Well, well, well. You’ve caught me in the midst of a brief spot of spring cleaning, it seems. Please don’t mind the horrid mess over there on the couch, just sit down, pour yourself an ale, and I’ll tell you how all those pork rinds came to rest on my loofah and why I really can’t bother to pick them up right now- yes, I know what spring cleaning means, you fucking idiot! Uh, they’re just- well- this is embarrassing. You see, sir or madam, I was at a nunnery but scant hours ago.
It all began yesterday evening when I heard a terrifying sound from deep within the bowels of my home. It rasped, it grated, it all but begged to devour my soul! It was the furnace. “Normally my coal supplies last well until March,” I spoke to myself. “I wonder… can it be that my once-great bounty of earth’s most precious natural resource is dwindling?”
But no. When I wrested free the final padlock from the basement door and set the bolt-cutters aside, I knew then that my trove of coal was as unrequiring of repletion as it ever was, for I could see the customary mounds of it gleaming, heaped at the foot of the stair. But whatever in existence could have possessed my furnace to make those horrible noises, then? I ventured down into the cellar holding tightly to my electric torch.
I arrived at the furnace’s mouth some time later, having dug my way through piles of coal and assorted rodent-skeletons. It seemed to be in completely functional order… but what, then, could be causing its failure? It could only be one thing. I had clearly fallen out of favor with God, given what I had done at church the other day, and He had seen fit to curse my furnace forevermore. Either that or it was that I hadn’t fed Stephen, the little neighbor-boy who I’d lured into my basement and made to ceaselessly shovel coal into the furnace, and he’d died. I was banking on the first one, though, because it required slightly less subterfuge in its remedy, and so I slowly made my way to the stairs to prepare.
The local house of God at which I tried to worship last week had unwisely decided it was best if I kept my distance from them and their stupid fucking collection basket I didn’t even really want, so I had to think about where I could go to make my peace with the angered deity. I heard there was a church a few blocks away, but on the other hand there were also the google results from my botched attempts to find a nun who would be my wife (come to think of it, the two subjects dovetailed nicely!) that said there was a nunnery in Pennsylvania. God loves nuns, right? And so do I! I’d already found our common ground so early in the proceedings that I was sure I’d be draining a cold one with Him any minute now.
I arrived at the nunnery around midnight. Well, earlier, but I waited until they were all probably asleep so as not to disturb them with my troubles. Then I lit flares in a pentagonal shape all around the building, to let God know exactly where I was and whose furnace he was fucking with. What happened next was probably something I could’ve controlled, but I chose to allow human events to take course without interfering, as per the instructions in any good Time Machine manual.
A nun jumped out of a window, screaming. I couldn’t quite make out her words over the klaxons going off from within the abbey, and she wasn’t going anywhere with those broken legs, so I inched closer so I could hear if God forgave me or whatever.
“IT’S A RAID! IT’S A RAID, EVERYBODY! HIDE THE DRUGS! DEAR GOD, HIDE THE DRUGS!”
So that’s what nunneries are for, I thought- but it was no time for thinking. Clearly, I was not the only person who had heard the sister’s shrieks, for from within the abbey an odd-colored smoke began to rise, as did a foul chemical odor. Quite curious. I ran up to a stained-glass window of John the Baptist and poked holes out where his eyes were. I placed my eyes there in his stead and gazed into the abbey, where I beheld the nuns’ true nature: there were several tables bedecked with beakers, tubes, and other apparati required for the production of methamphetamine, blazing unnatural hues of flame as nuns threw match after match at them, circling about the tables in what appeared to be a very disorderly ritualistic ceremony. Upon closer inspection, however, they were not moving in any type of organized fashion- rather, they seemed to be compelled to jitter about and stay in perpetual motion. They were all grinding their teeth, as well, and it seemed their eyes were bloodshot and dilated… it was as I made these observations that I began to feel more than somewhat concerned for my own personal safety.
Just then, a nun noticed my eyes darting about in the place of John’s. The jig was up now. She pointed, and opened her slavering mouth to denounce me. “THE HOLY EUCHARIST HAS COME TO LIFE! SISTERS! SEE HOW HE BEHOLDS US WITH HIS IMMORTAL GAZE! WE MUST PRAY TO HIM!” While this was far from ideal, it was also much better from being barbecued by meth-crazed nuns. Still, I had to escape, and I had the perfect plan. I spoke in a rich baritone, as John the Baptist would have:
“My daughters, I forgive thee thy sins. Go about thine business, and make no notice of my flight from this coil. It is said that the most holy of lambs is that which has sacrificed its eyes’ sight, and thus I must renounce the sin of my eyes by making them go away. Be thou not suspicious!”
The nuns all gasped in reverence. “Tis the truth!”
“Yes,” I said, stately as a Baron.
“DO YOU SEE, SISTERS! IT IS A MESSAGE FROM THE HOLIEST OF THE HOLY! WE NEED NOT OUR EYES! ARGHHHH!”
And with that, they all blinded themselves with petrochemicals.
When I got home, I fished Stephen’s corpse out of the basement and then ate dinner.