A long taste. A moment that felt like it lasted forever. Lips never touched something so long awaited, so long overdue. So wrong, yet oh so right. The taste of heaven in the devil's chalice. And in that lingering space, everything slowed.
The women dancing seemed to shimmer, as if their very hips gave off pulsating vibes that torched the room. And engulfed in the flames, it was then that it all made sense. Vices were man's way of feeling alive.
The liquor, the taste of God's blood, sweat and tears. On the back of a reviving economy. By the hands of willpower and self attainment. Man's tools to salvation. In a simple drop of Irish whiskey. Alive. Dancing on the tongue.
The creative act of passion. Of love. Intense, pure. Natural. Instinctive. The feminine in action. Like a wave in the infinite sea of delight. Sexuality, yet not of the mind. Of the soul moving through the body, raptured. Alive. Quenching the thirst of man's longing for grace.
And as it were, it felt like all had come full circle. From the days of serving the cloth, serving the poor, and finally serving humanity as the scope of society had demanded. By breaking down the ignorance of separation. By taking a chance. By living devoutly true, amongst the good, the bad and the no longer ugly.
Transformed in an instant, yet prepared through a lifetime. And as a man stood before him with revolver in hand, a chuckle split his lips. Smirking wide, eternally so, he was ready. He knew he had arrived. To meet death with itself.
He pulled at his collar, removing the priestly garb. Something that had held him for so long, no longer mattered. But it wasn't with a heavy heart. His eyes full of life. Alive. As a human being, not a human doing. Yet the doing, the serving, had prepared him.
One last sip. And a last look throughout the whorehouse. It was true. Man really was God's finest creation. And all he had to do was walk in his brother's shoes to finally see it.
A shot rang out. That was it. Death meeting itself. At the hands of one he would never have expected, yet didn't blame either way. As on all hands were God's fingerprints. And he'd rather it be a familiar face. Someone who'd help set the wheels in motion, all that time ago.
The white strip fell from the priest's outstretched hand as the last breath escaped his chest. Amongst the chaos of the cat house on Block 16, there was a slither of peace. A knocked over bottle of whisky and the dripping of blood, down the priest's left hanging arm, met on the dirty chipped floorboards.
This you would call the end. Or, was it just the beginning? And what of the story before. Of how a man of God found himself giving into that which he fiercly despised for so long. Of how he ended up in America, in the city of sin, and the struggles therein. And of who, and for what reason he was killed.
Well, let me tell you. It's a little to take in, though. You best pull up a chair and pour yourself a drink. And pour me one while you're at it. And let's just hope another war doesn't break out while we enliven the spirit. And if it does, let the first to the trigger give the other a whisper. Something tasteful, yet something, at the very least.
Alright, I guess this is as good a place as any to begin...
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