Over My Head

Once the Police had left satisfied with the knowledge that I wasn’t about to go blowing my face off with a shotgun they left, taking my weapon with them. I got the feeling that they trusted me about as far as they could throw Papua New Guinea, and I couldn’t blame them, but I had other things on my mind – namely, who the Hell was that Priest? And where the Hell had be vanished to?

Some questions asked at my local bar revealed his name was Father Lawks, an eccentric old man who, so far as anyone could tell, had never actually served at any church anyone could name. I had so wanted to believe that perhaps his role as a crass, cantankerous bastard was just him insightfully working out how best to save my soul. Instead I learnt that he was a crass, cantankerous bastard, a man who’d often come into this bar talking about how little our lives actually mean. I discovered that I had been saved by a cliché: a Priest who had lost his faith in humanity.

Even still, I wanted to thank him. But first I had to find him.

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