cops; they don’t come,remember?), and sent them packing. What can you do to a priest?
Sure, sure, I can kick that priestly posterior just like any other man under the sun, but these people are protected like public transit employees and teachers. There’s a special category of laws for beating up members of the cloth. Perhaps my ordination would counteract his? Maybe I need a snazzy priest’s outfit to hang in the shed for just such occasions? It’s not too late to go back to Spirit Halloween.
Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.
A couple of days ago, I absent-mindedly instructed everyone to “watch their six”. Be damned, truly, if I failed to watch my own.
I’ll never understand what it is about authority figures in the city. Sure, most are a bunch of racist poons keeping the lights on in the boonies, but at least they’re nice to your face. Two paramedics were just juggling a patient, a baby, and a pair of shoes. I asked if they’d like me to hold the gate, and they looked at me like I’d cursed them. They swore they had it, but one of the paramedics were on the verge of dropping the baby instead of inanimate shoes. You know, things that won’t cry when they hit the ground. How much longer before I take myself seriously and stop offering?
Yeah, I’m a jerk sometimes, but I’m a nice jerk when it matters. I thought this was a time when it mattered. Meh, I was wrong. Jerk ambulance jockeys, sneaky cops, and double-crossing politicians; I hope I never know what the fire department is like.
“This town needs an enEma” – Author Unknown
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