Michael Blackburn's ART ZERO


It was only eight in the evening and we hadn't had a lot to drink when suddenly Harry began to rant. To this day we still cannot work out what set him off on this particular track, as we had been discussing mundane issues such as the perfidy of politicians and farmers. That bloody Teresa bitch, he suddenly said, they want to make her a fucking saint, you know. What the fuck did she ever do for anyone, eh? I'll tell you. She took the poor sick fuckers off the Indian streets, stuck them dirty mattresses in her fucking Warehouse of God, injected them with dirty fucking needles and waited for them to die. Then she got all these dumb Christian fuckers like that old fraud Muggeridge to film her and make out she was a fucking living saint, and she took money from any rightwing bastard dictator who felt a tear welling up at the idea of being seen to promote a righteous fucking catholic christian cause and make out she was such a good woman. Those poor fuckers off the street didn't get any real help. All they got was a bed to die in and a load of fucking christian nonsense. She was after their souls, not their bodies. Pneumonia, cancer, whatever the fuck was killing them, curing that didn't matter to her. She just was after their souls for God, like fucking scalps to a Red Indian or gooks' ears to a GI in Vietnam. Just a pity she never realised there's no such thing as the fucking soul and no fucking God Almighty either, but, what the fuck, people will believe any old shit won't they? Eh? It just makes me wish there was a hell then I could see the old bitch burning there with all those other evil fuckers. Harry fell abruptly silent, then smiled at us all as if he'd simply pointed out that it was time for another drink. As indeed it was. So we replenished our glasses and continued our talk.