#man wafers are really good though dang

[taleslations]

Drama CD Tales Ring Xillia C86

Track #4: The Chimeriad and the Hot Springs Inn (4)

The plot is unraveling. Or is it?

Script under read more.

Agria: What's up, Wingul? Why did you suddenly call us? Jiao: Was there a complaint? Presa: Is it about that mysterious peeping tom? Agria: You found him? Wingul: No. I have called you but for one reason: The secret meeting will take place tomorrow, at long last. Presa: I see. The end is near. Agria: Finally! I thought I was gonna die of boredom. Jiao: Wingul, do you know what time it will take place? Wingul: I checked in the guest registry. It will take place at noon. I want you to act as planned. However, a problem has arisen... All: A problem?

Man: You sharp eye is impressive, Mr Rowen. You could tell that plate's value with just a glance. Rowen: You flatter me. I just noticed that it was of different quality than the others. Man: Don't be modest! Mr Alvin, your grandfather is quite humble. Alvin: Yeah. He's always babbling about old stuff though, so he's hard to handle. Man: Little miss, don't hide in the corner and come eat some sweets. Elize: I-I... Alvin: Sorry, my sister is a bit shy. Elize, come sit next to me. The seat is free. Elize: Okay, just for a little bit... Teepo: I'll bite you if you do anything funny! Man: Oh, how does this doll talk? Milla: Bad things will happen to you if you learn the truth. Are you sure you want to know? Jude: Milla, don't eat so much at once!

Presa: What's going on here? And why are they putting on an act? Agria: Don't ask me. Man: Waitress, could you get me some tea, please? Presa: Of course, sir! Leia: Here is your tea. Please drink it while it is warm. Presa: Hey, what are you doing? Leia: Well, I just kinda... ended up helping. Presa: Helping?! Milla: Leia, tea, please. Leia: Right! Here you are! Jude: I'm sorry, Presa. We met those guys in the hot springs. We just started talking, and here we are. Presa: I heard about it, but I didn't expect such a big party. Agria: Well I guess lazy bums stick together. Leia: Why do you have to put it like that? Agria: I wasn't talking to you, pimple. Leia: You're a meanie!

Presa: Agria! It's become more troublesome than expected. Agria: The heck are Wingul and Jiao doing? Presa: They said they had something to check. We don't have time to theorize about their absense. Let's execute our strategy. Agria: What strategy? Presa: Let's casually join their conversation. That's our only way to approach our target and gain information. Agria: Join them? There? No way! Man: Hey, waitress! Presa: Coming! Here's our chance, Agria! Agria: Woah.

Milla: I was surprised when I experienced it for myself. I'd heard that naked bonding experiences had a positive effect on human relationships but I didn't expect it to be so intense. Leia: I wish we met someone in the women's bath too. Rowen: You're always welcome to join us in the men's bath. Man: Ha ha ha. Indeed. That would be true heaven. Agria: Want me to take you to heaven? Leia: Huh? Agria! Man: That's... Well, you know, men have dreams. How about it? Would you wash my back next time? Agria: Huh? Man: Wait, that could be construed as sexual harassment. What are you saying? Man: This girl is so plain I'm the one who feels harassed. Agria: Who are you calling plain? Alvin: Hey, isn't this bad? Teepo: I can see a dark aura. Agria: You! Try saying that again. Man: Did I offend you? Sorry, sorry. Even if you're plain, you are a wonderful lady. Agria: Huh huh, I see, you really want to go to heaven. As you wish, I will—ouch! Presa: Tee hee. My apologies. I will scold her properly later. Agria: You! Man: No need. It's unusual to find so many beauties in the same place. We got overexcited. Leia: Did you hear that? He called us beauties! Teepo: You're gonna make me blush. Agria: He obviously wasn't talking about you. Man: You're all so lively and fun. Presa: Is that so? By the way... I have been wondering for a while, but may I ask what all those sweets are for? Man: These are our new samples. We made them ourselves. Presa: Samples? That you made yourselves? Man: Right! How about telling them about it? Man: Good idea. In truth, there is a favor we would like to ask you. Agria: What now? It better not be stupid, or I'll kill you. Man: We cannot really say it out loud, but we are part of a secret plot. Presa: A secret plot? Man: Yes. So please keep it between us. Man: We... need young women!! Agria: Die! Man: Wait, let me explain! Rowen: Calm down, Agria. Agria: Out of the way, gramps! Are you trying to defend the pervs? Rowen: That's not it. They just want to talk to women. Agria: Huh? Man: Yes! Mr Rowen is right! We need young ladies opinions more than anything! Presa: Young ladies? Then, do you mean... Agria: Not you, obviously. Presa: Why you... Al, why are you laughing? Alvin: Nooo, I just thought you look cute when you get flustered. Jude: It's not new, but... Milla: Indeed. Alvin's idle joking is impressive as ever. Elize: It's the worst. Teepo: Go get stabbed! Man: No, no, age has nothing to do with it. We just want various women's opinions. So you see... Yes... Man: Women's buying power is not to be underestimated.

