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  Bad Priest

  I was never a great priest. Maybe not even a good one. But it wasn’t until after eight years—eight long fucking years—when I finally get out of prison, that I reach my full potential as a bad priest.

  Exorcisms, that’s my business—at least they were before I was locked up. What? Don’t believe in possession or exorcisms? Me neither. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real. I don’t believe in bad luck either, but terrible shit happens to me all the fucking time.

  I guess I deserve it, being a bad priest ‘n all.

  What I don’t deserve is to have to share my body with a demon.

  Nobody does.

  But we’re going to make it work, learn to get along, otherwise I’ll be torn in half.

  From the inside out.

  And maybe, just maybe, this bad priest can do some good before I’m dragged to hell with the demon that possesses my soul.

  Episode 1: Freedom

  Episode 2: Just Cigarettes

  Quick Note

  Other Books by Patrick Logan

  Episode 1: Freedom

  They lie to you. They say the sun is different on the outside.

  It ain’t.

  The sun is the same big ol’ glowing orb in the sky whether you’ve been locked up for eight years or not.

  Eight years… eight long fucking years.

  “Cole, you’re forgetting your possessions.”

  Corrections Officer Tyler Motte, a big man with heavy jowls and deep-set eyes, is holding a yellow manila envelope in a meaty hand. He’s one of the good ones, and apparently that didn’t change on the outside, either.

  I look at the envelope. Part of me wants to just say, fuck it, I don’t want it. That’s all behind me.

  Part of me also feels that the package is pathetically small and thin. The entirety of a man’s belongings loosely packed into an eight and a half by eleven-inch envelope.

  There’s something I need inside, however.

  “Thanks.”

  I find my lighter first, then my pack of smokes. The lighter was a gift from my grandfather, a silver zippo with “Fuck Theocracy” etched on one side. The rumor is, he got the lighter while in ‘Nam. It’s just a rumor, because I never met the man.

  He died overseas and the only thing they shipped back to my dad was this lighter.

  Even though it hasn’t been used in nearly a decade, it ignites on the first try. I light my smoke and inhale deeply only to immediately break into a sputtering cough.

  The cigarette is disgusting—the lighter held up, but the smoke tastes like dried and rolled-up badger dung.

  “Those are stale as fuck, Cole. Here, have one of mine.”

  I take a fresh smoke from Tyler.

  Much better. Much better.

  I smoke for a minute, looking at the desert that surrounds the Central New Mexico Correctional Facility, the place that I called home for eight years.

  Every single day I wished to be on the outside. And now that I’m free, you’d think I’d want to hightail it out of here, put this place behind me and never look back.

  And yet, it was like saying goodbye to a friend. A friend who fucked you over every which way from Sunday, but a friend none the less.

  “I gotta go, Cole. You have someone coming to pick you up?” Tyler asks.

  I shake my head.

  “No, I’ll just walk.”

  The guard looks at me funny, but then just shrugs.

  “Take care of yourself, Cole.”

  “You too.”

  I turn and behind me, I hear the ungreased mechanism shriek the gate closed.

  Alone, I look into the manila envelope. In addition to the pack of stale cigarettes and my lighter, there’s also my wallet, which I remove and slip into my pocket.

  That’s when I see it—the final item, pressed against the side and barely visible.

  My lip curls into a frown and I draw hard on the cigarette.

  My clergy collar—aka my dog collar. The white piece of fabric, one and a half inches wide and four inches long, seems to stare back at me.

  In the envelope, it’s just a piece of cloth. Put it on, however, and everything changes.

  I glance over my shoulder at the rusted turquoise gate.

  My clergy collar had enough power to put me in there, but, paradoxically, it also held enough sway to keep me alive on the inside.

  I finish my smoke and put it out with the heel of my cowboy boot just as the sound of a tired engine carried on the heavy desert air reaches my ears.

  I don’t see the car, but I sure as hell see the dust. The vehicle must be fishtailing, because the cloud of dirt it kicks up is like a whirling dervish making its way toward me.

  The car stops within inches of my cowboy boots, sending a spray of gravel in my direction. I lean back and protect my face with the crook of my elbow.

  A door opens and a man jumps out.

  “Father Bannen, it’s so good to see you!”

  Arms wrap me in an embrace.

  I don’t reciprocate.

  “You should have called—I didn’t even know you were getting out. If it weren’t for Officer Motte telling me, I wouldn’t—”

  “It’s just Cole now. None of that Father shit.”

  The look on the man’s face says it all. He’s hurt and I don’t blame him. After the mess I left for the man when I went inside, I’m surprised that he’s come at all.

  Hell, that’s the reason why I hadn’t reached out.

  But Diego was nothing if not loyal. All this time, he hadn’t said a single word. I know this, because if he had, I probably would have been a free man a hell of a lot sooner.

  It’s complicated.

