Speaking In Tongues 

Chapter Two

Ken Preston

23 February 2024

So, that night at Bernie’s, Kurtz and Thrash, off their faces. Buried beneath all the grief, and the hurt, and the self-loathing, and the confusion, a tiny slither of Kurtz’s mind knew this was a BAD THING.

Kurtz drowned it in alcohol.

Out on the street, at the end of that long night’s drinking, the fresh air hit them like a truck. It had been a wonder neither of them had fallen over, and Kurtz for one had been thankful for that, because he was sure as hell he wouldn’t have gotten up again.

Clutching each other and giggling like children, they began weaving their way down 45th Street. When they got outside the Church of Christ the Redeemer, they both stopped.

“Sounds like one Christ almighty party happening in there tonight, brother,” Thrash said.

“Amen to that, brother,” Kurtz responded, solemnly.

They both burst into a fit of giggles.

“Why the hell do you think they’re meeting so late?” Thrash gazed up at the church building, the windows glowing with warm light.

A young, well dressed black man stepped from the shadows by the church entrance, at the top of a wide, but short flight of stone steps.

“We’ve been praying,” he said. “And now we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating?” Kurtz said. “What the fuck are you celebrating?”

“Shush!” Thrash hissed, raising a hand and pressing a finger against his lips. “This here’s a religious man, you can’t go using words like that.”

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