Presa: So, what is this about? Man: Well, to make it short, we come from Auj Oule's remote tribes. We are currently developing a new special product and are sharing opinions with other tribes. Agria: Sharing opinions? Man: Exactly. Man: You know how Gaius Dumplings are famous in Kanbalar? We heard they brought many tourists to the city. So we got off our butts and started thinking. We want our products to become as popular in Auj Oule. Presa: Oh, so that's what it was about. Milla: What did you think it was? Presa: Nothing. Agria: This is so misleading. You could have been clear from the start! Man: No way. What if someone stole our idea? That's why we're pretending to have a boring business meeting. You never know who might be a spy. Man: Now you understand, please try a sample. Come here. Agria: Huh? Stop it! Let me go! Man: We have Gaius Wafers, Gaius Crackers, Gaius Bean Paste, Gaius Cakes and Gaius Jelly. Agria: They're all imitations! And don't just go using His Highness' name! Since we are competing against Gaius Dumplings, we need to give it an official flair. We are sure it tastes good. Please have a bite.

Wingul: As I thought, they were planning on developing a new product. Jiao: Yes, just like you said. Presa: You two, how long have you been watching? Jiao: A while. - Presa: Then you could have... Actually, if you knew, you should have told us. Wingul: I apologize. It took us some time to get confirmation. Jiao: The information Agria gathered raised many questions. Presa: I don't believe you. Wingul, I know you had another objective. Wingul: Remote tribes are not easy to supervise from the capital. Observing their relationship during this meeting will prove very insightful for our country's future. Presa: I knew it. Wingul: Besides, I was able to persuade a chief. He will be our eyes and ears from now on. Are you now satisfied? Presa: Yes, very. You're a really shrewd man. Jiao: Presa, are you angry? Presa: I'm just going to fix my make-up. Jiao: Sorry, Wingul. Thanks for agreeing to my selfish request. Wingul: I don't know what you're talking about. Jiao: No need to pretend. It's because I said we should rest that you arranged for our stay to last. Wingul: You think too highly of me. As I said, it just took me some time to investigate. That is all. Jiao: All right, if you say so. Wingul: We can come back anytime. Though next time we should come as guests. Jiao: Next time, huh... Right... That would be fun.

Agria: Dang it, when did "compete against Gaius Dumplings" become "compete against Gaius"? Damn it, go to hell! Jiao: Calm down, Agria. Why don't you try this sample and see if it improves your mood? Agria: Don't try to distract me with sweets. Jiao: Don't say that. This dango looks delicious. Agria: What? The color's weird. Man: Aah, that's... Agria: Yuck! What the heck? Man: Heart leaf-flavored Gaius Dango. We thought it'd be popular with healthy people. It's good for your health, but the taste... Agria: Who came up with that? Jiao: Sorry, Agria. What about this wafer? Man: I'm proud of that one. Agria: Wha... Seriously, this is weirder than the other one. Man: Really? To appeal to youngsters, we came up with this cream croquette-flavored Gaius Wafer. Agria: Who the heck would eat that? Are even you taking this seriously? Man: Then, how about this fruits yakisoba-flavored Gaius Bean Paste? Agria: Enough! If you don't stop fooling around, I'm gonna beat you to a pulp.

Presa: How carefree. Looks like the remote tribes will not be a problem after all. Wingul: I shall write a report to His Highness. Along with a proposition for new products.

[trendingnewsb]

Couple Order $300-Per-Person Dinner At #7 Restaurant In The World, And Here’s What They Get

Everyone has their dirty pleasures, and this couple has just paid 600 dollars to enjoy a very particular one. A 25-course meal at Gaggan restaurant in Bangkok that’s described as “a journey through modern Indian cuisine in 25 emojis.” I assume that most of us won’t be tasting it soon, so let’s at least have a look at what the number 7 restaurant in the world has to offer, shall we?

According to The World’s 50 Best Restaurants, “Chef Gaggan Anand has consistently transformed his tasting menu, developing conversation-starting dishes like the spherified Yoghurt Explosion and creating a dining experience that reflects the warmth of Thai hospitality in Bangkok.” The innovative establishment has been named No.1 in Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants for three consecutive years!

Scroll down to check out what the couple had, and hurry up if you want to visit the place yourself! Anand plans to close Gaggan in 2020 to open a small restaurant in Fukuoka, Japan, with fellow cook and friend Takeshi ‘Goh’ Fukuyama.

“My wife and I first went to this restaurant on our honeymoon in 2013. It wasn’t very well known then, the concierge at our hotel couldn’t even give us directions (and he was sporting a clef d’ors badge!)

Back then, they had 2 set menus and an a la carte option. We went the first time and had a set menu for about $70 for two and enjoyed it so much we went back a couple of nights later for the à la carte.

For our fourth anniversary, we made the trip back to Bangkok and before we had even booked flights, I had booked us in at this restaurant we had raved about ever since our honeymoon.

When we arrived, the maître d’ told us that we were invited to the chef’s table and did we accept (of course!)

The restaurant has changed a bit in the last four years, renovations etc. and the chef’s table was in the extension to the main restaurant and upstairs. We went upstairs with the 10 other guests and these were the menus placed before us — oh boy!”

“I’ve included another photo which is a bit clearer. The pen marks are where the new wine was to be poured — we couldn’t NOT have the matching wine — and what a fantastic decision that was too. So here it is: 25 (twenty five) courses!”

“Some prep work going on while we waited.”

“Here we have the first course: paan.

Paan is a traditional Indian street food made with betel leaf, a variety of fruits, spices, seeds, and occasionally tobacco.

This paan had a small betel leaf prepared in a light tempura batter and some chilli dabbed on top — a far cry from the paan I had first tasted at about 1am on the streets of Delhi!”

“Ah yes, as Chef Gaggan called it, “the dish that made him famous”.

In 2013, this dish was on his menu, and he says it will be on his last ever menu too.

