It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 72: Chapter II

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

It has been said before, but it is well-worth repeating:

News—gossip, depending on how you look at it—spread fast in St. Gregory's. That is to say, by 7:45 that night, BB had only told his story to a dozen or so people, Alan and Colin included, and yet it was the entirety of the parish, having heard some version of the epic, who assembled together at the intersection before the church.

'An Intruder!' someone wailed.

'A foreign intruder,' cried another, as if that was somehow worse.

'I heard he's got fangs!'

'Fangs?! What's he need fangs for?'

'Who's got a stake?!'

'We'll drive 'em out!'

'How many are there?!'

The suicide of O'Toole had been, while entertaining, a rather mournful sort of event for the residents, and it had left a shroud of grim inevitably in its wake. Between the death of the stalwart and the inescapable certainty of coming integration, St. Gregory's had never felt so lost, so destined for collapse—and yet! Thank God for BB! He was, in their greatest moment of need, the savior of the parish, for he brought to light the distraction they had all been waiting for. If they had needed anything, it was the unifying diversion that could drive out all the sullen and doomed feelings. For in the face of this 'invasion', they would rise together, united as one, to take their stand against such a desecration. They came from far, they came from wide, they came with fire in their eyes. They came with anger and hate, mistrust and barbarism in their heart.

A foreigner daring to hold court at O'Toole's?!

Not on their watch!

They would have come with pitchforks too, if only they'd been yokels, but since sheep were not, strictly speaking, fuckable in St. Gregory's—Appalachia is some hundreds of miles away from Mother-City—they settled for baseball bats. Together, they marched from the church to congregate at the front door of the bar, (even Father Peter was here, his girth matched only by his disdainful curiosity), and were all horrified to see O'Toole's so shiny and new.

BB told no lies.

The bar was remade, with all memory of the previous publican scrubbed from view. The only description the Belfast Fenian had not done justice to was the awning. Far from the tattered and colorless rag that once flapped limply in the breeze, there hung a green tarp with a new name adorned on it:

OHANNES'

'SHAME!' cried the people.

'FOR O'TOOLE!' bellowed Bobby Sullivan, ready to prove himself on this yet unseen interloper.

'HOOOOLD IT!' roared Colin, who, not opposed to bloodshed, had, at the sight of the bar, come to a sudden realization. 'BB, ya eejit! That's not a foreign name! That's Irish!'

'No, Col,' stammered BB, 'Sure, I swear—I'm tellin' ya, that's a foreigner in there! Sure, wasn't I the one who met the man?'

'Daft fucker, look at the name!'

'That don't look Irish to me,' said Mrs. Fitzgerald, 'the apostrophe is in the wrong place.'

'That's the Gaelic way of spellin' O'Hanes.'

A murmur of debate rippled through the crowd.

 'I don't think that's how Gaelic works, Pa!' Alan muttered out of the corner of his mouth.