That plane that went down up near Buffalo, it turns out I knew two of the passengers who got killed, but they dint know each other. Quist said, “Don't take anything for granted, every day is a gift.” But he was talkin’ in the abstract. When people you know die it ain’t abstract. Nothin’ abstract about it at all. I ast Father Dom, him with the big gut and smoker’s cough, what gives with god, if he’s gonna stand around and watch innocent people like Coley and Jean get snuffed out.
God of Teddy Bears, god of the beads you buy on the late-night TV, I don’t want consolation, I don’t even have a cousin’s grief -- I was just an acquaintance. My fear of death is small potatoes compared to my fear that nothin but a sham god took them away. I want a real god like the one that’s been operating Down Under, shooting flames a mile across, eatin everything in its path. I want a dragon that’ll make me shite my pants when it roars. I don't want a cross and some colored trinkets gettin old out on the interstate shoulder.
Two people out of fifty. Some odds. Quist ast me once, “What are the odds you will wake up tomorrow morning?” I told him I dint know. He said, “Fifty-fifty, poot. Fifty-fifty.”