Comments | marvel_mansion: Come, child of God, lay your burden down....

terry_cassidy in marvel_mansion

Come, child of God, lay your burden down....

Mar 16, 2006 21:04

God our Father, you sent Saint Patrick to preach your glory to the people of Ireland. By the help of his prayers, may all Christians proclaim your love to all men. Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.

( She wishes )

c.f., deadpool, siryn

Comments 3

wadewilson March 24 2006, 11:17:07 UTC

"God our Father... uh... by the help of his prayers, may all Christians proclaim your love to all men. Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever ( ... )

wadewilson March 24 2006, 11:18:19 UTC

A gurgle, then... some sound best left unidentified. "Does she even CARE about you?"

"Yes?" Entirely uncertain. "In her warped way, I guess. I mean, she thought my stalking her was comforting... although I guess... no, I can't... man, that's all wrong, isn't it?"

"What's all wrong?"

"Everything... 'specially takin' advantage of how bein' raised by Black Tom Cassidy and Juggernaut would give a drunk teenager some pretty messed up notions of love-a-dove and what's comforting... y'know?"

"You think that's the only reason she cares about you?"

A whisper. "Probably." Then with more voice. "I don't know, I can't figure her out. I mean, one time, she's crying at me about the shape of my soul, makin' promises to help me out of crazyland... but then the first time I'm GOIN' to crazyland and I need to take her up on it, she brushes me off because I tossed around her overstuffed mook pal who fuggin' STARTED it..." Not to mention flipping out on her and nearly attacking her for brushing me off. "... then... next time I talk to her ( ... )

wadewilson March 24 2006, 11:18:45 UTC

The brown glass of the beer have warmed to the touch as he stumbles out the back door of the Hellhouse. He leans over the railing of the beat-up back patio area that used to be the picnic place for wayward Catholic girls when they behaved, back when this place used to be Sister Margaret's school. The thought hits him that if she was a Midwestern girl, this is the kinda place she would've been sent to by ol' Tommy Boy, and he feels like shit all over again. His unsteady head sways a bit as he looks up in the general direction of the moon. Mad at the world now, and wagging his fist at the sky, spilling beer on his head with every shake.

Hey. You! You! You listen to me! You don't even EXIST, but I'm gonna yell at you anyway, because I'm gonna have to burn off these clothes and my top layer of skin just to get the stench of fat guy expulsion off of me. I prayed to your ass once in fourth grade to get Gretchen Bayarski to be my valentine, and she depantsed me and kicked me in the jimmy, then stuffed me under the merry-go-round. ( ... )