“Fucking bastard’s spewing.”

Another forceful kick laid him flat on his back. He could barely see, had the mad thought,

“Nothing good happens outside a Prod church.”

He could barely see from pain but he registered three figures.

Was one a girl? He heard,

“He’s wearing his dog collar.”

And it was ripped from his neck with the chant of

“Woof Woof.”

A hand in his jacket, ripping out his wallet. Holding it up for the others to see, a male voice going,

“He’s got a photo in here.”

The chorus,

“Who is it then?

Britney?

Lindsay Lohan?”

An answer.

“Some old cunt.”

His mother.

He made the drastic mistake of trying to get up, surely the young people still had respect?

Right.

The next kick broke his nose.

He fell back.

The girl stood over him, sneered,

“Trying to see up my skirt, yah pervert.”

And shredded the photo into his face, paused, added,

“Nearly forgot this.”

Spat in his face.

He heard

“Who’s for a pint then?”

As they moved away, he allowed himself a tiny amount of hope till one hesitated, came back, and with slow and deadly aim, kicked him in the side of his head, laughed,

“Forgive me Father, for you have sinned.”

A light rain began to fall, drenching what remained of his mother’s torn photo. She’d always wanted him to be a priest. As his eyes rolled back into his head, he muttered,

“Top of the world, Ma.”

A headstone is but a slab of granite lashed by an indiff erent wind.

Things were looking up. Late October had brought a week of Indian summer. Be it global warming, the world going to hell?