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)”
It’s been three weeks since the debate at Radio City Music Hall.
And tonight, Benjamin Dunwoodie hugs a beach pail with his thighs and dry heaves into it. Only a thimbleful of bile plops out into the bucket. There isn’t much left in him; he hasn’t been the same since Tanzania.
“I am certain you understand our… disappointment.” Continue reading “The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 12)”
III. …But with Many Advisers They Succeed
“What was that horseshit? ‘Bad muchacho?’ Did you hear yourself out there?”
Inside the Doddville bus, Kratz leaned against a crafting table, shaking in his mauve Adidas windbreaker. With the back of a hand he knocked a squeeze-tube of adhesive paste into an unreachable crevasse under the console.
“That’s expensive,” Dodd said.
Kratz’s reddening face appeared over his shoulder from the nose up. “Why didn’t you use my cards?” he said.
Dodd’s shoulders sank. “I did use your cards.”
“Not all of them.” Continue reading “The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 7)”