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%u00a9Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights ReservedHOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOKWhat They Did to the Kid 201%u201cBut he was clever,%u201d Cyril Prosper said. %u201cThe Reverend Christopher Dryden was the epitome of everything clever. That really scares them. You%u2019ve got to give him credit for that. He sure as hell was clever. %u2018The ssserpent in Eden,%u2019%u201d he said, imitating Rector Karg, %u201c%u2018hath many ways even unto the days of our own.%u2019%u201dA thin stiletto voice cut into our laughter. %u201cI%u2019m surprised. I didn%u2019t think Catholics could quote Scripture.%u201d Edith Berrengar, that girl, had followed us, smoking, her black dress flecked gray with tiny ash. She was alone. Chuckie and the rest were lost in the crowd.How ugly she is, I thought, how very horsy, how kind of...attractive, sexy even.%u201cYour persuasions, your persuasions,%u201d she continued. She gestured toward Misery%u2019s huge red-brick buildings. %u201cI%u2019m glad, really so glad to see the priest-factory. Where they take men and wrap them in the sweet bosom of God.%u201d%u201cYour terms sound mighty religious,%u201d Cyril Prosper kidded. He thought she was joking.%u201cReligious!%u201d Her laughter cracked dry, crumbling down. %u201cChristamighty. I got tired waiting for the new revelation by the time I got to be twelve. These two here,%u201d she waved a gesture of bracelets at Lock and me, %u201chaven%u2019t reached twelve yet. I can tell. Oh, brother, can I tell. They%u2019re all kind of wrapped up in the old religious womb. Singing some prosy, rosy prayer of semiconsciousness. Look at them!%u201d She chain-lit another cigarette. Smoke enveloped her face. She didn%u2019t smell as if she%u2019d been drinking. %u201cAnd you, priest, dear, you%u2019re the same. Just older, not wiser.%u201dCyril Prosper looked at her, amazed, his cool, priestly suavity almost swept from him. %u201cMiss? Miss? I%u2019m sorry I...%u201d%u201cMrs. Berrengar.%u201d She waved her ring in his face. %u201cMrs. Berrengar, the younger. As opposed to Mrs. Berrengar, the older and uglier, the mother of my husband, Big Chuckie, who probably only loves me, Big Edie, because he%u2019s afraid not to. Tell me, priest. Priests. Priests and priestlings. How to cope with that. You%u2019re supposed to know all about love and marriage. Your guns all unshot under all those skirts. Your bodies may be virgins, but your minds are fucked.%u201dViolent, smoking, ugly standing there, she made me feel hot and moving, wanting to mate with her, throwing her to the damp filthy straw of some medieval lodging. The summer before I%u2019d split the back of my head water-skiing and told the barber to be careful, be careful of it, and he, not knowing me a seminarian, presumed, %u201cShe slugged you, huh?%u201d She could have, Edith could have, standing smoking, could have been the one if ever