[Jestor]

Ah, good. The last of them have confessed their sins, been absolved, and left. Now I can finally get around to reading those Gnostic texts I got in the mail yesterday.

"One hundred! One hundred! They'll all see all one hundred!"

Oh no. It's Gregory Margate. The old man's crazy, but I have to go listen to him. Not only because it's the Christian thing to do, but because he contributes $500,000 a year to this church. Economic considerations sometimes supersede private pleasures.

"Father Mulligan! Where are you?!"

Sigh. This is going to be a long one. Time for me to go see what he wants.

"Yes, Gregory?"

He beams as he sees me walking down the aisle. In the space of three long steps, he's slapping me on the back a lot harder than a 72 year old man should be able to.

"There you are, Father! I have a great idea and I want your advice on the matter! You see, I want to start a baseball league! But it's got to stay in the East. None of this west of the Missippi stuff."

Darnation. I just got my back adjusted two days ago by my chiropractor and he had to go and do that. Sigh. I'll have to make an appointment for tomorrow.

I straighten and offer my best smile, the jovial and confident smile that everyone likes to see on their fat priest.

"A splendid venture, Gregory! How can I help you?"

He sucks in his breath and puffs out his cheeks so that he looks like a blowfish, eyes rolling up to the high ceiling.

"How many teams should I have? I know the number of games has to be 100, because 100 is the perfect number..." Blanching a little, he makes the sign of the cross and adds, "After seven and three of course, Father."

"Of course, Gregory." If only I didn't have to be nice to this lunatic right now. I really want to get to reading those books.

"My recommendation would be to start with a small amount of teams, so that if it isn't successful as you'd hoped, you don't lose nearly as much money." Money that should be going to the Church, I silently add to myself.

He brightens and nods, cracking my back with another hard slap, "Right you are! Let's see... Seven is holy and my granddaughter's favourite band is Plus One... Seven Plus One... Eight! We'll have eight teams!"

"Very good, Gregory." I grit through pained teeth.

"And just for that, I'll even have one team be a tribute to the Church. The Boston Saints! You'll contact the Vatican to give their blessing to the team and the league, won't you, Father?!"

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Margate." If only he didn't mean so much money for us. Sigh.

"Terrific! See you soon about the details, Father!"

As the bowlegged man darts lickety-split out of the church, I find myself rubbing my temples.

Advil first. Call chiropracter second. Read books third.

No, wait.

There. The doors are shut. That's one good thing about the violence in this country; I can close the church whenever I want. Heck, there's a lot of parishes that only open their doors at specific, set times and not outside of that.

I thank God for small blessings.