It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 50: Chapter IV

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The Stripping of O'Toole's lasted well into the night, and the violent revelry spread from the tussling bar out into the streets. If you were just passing, you'd be forgiven for thinking a long awaited circus had come to St. Gregory's.

The eldest of the parish, those who had initially caused the fracas in the bar, tapered out by the late afternoon, while the youth went on. A macabre joy flowed from those adolescents, and by night, fireworks lit the sky, and their loud explosions sent the descendants of Big Bertha scurrying for cover in the darkest nooks and crannies.

Then came the dumpster fires at Curly's.

Gone were the days of Wino Willy and the rules of such conflagrations. Now, everything was fair game. Exhilarated teenagers lit their joints and cigarettes over the flames, and they danced around the dumpsters in hackneyed imitations of clichéd Natives.

But the celebrations in the courtyards did not last as long as was hoped, for the smell of burning trash rapidly overpowered the senses and forced the teenagers to flee.

But not to worry!

Someone called the fire department when the infernos threatened to spread from the dumpsters, and a whole new activity resulted. The teenagers, huddled in their apartments, collected what spare bottles and other suitable objects they had on hand and hurled them down on the heads of the first responders, until said responders were driven back to the safety of their vehicles, never ventured out again, deciding there to let the fire and stench burn itself out, a just punishment for the animals of Curly's.

And yet...to Alfonso Ignatius (the Second), there seemed more malice expressed in those throws and curses from the windows. He and Ed, sufficiently drunk on the vodka taken from O'Toole's basement, watched it all unfold on the roof of No. 8. Bud couldn't quite put his finger on it...the vodka...not his favorite...it was doing its job to stupefy his awareness...but there was something...vehement...something...something...different...and...and...

'Jesus, it fuckin' stinks up here,' said Ed, reclining in a lawn chair.

'I'd rather be out here than sweatin'...you know...fuck...where? You know?'

'Inside?'

'Yeah,' said Bud, taking his time to light a cigarette. His eyes were telling him he was holding two, but his mind, working at only its minimum capacity, could only recall removing one from the packaging.

The day and night had turned into a blur. It took sometime to coax Ed away from the piano, and finally, when the smart one had surrendered to the fear that the instrument was a lost cause, he had drowned his sorrows in a full bottle of vodka. It took him only 20 minutes.
Bud, not wanting to be left out, or out done, joined in and soon finished his own bottle. For the next half-hour, they both made varying comments on the impressiveness of their handling of liquor. They had learned to drink at early age, but neither had ever gorged themselves before. There had been an academic interest often discussed between the two on how well they could cope if they did ever so indulge, but the opportunity had never presented itself until that night. In reality, they didn't handle anything, for after the first half-hour, both young men had been reduced to 45 minutes of regurgitation outside of the bar, the linings of their stomachs promising each never to recover.

Vera and Leanne Lee found the sight of the continual sick both disgusting and exceptionally entertaining. They ragged the friends with all manner of sarcastic comments and innuendos on their manhoods, until the boys, staring up into the bright sun, and not wanting to admit they'd rather have gone home to sleep, opened up the next bottles. Of the six in the box, only one remained on the roof, and it was being passed between the two as they sat together on the roof, watching the inferno from the courtyard expel its filthy smoke.