  “I’m sorry, Diego… but thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”

  Diego smiles. He has a mop of dark black hair and a round, pleasant face. It doesn’t look like he’s changed much at all. I glance down at his faded, yellow T-shirt. Maybe he’s put on a little weight around his middle, but he could afford to, being as thin as he is.

  “It’s so good to see you. It’s been so long.”

  “Too long.”

  I’m still mildly uncomfortable—I know I should hug him back, but in prison touching another man has consequences. Stupid, yeah, but sometimes being smart means being dead.

  Maybe I’ll get over this one day, maybe I won’t. But what the fuck? I’ve been out for thirty-five seconds… give me a break.

  I settle for a handshake.

  Diego hesitates at first, then grins and his small arm pumps up and down enthusiastically.

  “Come on, get in.”

  Diego’s still driving the same car as before I went into the clink: a shitty mustard yellow Crown Victoria. When it was newer, a lot newer, it was probably a proud New York City taxicab.

  Not anymore. Now it was Father Cole Bannen’s chauffeur mobile.

  No, not Father Cole Bannen, I scold myself. I’m done with that. It’s just Cole Bannen.

  Arguing with other men in prison also has consequences. So, I’ve become accustomed to arguing with myself.

  I just wished I’d win more of these squabbles.

  The Crown Vic smells as bad as it looks. Like old sweat with undertones of sour piss.

  Same, same—but I’m not one to complain. It smells better than my cell. Way better.

  “Where to, Fath—I mean, Cole.”

  I glance back into my envelope and stare at the dog collar. Then I look down at the pack of smokes that I didn’t even realize I was still holding.

  “You want to get something to eat? Maybe go take a shower? I can—“

  “Smokes—I need smokes, Diego. Take me to the nearest store.” I crumple the package. Then I reach for the collar half expecting it to singe my fingertips. “On second thought, take me to Denise’s.”

  When Diego doesn’t put the car into drive, I raise my eyes to look at his dark irises in the rearview mirror.

  “Just for smokes, Diego. Just for smokes.”

  The lie is unconvincing, but who cares? I’m just Cole now. A regular, law-abiding, ex-con. I can lie. Everyone lies. I don’t have to worry about God Almighty reaching down with his giant, manicured finger and flicking my ear as penance.

  I cock my head.

  Did I ever worry about that? I dunno. Maybe not. Probably not.

  Oh, great, another argument I have no chance of winning.

  Well, one thing I am absolutely undivided on is that Father Bannen is a thing of the past—just an idea. An idea that I left back in the eight by ten-foot cell.

  Still, as Diego presses the gas and whips up another cloud of dust, I don’t scrunch up the collar like I did the cigarettes.

  Instead, I put it in my pocket with my lighter engraved with the words “Fuck Theocracy.”

  Then I crank down the window and lean my head out like a puppy and breathe in the fresh air. Free air.

  The sun might be the same, but goddamn it if the air just doesn’t seem better on the outside… even if it is tainted by years of Diego’s sweat soaking into the cheap upholstery.

  ***

 

Denise isn’t a person. I mean, she is, but Denise’s refers to a place rather than the septuagenarian woman with bleach blond hair and size triple E breasts who is the eponymous owner/operator.

  Denise’s is also a strip club, and even though it is just after ten in the morning, it has been open for hours. Come to think of it, I don’t think it ever closes.

  “Just cigarettes, right?”

  Diego looks concerned, and he has every right to be. I’m aware of the existence of classy strip clubs in and around Albuquerque, but that’s where my experience with them ends. This is Denise’s, and, set in the middle of the desert with a parking lot that always has a few cars in it regardless of the time of day, you can imagine what type of joint it is. Its proximity to the central New Mexico correctional facility should also reveal something about it.

  Denise’s is a lot of things.

  Classy it is not.

  “Yep, just smokes.”

  I get out of Diego’s musty car and hurry to the convenience store that is attached to the club. In stark contrast to the cursive neon lights on the strip club, the convenience store has a simple hand-drawn sign that says, "Open 24/7". It doesn't even have a name—one isn’t necessary. As secluded as Denise’s is, it makes sense to set up a small shop where people can buy stale sandwiches, expired hotdogs, and a pack of smokes or a bottle of booze before or after they leave the esteemed establishment.

  I tell myself that the reason I want to come here is because I need my nicotine fix and it is the closest place to the pen. But I'd be lying if I said that being here doesn't bring back waves of nostalgia.

  A lot of good times have been had by me at Denise’s and only one really, really bad experience.

  I open the door, setting off a small chime above it. Unlike Denise’s, the lights inside the convenience store are bright and harsh, and I have to squint my eyes even though I was just outside in the sun.

  The convenience store hasn't changed either. I heard stories about people on the inside who said that once they'd been released, they couldn't understand what the new world had become. Everything was so complicated that they couldn't deal with it, and the only recourse they had was to commit another crime to get them sent back to the clink. When you're first locked up and unable to leave your cell except for during certain hours, have to eat on a strict schedule, and have the course of your life removed from your control its anxiety inducing and terrifying. But over time, you get accustomed to the routine, and the harsh reality of leaving prison and not having that structure often leads to recidivism.

