Fucking narrator, breaking fourth walls and shit. Anyway, because of his outburst, I'm stuck telling my own tale for this segment and segments proceeding this one. You should be fucking grateful, all who're experiencing this journey head on, alongside your always faithful and never skewed or flawed hero. Am I being sarcastic and snarky enough to match Tony Santos yet? Fuck it, back to the long ass walk.
I just noticed; the priest's walking with a limp. Because of this, I have the overwhelming urge to kick him in the back of the knee. Fuck this guy. Why aren't we getting there faster? If I had known it'd require this much fucking walking, I'd just steal one of the Colombian's cars or something. I hate walking. Running's out of the question, because Father Arthritis can't trudge his wrinkled fucking legs at a pace faster than 2 hours per mile.
Why the fuck am I even doing this? There are about five hundred things that I could be doing that would benefit me much, much more than going on a wild goose hunt for answers with a setup that probably won't even work. If I ever make a list of things I hate, the internet will be number one.
On second thought, the city of Omaha is pretty awful too.
Fuck it, it's gonna be a tie.
Grabbing both handles of the plastic bag, I spread them apart to look closely at the supplies Father Hunter/Gatherer told me to bring, just make sure they're all there. Canister of salt, yeah. Lighter, of course. Candles, red string, flashlight to see my way around the building? Yes, yes, and yes. Box of cigarettes? Not on the list, but they were there, why not?
I grab the pack and take one of the damn things out, lighting the end of it before placing it between my lips. Taking a drag, I start to calm down before an intake of of the night wind mixes with the combination of thousands of poisonous chemicals makes me choke, cough and gag simultaneously. Stopping momentarily and looking back, Father Go-Fuck-Yourself cracks a smile before turning back around and starting to walk again.
Yeah, that's right. Look away, bitch. Go back to what you were doing. I'll fucking wreck you, kid.
I look back down at the cigarette. Fuck it. I toss the thing off the sidewalk, watching as it lands beside the curb, still lit. Ashes drip down onto the ground below it and fly off with the breeze. It's kinda cool, actually. Wow.
Is this what optimism feels like?
Get it off. It feels weird, and strange, and awful. Zero out of ten, do not want on my dick, ever. This is supposed to be the alternative to rampant depression? Fuck that, I'd rather be fucking miserable and able to point out how much things suck than to ever compliment anything ever again.
That Olive Pendershore chick seems pretty cool.
Fuck! I'm doing it again! Wow, I'm just gushing with positivity tonight. Maybe after this, I should lead a self help workshop and read to homeless people or whatever the fuck it is goody two shoes charity type people do. Fuck it; I don't know, and I don't really care either.
I just want to get this shit over with.
So I can get back to the important part of life; fucking Hispanic whores, regretting fucking Hispanic whores, getting STD tests out of paranoia, and snorting line after line of cocaine because my own personal revenge mission flopped faster than Jack the Giant Slayer.
I feel as though I was the only motherfucker who saw that movie.
Spoiler alert: it was awful. That really isn't a spoiler, but still.
I wonder what it would be like to be a fish. It'd make me wet as fuck because, water. Fuck that was a shitty joke. I'm pretty sure at least six other motherfuckers in the XWF have said it already. We're still walking? How much longer; Father Triathlon?
Of course, I'm not going to say that aloud. For an old Catholoic fuck, he could hit pretty hard. A lot harder than Gilmour, that's for sure. Shit, this reminds me of good ole Father McKenzie from Sunday School. That wasn't his name of course, but I always called him that. The Beatles reference was so worth it. I think he got arrested for molesting some kid.
That, or he's dead.
Meh, doesn't matter. Not like he actually did anything that helped or hurt me.
I wonder if he's talking to me. It's not like I'm really paying attention. More like staring off into space blankly while following the general outline of the robe and shit. That black robe is pretty badass. Might have to steal one. Walk around the locker room with my robe and laugh at all the other people because they don't have a robe.
Be Sebastian Duke's interesting doppelganger.
Yeah. Darkness.
Woo. So exciting.
On second thought, maybe having a priest robe wouldn't be so cool. I can't tell you the last time one of those things helped you pick up chicks. Maybe if those chicks were like 12. Definitely more harm than gain to owning one of those things.
Is it bad that I'm now much more interested in owning one after admitting it would be bad to do so?
I'm past caring at this fucking point. Just counting down the seconds until I do something I'm gonna regret in the morning. It probably is morning at this point. Midnight, baby.
He leads me up a staircase that looks like it goes on for fucking ever, but as I start to climb, I realize it isn't quite that long. Still a fucking big staircase, though. I quit, mentally check out. Grabbing onto the handrail, I drag myself up the remaining stairs. When we finally reach the top, Father Door Opener pulls a hilariously oversized set of keys out of the pocket that I wasn't sure even existed and jams one of them into the door's keyhole I presume. Pulling the ornate handle, the door swings open.
He motions for me to enter.
I do, and he simply lets the door close behind me, allowing me enough time to turn on my flashlight. Nice guy.
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