Simple, although probably not. It is yoghurt (think raita) but spherified. The spherification (and reverse spherification) process is about the combination of a preparation including sodium alginate, and a preparation high in calcium. The sodium alginate and calcium solution react to form a thin skin around your solution and as you put it in your mouth, the yoghurt explodes and you drink it.”

“Here he is, the man himself, Chef Gaggan Anand.

All around nice guy, and just super passionate about making good food using different techniques.

We first met him when we just finished eating at his restaurant the second time and it was raining, so we were waiting out front for a taxi; there was this chef there and he asked us how we enjoyed our meal (it was amazing!) and then we started to discuss politics as the riots had just started. He wished us a good night as we hopped in the taxi and we saw him walk across the road and unlock a BMW — ah, might have been Gaggan that we just spoke to!

Rumour has it that he was a big drive for the Michelin Guide to finally come to Bangkok last year. In a city full of stand out restaurants, he’s been a consistently strong performer and really helped put it on the culinary map, so I can believe those rumours. How many Michelin stars did he get first time around? Just a casual two!”

“So the next course was prawn heads with goo…only kidding!

You know tom yum soup? This is freeze dried prawn head with a concoction in an edible film wrapper which tasted like the most amazing tom yum soup!”

“Three courses down and I’m starving! Oh good, little biscuits then!

These are eggplant wafers. I cannot even begin to describe how painful the process of making these sounds, but I’ll give it a go:

1) roast the eggplants until they’re burned on the outside and cooked inside

2) blast freeze to -40*C

3) freeze dry to remove all moisture (about 4 days)

4) pound into powder, mix with spices and oil to make a dough and cut with cookie cutter

5) put onion chutney in the inside like an oreo

Congratulate the 8-9 chefs who worked on it for 5-6 days before serving to your guests to devour in one bite!”

“Shake your bon bon! Chilli bon bons!

As with everything so far, not too spicy, a very delicate balance of flavours and textures — a beautifully firm but delicate shell with a creamy, slightly spicy inside.”

“This one got me a little. One of my favourite on the menu for sure.

A heartier serve than other portions prior, a meaty dish that really had some great flavours going on.

Apparently it was goat. Brains. What? I’ve eaten brains before and there’s quite a soft texture to them, I remember it being almost creamy which I didn’t think this dish had. On reflection though, I suppose it wasn’t a really meaty texture, just a hint of meaty flavour and a smoothness to the bite after breaking the shell around it.”

“Anyone here au fait with subcontinental cuisine? Does idli sambar sound familiar?

Idli are a type of rice cake and sambar is a lentil-based dish cooked in a tamarind broth giving it a hint of sweetness.

In this instance, the idli were more like rice puffs, soft and very light, while the sambar was a foam which brought the subtle sweetness of the tamarind through with the more noticeable savouriness of the lentil soup.”

“What a dude.

Forget the formality of chef’s whites, Gaggan is a rock star and would prefer to make great food and give guests a good time than try to “look the part”.

Let the food do the talking.”

“Did you notice the jug and bowl in the previous picture? That’s right — liquid nitrogen!

These bad boys are chicken liver and coconut. If I’m being honest, I’ve kinda forgotten the flavours of this dish so I’m terribly sorry.”

“Burgers? Yes please!

I remember one of the sommeliers asking me what my favourite dish was and I didn’t want to say this dish because everyone else had said it, but it was a fantastic little burger. It was probably the surprise factor to an extent — just unassuming and then bam! Really terrific flavours and yet so simple.”

“Fish tacos. Hands down my favourite variety of taco — a nice soft tortilla with perhaps a fresh mango salsa and some beautiful, fresh fish et voilà!

Despite my least favourite taco shell (being a hard one), this was a chance to showcase the quality seafood that you can get in Bangkok. It was a joy to eat.”

“Any guesses?

How about yuzu marshmallow and foie gras?

This marshmallow was really well made (like, REALLY!) it was a little chewy, but only insofar as to offer the slightest resistance as you bit through it and took a small pillow of citrus with your foie gras and wafer. Incredible.”

“At this point, Gaggan walked around asking everyone the same thing: is this cheesecake, or is this fish?

Who has two thumbs, speaks limited French and only said cheesecake because everyone else said fish? This moi.

It was fish. Of course it was fish. It was OBVIOUS it was fish. I just thought that maybe, MAYBE, the obvious answer wasn’t the right answer. What a dweeb.

Well, it was a cheesecake texture, and an interesting take on the fish cake!”

“Uni = sea urchin.

Honestly, not my favourite. People love it, and that’s cool. I’m just not one of them and that’s okay too.

Those little balls on top? Oh hey, welcome back spherification! Those are gin and tonic balls.

Aside from the fact that uni isn’t something I enjoy, I got this dish. It was serving some crisp flavours with the gin and tonic balls (and a bit of sorbet below the uni) to cut through the seafood-y flavour of the sea urchin all served in an easy-to-hold seaweed wrapper.”

“Fresh (I mean prepared right in front of us) medium fatty tuna sushi.

I can’t tell you how good this was — you just have that feeling when you take a bit of something and know that everything is right in this world.”

“14 dishes down. Now for a matcha tea ceremony. I had a video but couldn’t upload it — it’s no problem.

Everyone knows matcha tea, it’s made with…matcha? Well, this was a cold preparation made with asparagus, celery, and some other vegetables and herbs WHICH PERFECTLY REPLICATED THE TASTE OF MATCHA!! This is witchcraft. I honestly couldn’t tell you how surprised I was that he told us we basically just had vegetable soup.”

