Neon crosses and nightstick kisses

The raspy-voiced priest cleared his throat for what always seems like the last time. He marked pages 34-57 where his most beloved verses were held. On the other side of town, the racist beehive known as the Mormon Church was chanting diligently against the priest. They employed the dark-field method.

"And now, a reading: blessed art thou who walk the night alone. Blessed art thou who possess the underlying love and strength. Blessed art thou who shows no weakness in the face of the unholy. May the presence of the sacred heart be bestowed upon your cross. Blessed be to him."

Response: blessed be to him.

The lights dim. The smell of hot wax emanates. The spicy rhythm of the holy heart warps the air. The neon light appears at full mast. The electrons pump through the cloud of cheap gas and cause a physical excitation that turns to religious fervor.

Outside the church, the January air lies still and lifeless. It gives as little life as possible, but devours everything. James Grids stands and leans against his Buick. He feels guilty and then he smashes up some sleeping pills and jams them through the open window and into the mouth of his already idle passenger, Maria St. Roberts. Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight" is heard through the crack. It seems appropriate to James. He waits.