“Warren, I don’t represent works which take a theological stance, and frankly, I’m surprised,” Orson said as Warren idly stared out the side window of Ground at a small group of women waiting in line at 'Live Free! The Abortion Boutique’ across the street. “You know I subscribe to Marx’s view on the subject. ‘Religion is the opiate--”
“…of the masses.’ I know, I know. Can’t tell you how many times I used that one myself. That doesn’t bother you?” Warren’s finger lightly touched the window as he pointed across the street.
“It’s a woman’s right,” Orson shrugged.
“I thought that too, till Judy got pregnant. Something about that ultrasound...”
“Grande Latte,” the barista called.
“Excuse me,” Orson said as he began to get up.
“GRANDE LATTE!” the red-faced barista screamed.
“Couldn’t you see me coming?” Orson asked as he stepped to the counter.
“No, not the cranberry, you moron, the blueberry!” A customer yelled after looking in her bag. She startled Orson. “How many times do I have to repeat myself? …and scone, not muffin,” she said as she threw the muffin in the server’s direction. She missed and knocked a bottle of hazelnut syrup over. It oozed slowly over the counter. The bottle rolled on its side, slowly at first, but picking up speed quickly, then crashed to the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the chastened server scurried around the dangerous mess to find the right scone.
“GOD!” the customer spat as she turned. Her cell phone rang and played God Bless America. “Hellooo,” she answered brightly.
Orson returned to his table. The line across the street had gotten longer.
“Let’s get outta here,” Orson suggested.
As they walked out of the door, they ducked to avoid a skirmish.
“He’s nothing but a smart porch monkey,” one raged.
“So, Bush was a dumb cracker.” The two men shoved one another as Orson and Warren skittered around them.
“Let’s get back to your manuscript. Why the sudden change of heart? What’s wrong with the meditation, chakras and all that?”
“It wasn’t sudden, and those things weren’t providing the answers to real problems anymore.”
“But…Jesus? A book about Jesus…an apology… for Christianity? I thought you’d left that behind. Why?”
Just then, a young boy and girl of no more than ten approached.
“Hey Mister,” the little boy said surreptitiously, “we got anything you want.” He motioned between himself and the girl, “pre-teen pussy, smack, whatever. I can give you a blow job for five dollars.” The little girl brushed a strand of straw colored hair aside with a dirty hand and smiled up at them.
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