“You like pork? You like curry with a kick? How about a mouthful-sized serving of pork vindaloo served in a coating of panko breadcrumbs? Yum.”

“Guess who’s wife doesn’t eat scallops so they got to eat the whole dang thing? THIS GUY!

An uncooked curry: yes it was served temperate, yes those scallops were to die for, and yes, that is a quenelle of coconut ice cream which combined with a slightly spicy green chutney to just remind you that this was a curry you were eating.”

“Caged chicken.”

“Oh, actually, it’s quail! I might have tried to convince my wife to let me have her portion of this one too…

Chettinad is a typically spicy curry from southern India, in this instance, that fire was reduced to a marinade before cooking, and then a small dollop of just-spicy-enough goodness beneath the quail breasts.”

“Cooking, it is said, allowed humans’ brains to develop to a higher level than other animals. Gaggan gave a very impassioned talk about cooking food and the impact of cooked food on human development; the thing is that I heard a similar speech earlier in 2017 at the best restaurants in the world presentation when Heston Blumenthal was presented with a lifetime achievement award. His speech was so arduous that I thought he might have been under the influence and my opinion of him certainly dropped several rungs that night.

Anyway, it was a nice talk that Gaggan gave, and certainly an “oooo” moment as he grabbed his crème brûlée torch and lit these bad boys up.”

“So this is Paturi. Paturi is one of those universal dishes which seems to have been simultaneously invented by every civilisation around the world.

Simply, it is cooking something in a banana leaf. This particular specimen was cooked sandwiched between cedar wood, with some rice and fish wrapped in the banana leaf.”

“More fire!

Unfortunately I failed to hear the exact method behind this dish. Essentially, it was this very crisp exterior which mimicked charcoal in texture, with some of this in powdered form on top. What was inside was this creamy asparagus, although not overwhelmingly asparagus flavoured. A really, really interesting dish from a texture perspective.”

“Actually, forget what I said before about my favourite dish. THIS was my favourite dish.

Lobster in a delicately spiced sauce, on top of a dosa (an Indian pancake of sorts). You know how I said I like fish tacos except in the soft tortilla? Yeah, swap the fish and mango salsa for lobster in a curry-style sauce and that’s more like it. I tried stealing the wife’s portion again but almost got my hand bitten off.”

“We got served this box next, wonder what’s inside?”

“Ca-uutteee.

Roses. Hand-made. Out of…beetroot? Well, I couldn’t tell it was beetroot. A shame to destroy someone’s handiwork, but heck, I already ate the eggplant cookie so I didn’t feel that bad.”

“Wait, so curry mango and chocolate?

Not the most outrageous thing I’ve eaten tonight, I’ll try it…of course it’s amazing. It’s exactly what you think will happen when a team of passionate, top-notch chefs put their mind to creating a fusion of something we think of as earthy and spicy, with the sweetness of mango and then have the chocolate sandwich it together.”

“Twist on the Black Forest cake anyone? I forget how the cherries were prepared, but they had that nice tang to them that cherries sometimes get, while the powder melted in your saliva to give a wonderful creamy texture to a classic dessert.”

“Oh hey! Another box!”

“Oh boy! More mango! For someone who loves mangoes, this was a treat.

Ghewar, or ghevar, is a sweet biscuity-cake snack from northern India. In this case, combine this ghewar, which isn’t overly sweet, with a slice of mango to give it a little sweetness kick, results in a divine dessert to close off this epic culinary journey.”

“Overall, it was about a five out of seven (maybe even a 13/10). Would definitely eat there a fourth time to see what Gaggan and his team have devised next.”

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2GjsRZR via Viral News HQ

[rcdixon]

“Blood of the Lamb”

Father Seamus was uglier than sin. He had posture like a question mark, crust in nearly every crevice of his sagging face, and unkempt eyebrows that eclipsed a pair of bloodshot eyes always pointed in separate directions. What little skin poked out from his vestments was jaundiced and decrepit. All the same, despite these unfortunate conditions, Seamus knew how to enthrall a crowd. His presence was commanding—prophetic even. When reading from scripture, the man would rock back and forth, waving his arms maniacally. He’d holler and shout and storm and stomp all around the altar, punctuating Bible passages with the slamming of a clenched fist. His booming “amens” would shake the stained glass in their panes. And when it came time to turn wine to blood and bread to body, Seamus would bring every parishioner to the edge of their pew all watching him with bated breath—as though it wasn’t a miracle they had seen every single weekend. Lord knows he relished the mysticism of it all. I remember every Sunday being the same ol’ bit, and while I didn’t know it at the time, I realize now, looking back, Father Seamus’ schtick was nothing more than a pithy act of dramaticism to maintain his rule over St. Joseph’s Catholic Church.

For the better part of my youth, I shared an altar with this character. To tell you the truth, I had never intended to get into the business of being an altar boy, but after a bit of pressure from my mother, and seeing how closely the garbs resembled those of a Jedi, I gave in and took on the role. (I know what you’re thinking, and it was never all that bad. Hell, it even gave me a strange sense of humility to sit atop the altar next to Seamus and his deacon, watching the crowd beg for forgiveness for this, that, and the other.) That’s just how it was, you know. Back in the 60s, most Catholic kids were roped into serving the church in one way or another. And even though I was a born agnostic, I didn’t mind it at all. Donning the robes and bowing my head every now and again was simply something to do—something to keep me busy. But this story isn’t about me, or even old man Seamus for that matter. It’s about Marcus Sanders, a total roman candle of a kid—the kind of kid who would’ve lit the world ablaze if given half a chance. Even those caught in his destructive wake would applaud him for the light. I was certainly one of them. To me, he was the alpha and omega.

