One Easter morning in Paris I'm playing backgammon for money with a Chilean coke dealer in a basement apartment across from Notre Dame. I have two Moulin Rouge dancers with me. Dressed in their show gear. Snorting coke, drinking whiskey coke and beating Jose every game.
Dawn comes and the cathedral bells are bonging out the call to masses. I call it a night and the two girls in their skimpy attire head into the April morning across the bridge to the courtyard of the grand church. I'm dressed in leather.
A magnificent procession led by a large cross carried by altar boys approached the doors and we cut right in front of the cardinal in his dog outfit. He stops seeing us. I salute him. His lips moved with his eyes seeking to scorch my reprobate soul. His followers; priests, brothers, nuns, and the faithful scowl us. I offer them an atheist's smile and continue to my Ile St. Louis apartment to fuck the bejesus out of Bernadette. She was a good girl and ready to be wicked and I was a bad man in the eyes of the Holy Roman Church. Ah, the life of a sinner.
