The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 14)


There is the smell of fresh-baked apple pie, made foul by the mingling acrid odors of blood, mildew, flatulence.

Hanging slouched off the left side of a cushioned, regal chair, the Pope dips a zig-zag finger into the pie and suckles it. His lips tremble.

Any minute now. Continue reading “The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 14)”