They beat him hard hauling him out of St Paul's after he crapped in front of the High Altar, but he barely felt it through the hockey pads and the exhilaration. Light rain was falling in London, and it cooled his face as they kicked him to the curb. One of them spit on him as they walked away, dusting their hands. He was alive and unhurt and shaking as the adrenalin ebbed.
The first skirmish had ended in success. His war on god was underway.
[Sometimes entire paragraphs just appear in my brain, right before I fall asleep. It happens a lot. I'm going to try and start remembering them. So, this.]

Rocco said
September 7, 2007 4:31 PM
bearman said
September 9, 2007 11:03 AM
stavrosthewonderchicken said
September 9, 2007 6:02 PM
stavrosthewonderchicken said
September 9, 2007 6:03 PM
John Salisbury said
September 16, 2007 12:26 AM
stavrosthewonderchicken said
September 16, 2007 12:41 PM