
There is a man in this tale who is never named. A man simply called by a singular title, same as Prophet, Priest or King.
Janitor
A man who once upon a time had much in common with Mary Brogan. And though the two never met, both were disciples of Phillip Morris's strange religion. Both engaged in faithful worship. Daily prayers. Morning study. Sunday service. And all the other sacraments of the religion.
But while Mary Brogan died in the faith, the janitor is a man in a state of apostasy. A man who shut his Bible years ago, so to speak. A fence-sitter in the war for people's lungs. A man who did his damnedest, but never could give up cigarettes. So he gave up matches. Lighters. Fire of all types. A man who still plants an empty prayer on his lips by the name of Marlboro Red. A lonely cigarette that never meets a match. Like a prayer that gets written down, but never sent to God.
This is a man who once upon a time blessed the sacrament at The Church of Phillip Morris. A priest familiar with the alter cloth of white plastic grocery sacks used in service. A clergyman whose own golden years were the incense in the censer.
And though he's no longer practicing, you never outgrow the religion of your youth. Which makes him the type of man who may just notice if a boy were being followed by a white plastic grocery sack.
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