Marcus had a ruddy red face with one of those sloping Roman noses. Even at twelve, wrinkles were etched around his eyes from the crooked smile he always sported. And for some reason, he usually smelled faintly of tobacco. Like me, Marcus answered the higher calling of servitude at a pretty young age. We were both from the same crop of kids enrolled in St. Joe’s Sunday School, so we had to endure the same slew of fire and brimstone stories. However, unlike the rest of us church-going kids, Marcus wouldn’t feign interest or any kind of solemnity. Not in the least. Instead, the budding heretic would fire off a torrent of questions at the teacher. Never know how to answer those “big questions,” our leader would defer him to a couple go-to Bible verses to quell that “silly imagination” of his. Responding in turn, Marcus would channel his contempt by distracting the rest of us kids, occasionally offering us apples as a joke. Marcus was the one to give a slingshot demonstration, showing us exactly how to take down a Goliath. (Deacon Paul sported an eyepatch for a few weeks after.) He was the one to snicker anytime we heard a story about Sodom. Marcus was the first one to crack a cannibalism joke back when we got our First Communion. He never gave into our straightlaced dogma. All this aside, though, Marcus’ most impressive feat to date was how he managed to survive all the biblical discipline which inevitably befell him. One toe out of line, and wham! The back of Seamus’ hand would come down on him with the blunt force of the Old Testament. Needless to say, this occurred quite regularly back then. Different times, as they say.

And somehow, amid all the beatings, the kid never believed he was in the wrong.

“It’s ‘cause my mom shot him down before he went into seminary,” Marcus would say. “Not that I blame her or anything—I mean, look at him. At the very least she could blow him a kiss every once in awhile. Anything to get him to cool off.” You may call this delusional, but back then, us Sunday school kids called it heroic. I suppose every good Catholic loves a martyr, and Marcus sure knew how to play messiah. For the most part, the kid tended to brush off Seamus’ brutalizations, proudly wearing his bruises like stigmatas. But at a certain point, his welts really began to add up. And that’s where his story picks up. At the end of each mass, when it came time to hang up our rope-belts in the sacristy, Marcus would usually want to put on a little pyrotechnics show with the candle lighter and napkins—just for the hell of it.

“Stop it, man. Grady’s going to smell the smoke,” I said one Sunday.

“Quit being such a pussy,” Marcus sneered. “She won’t smell a thing. There’s plenty of water in here to put out anything that catches too fast.”

As per usual, Marcus held the candle lighter to the wine-stained napkin, watching with captivation as the flame overtook the fabric. The fire would lick his pinched fingers, he’d release the napkin, and he’d stamp out the ashes with his polished loafers on the sacristy floor.

“See? No harm, no foul,” grinned the alter boy. “Now, let’s see how this bread fries.”

Marcus opened up the eucharist package, and worked out a wafer from the plastic. He clicked the lighter, and just as the bread began to brown, Dorothy Grady, St. Joseph’s humble administrator opened the door of the closet-sized sacristy. Her dentures seemed particularly too large for her mouth that day.

“Boys, are you almost done preparing for the next sermon? I’m just a minute or two away from locking up the building for the day,” said the frail woman, somehow oblivious to the pungent smell of burnt yeast. Marcus had the lighter behind his back—cooth as ever.

Aside from doing most of the practical and clerical tasks around the church, Grady functioned as Seamus’ number two. She had been around since before Seamus’ time, ostensibly since Adam and Eve’s day. Rumor had it that they made a pact back in the day to clamp down on the vile liberalism that began to sweep over Catholicism back then, and as such, they’ve long since imposed an impressive degree of draconian rule on St. Joseph’s. But thankfully, a healthy combination of senility and old-age pacifism had taken the fervor out of her sails—shame the same couldn’t have been said for Seamus. “Yes ma’am, just about finished,” I said, but Grady had already hobbled out of the small room. Marcus and I hung up our robes, washed the communion chalices, finished arranging the candles for Wednesday’s mass, and then made our way out of the church into a crisp autumn afternoon.

As Marcus and I walked home, exchanging kicks on a pebble, I noticed a fresh welt on his forearm. Purples and blues spread across his swollen skin.

“What was it this time?” I asked, breaking the silence between us.

“Ah, the back of my tie was showing from underneath my collar,” he said. “Something about it being the last straw.”

Marcus must have seen my wide-eyed disbelief because he added, “But you know, old man Seamus has said that a million times.” He tittered. “Boy, you should have seen the way his temple was pulsing. I thought he was going to explode!”

We both started laughing. A few kicks of the pebble later, Marcus cleared his throat and said, barely above a whisper, “I’m getting pretty tired of it all, though.”

I looked over at him. His typical cavalier expression had morphed into something grave. He stared at the pavement passing beneath our feet.

“Are you going to do something? Maybe tell someone about all this?”

“I think I might. The teachers at my school are asking more and more questions,” he said. “And I bet they’re going to call social services on my mom.”

“Dang, that’s the worst. Teachers are always so nosey,” I said unconvincingly. (I happened to love school.) “I know,” Marcus grumbled. “But I’m coming up with a plan. That jaundiced sonofabitch priest is gonna get what’s comin’ to him.”   Before I could ask what he meant, he gave a quick wave goodbye and turned down Pleasant Street where his ramshackled house was. I still had another couple of blocks to go.