  But I’d only been behind bars for eight years, and while 2015 is very different from 2023, no doubt, the world still looks mostly the same.

  They still have strip clubs, at least. And shitty cars.

  I head right up to the counter, expecting to see Denise manning her post. I’d gone through this interaction in my head multiple times and debated whether or not I even want it to happen.

  I hold no animosity toward the woman, despite what went down. But still, I’m not sure she feels the same way.

  But some things do change, apparently, because Denise isn’t behind the counter. Instead, her pretty but lined face has been replaced by a man with thick lips and freckled cheeks.

  "Yeah?"

  This attitude is typical of Denise’s—both the strip club and the convenience store. Still, there's something about the way the man says that single word that puts me on edge.

  "Marlboro lights."

  As the man turns and searches for the pack of cigarettes, my eyes drift to the wall of booze behind the counter. There are the typical bottles, as well as some higher end scotches, but my eyes naturally gravitate to the Johnny Walker Red Label.

  I lick my lips.

  On the outside, Johnny red was always my drink of choice. On the inside, the selection is less diverse. Prison wine, made from moldy bread and fermented in a sweaty gym sock, for one and for all.

  The great class equalizer.

  Yum.

  It takes me a moment to realize that the man with the freckles has already put my smokes on the counter and is staring at me, awaiting payment.

  I pull out my wallet and place one of two five dollar bills I have to my name on the counter.

  The man glances at the money but makes no move to take it.

  “8.50."

  8.50? Fuck, the world really has gone to shit in eight years.

  I reluctantly hand over my last five and he provides me with my change.

  "Anything else?"

  The man must've caught me staring at the bottles of alcohol.

  I want a drink.

  God damn, do I ever want a drink. Oh, you know, because it’s the desert, right? Dry air and all that? My lips are parched.

  Yeah, that’s the reason.

  But $1.50 isn't gonna cut it. I can go back to the car and ask Diego for money, but this doesn't seem right.

  "No, I’m—"

  "Fresh out?"

  He wasn't talking about the money now.

  I nod.

  "Well, we got a special for those coming from the penn’. First drink is on the house."

  I stare at the man as if he's got three heads.

  "What? Are you serious?"

  Something about the man suggests that the last time he’d made a joke was during the Nixon Era and I begin to reconsider my lack of faith. If this is true, then there might very well be a god.

  And this man with them sausage lips might just be an angel… not really the way I’d pictured them, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  The man gestures toward a door that I’ve never seen before. It’s off to the side, just behind the counter, painted all black, and it looks about four feet tall.

  I've been inside this convenience store dozens if not hundreds of times before, under various stages of inebriation, but I swear it has never been here.

  Things are getting weird.

  First a free drink and now a door for midget strippers? Can you… can you say that in 2023?

  "Serious. First drink is on the house."

  I'm skeptical, dubious, even but when he reaches over and opens the door and the convenience stores floods with the rhythmic bass characteristic of every strip club that I'd ever been to?

  I’m overwhelmed.

  Fuck nostalgia—this is a more visceral response I’m feeling. My testicles actually quiver, like, in a good way.

  Oh, that bothered you? Okay, fair warning, you better just stop now.

  "Well? You wanna go inside?"

  They say that there are certain decisions in your life that act as a crossroads.

  My first was what happened here at Denise's just over eight years ago. That was a crossroads, alright.

  As I stare into the interior of the strip club, I have a strong feeling that this is another one of those decisions. And it’s only fitting that it happens here, bringing everything full circle.

  I lick my lips again and take a step forward.

  Can you blame me? Really? It’s a free drink. Free.

  And I am thirsty.

  Also, for the record, I wouldn’t mind looking at an ass that isn’t covered with an inch of hair, you know?

  Nah, you can't blame me for any of that.

  I may not be a priest anymore, but God dammit if I'm not still a living, breathing, red-blooded American male.

  "Oh, yeah, I wanna to go inside."

  Hopefully this time, I won’t come out with my hands behind my back and handcuffs biting into my wrists.

  Hope… right, that bastard brother of faith. What good did he ever do me?

  Episode 2: Just Cigarettes

  Sex, drugs, and alcohol.

  You can get all of these in prison, of course, but they may not be the variety you so seek.

  At Denise's, however?

  Well, they have the best of all three.

  The place is busier than I remember for this time of day, and I spot at least a dozen customers. Half of them are at the bar, while the others are in pervert’s row—the seats right in front of the stage.

  I suspect there are at least half as many in the back rooms, as well.

  At present, the stage is empty, but I know Denise’s main rule: no matter what time it is, there’s to be no more than a five-minute break between sets.

  Which means—

  "No fucking way!"

  I recognize the voice and whip around.

 

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