it is Sunday and there are a thousand voices singing, in every key, in every known language, the churches of Toronto resonate with the song of the faithful, especially women, a 5:1 ratio of women to men, what is it that women know that men don’t get?—that’s the question I ask myself as I make note of their faces, ready to write down their license plates, follow them to their homes, ready to come back next week, praise the Lord that the mistress of the house is away and there is plenty of time to look for jewellery … and things. I have a collection of the items I have stolen from the households of the faithful—fetishes, forbidden books, satanic images, cookbooks from the Ladies Auxiliary of Aynesbury, and all the usual sexual devices, creams, jellies, incriminating photos and once I felt it was my duty to kidnap the family pet and transport it into witness protection—once that dog learns to talk, those bastards are toast! The faithful are no better than you or me, and no more sure to practise the Lord’s way than I follow all ten commandments. Mind you, Jesus hung out with prostitutes—so he must have known at least one thief—wait a second—scratch that thought—far as I remember he had a memorable meeting with two thieves.

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