I sit in the third pew amongst the fur hats. Once filled with the bowels of creatures, now filled with something much more contemptible. They smell of perfumed corpses and they look like paralyzed squirrels. One of the squirrels collapses, but not by the force of my psycho-contextual sling, but by the heat created from the bodies that prey. They drag her by her feat outside, her dress lifts and covers her stupid hat. I wonder, how many Catholics squeezed out of that twat.