Brian. Revisited.

 (A bonus November story)

Archbishop Brian sat in silence in his office, his hands cradling his face, the fingers brushing cheeks that resembled the sheen of his platinum coated iPhone broken only by irregular patches of light stubble like a well-used sheet of 150 grit sandpaper. The silky skin was not due to his usual expensive moisturiser created from Himalayan glacial water; instead it had been sustained during a farm rubbish fire that turned on him and left him with burns to his body. Following the initial emergency response, his recuperation involved maintaining his fluids and although in a private hospital room, his trips to the toilet were occasionally sabotaged by a faulty hospital-issued gown with a crucial tie missing from the rear. Within a short time he became known to a select few staff as the Arse-Bishop.

He lifted his head up and continued perusing the daily news on his tablet. The date stamp in the bottom corner reminded him another month had passed and he stood to turn over a new page on the wall calendar. The new month featured an image of whales gliding in Pacific waters off the East Coast and, as if in unison, the news page featured a story on a whale stranding.

He sat back and reflected on that night when his mighty God had shaken his fists upon the land and sea. Part-promotional for his flock, part-holiday and an opportunity to open the throttle on his 900cc machine, it was a miracle that he had avoided any serious mishap or injury.

“God spoke to me that night,” said the then Bishop to his full house of believers, “and he told me I should leave, for something bad was coming. His displeasure at the wickedness of man and his continual perversity, the moral decline, men marrying men, gays, lesbians, and kids choosing their gender. I will send a warning that cannot be ignored, I will make the heavens boom and the waters to part. God told me I should leave so that I can continue to spread his word!”

The faith of the congregation was galvanised in their slick-haired leader. God had talked to the Bishop and indeed spared him for a higher purpose. There was only one thing for it. Anoint him as an Archbishop.

His stomach now began to rumble and he thought about getting some sustenance, much as it had in the growing shadows of that early evening in the seaside town. He realised that there was little on offer other than some fish and chips and a bed in a motel that was far below a man of his stature should have to endure.

“Let’s get out of this shit-hole,” he said to his posse as they mounted their machines. His onboard phone had delivered the only voice to him in his helmet’s earpiece that night as his wife prattled on about something trivial as they headed out for the nearest southern city on the still unbroken road.



Andrew Hawkey