Later that night, lying in bed, I started to think of all the things Marcus could nail Seamus for. There’d be no way anyone would care about a priest pushing a mischievous altar boy around every now and again. Priests have gotten off scot-free for a lot worse. Though, over the years, Father Seamus had been noticeably falling apart—he’d sure as Hell been rubbing certain parishioners the wrong way. Brenda Lee from my Sunday school class said that he had showed up piss drunk to give her grandma her last rights. According to her, the old man got a little spittle on grandma’s bedside and could hardly keep his composure. Another thing that rattled some chains was how often he’d would fall asleep in the confessional booth—even with someone bearing their soul on the other side of that curtain. I remember hearing something about old Albert Knox. I guess once he heard Seamus sawing logs from the booth’s other side, he rapped as loudly as he could on the wood paneling. Seamus jolted up, and out of reflex, told his parishioner to get to work on a couple Hail Marys. I think Knox became a Lutheran after that.

Little Johnny May, who’s a year behind me in Sunday school, one day said that he thought Father Seamus had been cursing people in Latin during mass. He knew because he began looking up dirty words in his Latin class at school, and it struck him how familiar some of the vocabulary sounded... But like Marcus, Little Johnny May was kind of a shit. The cursing thing might have been a rumor, but the fact remained that Seamus’ periodic use of Latin in his services didn’t sit well with quite a few people at St. Joe’s. Orders from the Vatican about ten years prior dictated that all masses were to be conducted in English. I suppose Grady and Seamus wanted to keep the old tongue for nostalgia’s sake. Just the same, despite all these faults and slip ups, Seamus was cherished by and large. For many of the parishioners, Seamus was their only connection to the heavenly beyond. For others, he was closest thing to God they knew.

                                               ~       ~       ~

The following Sunday’s mass began just like any other. The crowd was jammed shoulder to shoulder in the wooden pews, all stiff in their Sunday bests. The late summer air was thick, and the slow-spinning fans overhead did nothing to quell the stifling heat. Bells outside gonged over and over again—the clock had struck 11:00 am. Not a second later, the pipe organ rang with its powerful timbre. And right on cue, the parishioners rose in unison and began singing along to “The Lord’s My Shepherd.” Following the first verse, our holy cohort came onto the scene.

For the second week in a row, Marcus and I were the servers. Clad in our pristine white robes, we glided down the center aisle, leading the holy procession. I held the elongated crucifix as high as I could. Marcus was behind me, struggling to hold the heavy Holy Book with outstretched arms. Deacon Paul trailed behind, lazily swinging the incense burner. Wispy gray smoke rose over the pews, filling the nave with a pungent musk. And who else brought up the rear of the procession other than the showstopper himself, Father Seamus. On this particular Sunday, his matted white hair looked more disheveled than ever. Even at the front of the procession, amid all the singing and grinding organ, I could hear Seamus’ dead foot scrape along the wooden floor. As our cortege made its way through the church, I glanced around at all the sweating faces pressed into their hymnals. No one sang on key.

Once we made our way to the altar, the four of us bowed, walked on stage, placed our various materials in their proper place, and finished singing along to the solemn tune. At its conclusion, Seamus hobbled to the center of the altar, and began.

“Blessed be this day, my parochial people!” his voice thundered out. For a man who looked as though he’d just crawled out of a grave, he had the vocal chords of someone a third his age. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” He raised a gnarled hand and gestured the cross over his sunken chest.

Mechanically, the congregation replied, “Amen.”

Seamus creased the back of his vestments, and took his seat at the top of the altar. The deacon, Marcus, and I did the same in our respective chairs, and in a chorus of creaks, the crowd followed suit.

Next came the Scripture readings. It was Mrs. Johnson’s turn to step up to the plate and recite a few riveting words from the good book. Johnson, bless her tired old heart, was a notorious mumbler. Even with the microphone millimeters away from her tightly pursed lips, perhaps every one in ten words would come close to audible. Worse yet, she was monotone. I swear, if ever an angry mob needed to be subdued, plop Mrs. Johnson center stage and give her a few verses to read over. Not a soul wouldn’t be sedated. “A reading from the... first letter... of Paul to... the... Corinthians...” she began, adjusting her coke bottle glasses as she stood behind the podium. And as per usual, this was about the point in mass when I’d check out and eat up time with some mental games—anything to keep me awake, especially that Sunday with the humidity. I began to look over the parish. Flies darted between the shifting bodies. Old women were fanning themselves with their bulletin pamphlets. At some point, a baby let loose a quick blood-curdling wail. The cry cut out—undoubtedly stifled by the mother.

“For what have I to do with judging... outsiders?” Johnson rambled on. “Do you not... judge those who are within the... church? But those who are outside, God judges... Remove the wicked man... from among yourselves...”

I began to hear a tapping from my right. I glanced over and saw Marcus clicking the sides of his dress loafers together. Like mine, his feet couldn’t entirely rest on the ground. I wasn’t sure how loud the clicks were, but they were persistent. None of the parishioners seemed to notice—their eyes were either rolling in the back of their heads or were lazily fixed on the woman behind the podium. Marcus’ toe tapping continued—out of boredom to be sure. From the corner of my eye, I swear I saw a blood vessel start throbbing on the side of Father Seamus’ blotchy temple. He cleared his throat. Still, click click click click. Johnson appeared to still be droning on. Marcus kept going. Suddenly, Seamus forced out a violent cough, and in one fluid motion, swatted his right hand against the back of Marcus’ head.

