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The Bishop wasn't drunk.
It was bad; in fact it was more than bad, it was very bad. Emil, the young priest, was very concerned. "I'm very concerned," he said. The mass was about to start, and there was noone to perform the Ritual Of The Morning Cleansing. He wasn't trained to deal with this kind of stuff, he had just graduated from the "Divine Favor" school of priestly pursuits, and already he was over his head. It was all the Old Priest's fault really, he had to die of liver faliure, the selfish bastard, leaving him to deal with the Bishop's geriatric misbehaviour. Emil wasn't what you would call priest material; he rarely drank, didn't smoke or gamble and didn't really hold with molesting children. To make things worse, he was showing signs of inteligence, an undesirable quality in any church. It was his father's wish that he becomes a "man of the cloth", he told him so on his deathbed right before he died from a severe case of toenail ingrowth.
The Bishop was reading his morning paper and smoking his pipe.
-I found him like this when I went in to change his bucket; just sitting there, not being drunk- said the Maid, obviously disturbed by the sight.
Emil, now standing at the Bishop's right shoulder, leaned over and with his thumb pulled the Bishop's eyelids up.
-Well, he's out, nothing I can do here- frowned Emil, the look of concern never leaving his face.
-When the going gets tough...- thought Emil for himself, but to the Maid he said -If you would be so kind as to make a pot of coffee and bring it up here, I would be most grateful. I have to pop to the pantry, to get some things for the mass-
The Maid, in the finest traditions of maidenhood, said -Y'yes m'lord- closed the door, and swore at him under her breath in the corridor.
It was Saturday morning and the mass at the Curch of Hurl, in the Street of the Small Gods, was about to begin. It wasn't a big temple, roughly the size of a Mc'Donalds restaurant, but unlike the forementioned restaurant it didn't smell as bad, and was generaly pest free. It was lavishly decorated, in white marble and gold, with two rows of pillars running down the middle, in the fashion of temples everywhere. At the dais there was a large ceramic throne with a wood-and-crimson seat. Although a Small God, Hurl was a very important god, his priests were invited to every major event or party, and he himself occupied a seat in Valhalla, the home of the Gods; he didn't really sit at the table, because he spent most of the time in the bathroom. While not being generally good, as opposite to evil, he was a good god, or more precisley, he was good at being a god. In return for their neverquestioning faith, Hurl bestowed upon his clergy great powers such as the power to turn wine into water (after some time, ofcourse) and the power to lie unconsciously on the floor. Indeed, Hurl, the god of hangovers, was mighty.
Miss Cartridge was a regular church-goer. She was a bit upset. Her husband was late; not late as in "dead as a doornail" but just late as in "not yet here". She opened her prayer book, which was hollow and produced a brown, leather-clad flask; she took a good chug.
-Where is the old oaf? The mass is about to start!- said Miss Cartridge, and even as she was saying that a young priest stepped out of the side door and on to the dais.
Emil was a nervous wreck; he did imagine that he would be dizzy and disoriented on his first mass, but he imagined that it would be from the booze, not from the lack of. He just hoped that the flock would not notice that he wasn't drunk. With fifteen small steps and three masterfully feigned swerwes he arrived at the throne. The minister-boys raised the wooden seat, as he knelt down and put his arms around the throne. Coffee, fresh eggs, raw meat, anchovies and some old vinegary wine; just thinking of what he had ingested just five minutes ago made him sick, it was briliant! He showed two fingers down his throat and started to, well, hurl, as the choir began to sing chorals. It was all coming back to him, and in small chunks too. After five cramps it was all over and there was nothing more to throw up. He flushed.
(Posve nova fabula
Ako ste ovo vec citali, weeeell...)
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