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The Recruitment of the Schlub

“I’m the guy who is here to keep you out of jail.” he began, almost whispering.

I was having difficulty seeing, a combination of low light and high blood alcohol content, so I closed an eye. It was hours since the death of the priest, my vision was blurred, and the cops had plenty of time to track me down by now.

“If you’re a cop, go ahead and arrest me.” I slurred. Whiskey had washed the lies out of my soul and was fouling up the gears of my mind. My energy was spent. I had ran my psyche on a high octane mixture of vengeance, guilt, and self doubt for too long. The booze had clogged up the beleaguered workings of my soul and, like a worn out engine, I seized up.

“I am not affiliated with any police or government agencies,” the suit whispered to me, “but you could say I am in law enforcement.”
“How can that be?” I asked from a fog of confusion.
“We hold man to higher laws than any courthouse would ever dare to. And we need true believers. Men like you.”
“Schlubs to play wolf.”

I needed another shot.

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