“Hey!” Marcus called.

“The Word of the Lord...” murmured Mrs. Johnson.

“Thanks be to God,” called back the congregation.

She shuffled off the altar.

Father Seamus heaved himself out of his ornate throne and lurched over the the podium. Time for the homily. No longer separated by old man Seamus, I looked over at Marcus. He grinned and shot me a wink.

Again, Seamus cleared his throat—only this time, his wretched throat conjured up to be what sounded like a loogie from Hell. He tugged on his clerical collar and hocked the vile wad somewhere down into his vestments. The old man looked over his parish (both sides of pews at the same time), licked his fingers, and smoothed out his bushy brows.

“My brothers and sisters,” he roared. “I stand before you fine folks on yet another glorious Sunday that our Father on high has bestowed upon us.”

I thought I heard thunder rumble somewhere off in the distance.

“I’m here, not to coddle you with more fanciful tales of hope and inspiration—thank you, my dear Mrs. Johnson, your voice is lovely as ever. No! Not at all, my brothers and sisters! As a proper prophet should, I am here to deliver the gospel straight from the eternal bosom of an angry God! Yes, our Father who forever arts in Heaven is unhappy. I look around at you miserable, fearful folks, and all I see is sin! You are enveloped in your licentious sinful ways! Fornicating instead of worshipping. Laughing instead of repenting. Smiling instead of groveling. God sees this. God sees this all, and he is not pleased. Not one bit, I tell you brothers and sisters!”

As ever, the parishioners appeared to be eating all this up. I could see women’s hats bobbing up and down in approval. Men with their stern, contemplative expressions. Jaws all clenched with guilt. Even the crying baby from before seemed to be all ears.

Their beloved prophet continued: “Who among us is exempt from this unholy lifestyle? Sure, you say, you’re changing... you’ve turned it all around. Yes, I see many of you Sunday after Sunday on your knees, begging for forgiveness for your countless transgressions against His will,” Seamus growled. “But I’m here to say—with God as the orchestrator of my voice—that it is not enough! And you know what, our children are the very proof of this shortcoming in piousness!”

And to punctuate his last line, he outstretched his crooked arm, dramatically gesturing toward Marcus and I—both sitting dumbfounded on the altar behind him. (Deacon Paul appeared to be asleep, so he didn’t care much about the priest’s insinuation.)

“Every day, I read stories about our decadent youth! They’re in the streets, terrorizing our families, disrupting the quiet tranquility of our fair village, painting obscenities on the walls, cursing to high heavens in the middle of the night! Oh, yes, I see it all. God sees it all! Behavior like that, and they’re bound for the brimstone, I can tell you that. Forgive them not, Father! For they know precisely what they do! Let us remember, my brothers and sisters, the brilliant wisdom we gather from Proverbs, chapter 13, verse 24: ‘He that spareth his rod hateth his son, but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes!’ Indeed, the time has come to once again retrieve our fateful rods, and reacquaint our increasingly rebellious youth with their righteous might. Lest we leave the youngest of our kin behind come Judgement Day, we must whip them into shape, and bend their knees to kneel before our God.

“In the name of the Lord, we pray,” hollered Seamus, whose voice had been ground to gravel.

And instead of the reflexive “Amen,” the congregation erupted into applause. Not just any run of the mill clapping either. All the able-bodied folks stood up for a full on standing ovation. The baby seemed jubilant amid it all.

Marcus, under the cover of noise, leaned over to my ear and said, “Can you believe that guy, huh? What is he trying to do, start a crusade against us? Against me?”

“Right—what’s worse is that the whole freakin’ parish seems to be on board.”

“Don’t worry, just hang tight. I’ve got something good up my sleeve. Before mass started I ca—”

Marcus stopped as soon as Seamus reeled around and began lurching back to the Holy Table. The priest’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on the two of us, and his lips cracked into a heinous smile. Without saying a word, he pivoted, and placed his hands upon the white table cloth. Right on cue, the pipe organ came alive with “Agnus Dei.” The walls rattled from the slow, mournful melody. The crowd chimed in: “Lamb of God... You who take away the sins of the world... Have mercy on us...”

Father Seamus began preparing the eucharist. He held the bread high above the table, muttered something under his breath, and started to break the wafers into small little pieces. He made a quick sign of the cross, and then proceeded to divvy up the wine in the four golden chalices. Again, the muttering, then the cross.

“Lamb of God... You who take away the sins of the world... Grant us peace...”

The organist hammered the last chord, and the church fell silent. The thick air had grown near intolerable. There wasn’t a dry forehead among the crowd.

Seamus cried out, “Brothers and sisters, now join me in the Lord’s prayer for—”

“Step away from the altar!” bellowed a voice from the back.

The crowd gasped in sharp unison. A squad of seven police officers stood next to the choir, each with their glocks pointed at old man Seamus. He raised his knotted hands in the air.

“What on Earth—”

“Not another word, Father!”

Two officers sprinted down the center aisle of the church, guns still drawn. One grabbed Seamus by the scruff of his neck, the other crossed his arms behind his back and began fastening the cuffs. The parishioners, who finally seemed to be emerging from their shocked paralysis, started panicking. A wave of nervous whispers and murmurs echoed throughout the nave. Hands cupped mouths to ears, fingers pointed, women began to weep.

