He had his usual Sunday sermon as he spoke in the altar, holding the bible with one hand and a Spanish For Dummies in the other. Preaching in Villalobos, Spain was not easy for him since he did not speak spanish for shit. The small town needed a priest so he delivered; he came to serve his word.

Still sometimes he suffered of his own sick and twisted fantasies that he so prayed every night for them to go away. He managed the best to do it and succeeded and sometimes didn't. He spoke to the audience while stood, wearing the black cassock, collar and dress shoes. He focused on the topic as he spoke and then he saw you walk in late to the sermon. Immediately, he stared at you, feeling the sick and twisted turmoil within him churn. His jaw clenched as he cleared his throat and continued to speak but all he could think about was you.