Mr Cartridge was a regular church goer too. He belonged to the Church of Afternoon Fishing And Talking About The Weather, and he took his responsibilities as an Afternoonist very casually like every good Afternoonist ought. Every evening he prepared a fresh can of worms, checked his tackle-box for the next day and polished the Holy Rod in a clearly asexual way. Mr Cartridge went to the church a lot, he had a lot to atone for; what he wanted the most to a-tone was his wife. He used to be a Reading-in-your-rocking-chair-and-smoking-ist, but he saw the error of his heathen ways. What made him see the light was his wife who thought that the only sentences men should know are: "yes, dear" and "no, dear" and therefore don't have to, or for that matter be able to, read. Mrs Cartridge also thought that most books are unsanitary and bad and should be hanged or burned or used in No. 2 emergencies; well at least she was right about that.
But today was different. There was a storm raging, so the church had to be canceled. Mr Cartridge had two options: he could stay at home with his wife or go out into the storm; he chose the latter because he could hear himself think in the storm. Not that he had anything special to think about, it was just nice to know that he could if he wanted to. He was in the Street of the Small Gods when the wind broke his umbrella and blew off his cheap taupe in to the river. He decided that it would be best if he found some shelter just until the storm settles. It was then when he first noticed a small temple literally cramped between two larger ones; he quickly went in. The temple was actually very big compared to his outer appearance, but was small enough to leave the image of a warm and cozy place. There were a few people sitting on the benches and it looked as if a sermon was about begin. Mr Cartridge, not having anything better to do, took a seat.
If anything, Mr Cartridge was a good listener, after all he had thirty years of listening to Mrs Cartridge behind him. There were two things that separated the little priest holding the sermon from his wife: the first was that he didn't talk as loud, and the second was that he had no mustache. Although the priest's voice was dull and his tempo slow, Mr Cartridge actually enjoyed the sermon. There was talk about ancient prophecies and pacts between the God and Man; there was talk about old hermit prophets that wash once a year and about wars fought over a borrowed lawnmower. And then there was talk about a messiah, a Heavenly King who will come and deliver the meek from the yoke of the oppressors. It was warm and cozy, and Mr Cartridge had a hard time staying awake, and at one point the dreams and the reality became indistinguishable. He dreamed he was the messiah, the chosen one, and he was leading his people across vast expanses, made of, for some unknown reason, vanilla ice-cream. It was a good dream, and much like all the good dreams it ended at the best part. He was just about to separate the Cherrycola Sea, when a large hand came from the heavens and shook him in a rough manner.
-Sir, the sermon is over, go home- said the little priest that was holding the sermon.
Mr Cartridge got up and walked out, still a bit disoriented and groggy from the dream.
-It was nice- Mr Cartridge said as he was walking home, -too bad it isn't real-
He would really have liked being a messiah, but unfortunately it just wasn't possible; he could never be a Heavenly King because: firstly he was born in a barn, literally, and he was pretty sure kings weren't born in barns. Secondly, he didn't have his kingdom. It's the thing with kingdoms, if your father had it, most probably you will too, provided you are not too squeamish about killing your way to the top. Mr Cartridge wasn't even sure who his father was. His mother explained to him when he was old enough to know the details; she awoke one morning after a strange dream and knew she was pregnant, then she then dressed and left the party. Be that as it may, Mr Cartridge was feeling good and was happily humming; there was one more tiny feeling that he hadn't felt since his youth; Mr Cartridge was feeling brave. He pulled up his belt and started towards home. He'll show his wife who's the boss, just after he's finished doing the housework and washing her feet. That ought to show her.
Post je objavljen 01.09.2008. u 00:02 sati.