Angels of Wrath

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“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been about ten years since my last confession.”

Father Tim Casey jerked upright in the confessional and turned toward the plastic window shielding the penitent’s face. The shadow was as recognizable as the voice. “Ah, faith, and it’s a wonder the good Lord himself doesn’t come down from the cross right now and strike you dead for yer sins, Ferg,” he said. “A true wonder.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be making the sign of the cross right about now?”

“Don’t be jokin’ about a thing like this. You’re a good Catholic lad now, or were, upon a time.”

“Never,” said Bob Ferguson, shifting his weight on the kneeler in the confessional. “But I did go to Catholic school. One of the priests there taught me a confession has to be heard.”

“Oh, all right then. Tell me your sins. Leave out the venial ones; I expect they’re legion.”

“Alphabetical order?”

“Here you have me believing you’re serious,” said the priest, “and then you’re committing sacrilege. There’ll be no mercy for you at St. Peter’s gate. He’ll be adding ten years to your stay in purgatory for riding me today.”

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