Seamus was now bent over the altar as one of the officers made one finishing click with the cuffs. He was led down the center of the aisle which split a confused and mortified congregation. The deacon, Marcus, and I were still atop the stage. The former was still somehow asleep despite the chaos. As for the two of us, we were watching these events unfold with mouths agape. Seamus was now being read his Miranda Rights as he was forcefully pressed against one of the stained glass windows depicting the Archangel Michael stabbing a serpentine demon. I met eyes with Marcus. Again, he shot a sly wink, and an enormous grin spread over his face. He began cackling, slapping his hand on his knee between breaths.

“Officers! Officers, please! What is the meaning of this nonsense!” gobbled Grady as she strode as quickly as she could to the scene. She had her hand over her mouth—I suppose to keep her teeth from flying out.

“Ma’am, please step back,” said one of the cops. “We have it on good knowledge that this priest—Seamus, was it?—was attempting to slip a little arsenic into the wine. He’s getting at least three dozen accounts of attempted homicide slapped on his record.”

“Wh-What?” Grady said. “That’s not... That can’t be possible. Father Adam Seamus has been leading the St. Joseph’s community for over four decades! This cannot be true.”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the same cop continued. “We received a credible complaint from one of the parishioners here. The alibi was air-tight as far as we’re concerned. At the very least, we’re taking this creep downtown for some serious questioning, but based off some of the information the informant gave us, well... You should probably start looking around for someone to lead next week’s Mass.”

“This isn’t right! He’s innocent! He’s—”

And in that moment, something came over Grady. A grave realization perhaps. Her face flushed, and slowly it turned towards the back of the altar where Marcus and I were doing our best to stifle laughter. Her expression had shifted from frantic to malicious. Her eyes narrowed, she extended her bony finger and suddenly she called out, “You!”

As the police ducked Seamus out of the nave, Grady bounded toward Marcus with immeasurable aggression. Again, the crowd gasped in astonishment. I was frozen in my seat—the heat mixed with the tumult was almost too much. Grady staggered as quickly as she could towards us, muttering all kinds of unholy incantations under her breath. Once she reached the altar, she stepped up (neglecting to genuflect, mind you), and approached Marcus.

“Come here, boy,” she said with a wry toothy grin. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

Before Marcus could get out a single syllable, Grady pinched his ear with the strength and precision that only a Catholic grandmother could muster. She hauled the poor kid back down the center aisle, as he cried out, “Wait! Stop, no! I didn’t mean it! What are you going to do to me?” Grady hollered at the top of her hoarse lungs, “Ite, missa est! We’re through here, folks. Say your prayers, then get gone!”

The two frantic figures disappeared as they descended down the spiral staircase leading to the undercroft. A final pleading whimper echoed back up to the church where a silent and expecting parish sat. A few moments and some signs of the cross later, the bulk of the crowd genuflected out of their pews, and dispersed almost as if nothing had happened—as if their beloved priest didn’t just get carted off for attempting to poison them all, as if an altar boy hadn’t just been sentenced to some unknown fate perhaps worse than death. I remained seated, unsure of what to do next... Go home with mother, I suppose. What does one do when a friend gets dragged to a hell he probably deserved?

All the same, I never again saw Father Seamus after that day. I remember hearing a few days after that turbulent mass, he had been released—something about false charges and being “framed.” My guess is that guy had some lawyers come down from on high  and testify on behalf of his character. I don’t think anybody heard much from him after that, though. Someone told me he starting doing mission work near Lima, Peru. Even if he hadn’t actually slipped a little arsenic in the eucharist that day, my guess is he would have done it eventually. Lord knows he was fed up with all the insolence.

Not a whole lot has changed at St. Joe’s since the days of Grady and Seamus. The church cycled through a couple replacements, but no one really stuck until we landed on Father Simon, a younger guy from Santa Monica with a ponytail and a penchant for incorporating his acoustic guitar into his homilies. Aside from him, masses are largely the same as they ever were.

As for Marcus Sanders, I haven’t seen him around either—not since he was dragged kicking and screaming down that spiral stairwell. And, if you want to know the truth of it, I’m kind of thankful. Who knows what would’ve happened to me had I kept trying to keep pace with the kid. A couple folks from St. Joe’s started a petition to get him excommunicated—loyal acolytes of Seamus, no doubt. But the whole initiative was in vain because shortly after Marcus’ mother pulled him out of Sunday school, they moved to one of the Manhattan boroughs. He was soon enrolled in a science-oriented academy—at least, so I heard. And if you want to know about me, well, I’m still putting on my Sunday best every weekend at St. Joseph’s—along with most of my old Sunday schoolers. We all grew up, got ourselves married, had a couple kids, and fell into the kind of routine that can turn even the most ardent of agnostics into a pious stiff. We make sure our kids tuck in their shirts, we tell them to behave and to respect their elders. We tell them to bow their heads, and look towards the sky for their salvation. It’s strange how the pendulum swings, I suppose. In a way—now that I’m thinking of him—I almost envy Marcus for getting out. Catholicism has a way of grabbing ahold of passive fellas like me and never letting go. Sure, that ruddy-faced boy might have gotten burned a bit as he was expelled from the holy garden, but from the inside looking out, I can’t help but to wonder what it’s like out there. You know, beyond all the stained glass and the pomp. I wonder what it’s like in Peru. What it’s like in the academy. But above all, I wonder what what it’s like in the head of a man whose faith in himself cannot be broken.