Subject: [OTL]: (Nightcrawler) Ash Wednesday, 1/1
Date: Sat, 24 Feb 2001 21:40:36 -0800
From: JumpTB@aol.com

Title: Ash Wednesday

Author: Omega

Rating: G. Totally. Except for those of you who think all Catholics should be
burnt at the stake, in which case it's R because of all the religious junk. ;c)

Summary: This came to me today while I was tacking up to go ride Topper, the
hooligan who's supposed to be a horse but is actually just a spoiled brat
whos is way too strong for his own (and my own) well-being. I was thinking
that I'd like a Snickers bar before I died, but if I died between the 28th
and Easter, my wish wouldn't be granted. Anyway! This story is how Kurt
spends his Ash Wednesday, and I'm sure it's how I'll spend mine. (Sorry for
the babbling, I just realized I did it!)

Feedback: Duh! Gimme gimme gimme! :c)


       The Mardis Gras beads were still strewn on the kitchen counters
and lodged between sofa cushions when Kurt Wagner returned to the Mansion
after a seven a.m. Ash Wednesday Mass. Lukewarm beers told the tale of many,
many hangovers that would occur that day, and Kurt grinned toothily as he
found a pair of purple and yellow striped panties hanging over a fan blade
in the living room. Priest in training he might be, but he could still
appreciate Betsy throwing around her undergarments.

       Pouring a cup of coffee from the automated machine, he wrapped
his hands around the warm mug as he looked out an expansive bay window that
oversaw the back lawns. Frost delicately tendriled over the edges of the
windows with a late February frost, and he gratefully sipped the
almost-scalding coffee, its powerful aroma hiding the scent of the palm ash
cross on his blue-furred forehead. Today, he said to himself, was a chance to
start anew. He'd gone to confession before Mass (how the priest could be alert
enough to perform the act of reconciliation that early in the morning was
beyond him), and today was the start of Lent. A time of improvement, he
thought, a time to be better than one usually is.
 
       He stifled a sigh in another sip of coffee. He didn't mind the
giving up of meat on Fridays, or the extra giving of alms, or the extra
prayers the priest had called the congregation to, but he did mind having to
give up something of his own accord. Every year he spent the two weeks before
Lent fretting over what to sacrifice for forty days, and invariably he
decided on an item, usually a food or a pastime, like television, and then he
gorged himself on that item for the week prior to Lent. Every year it was the
same cycle. This year, chocolate was the item to be temporarily wiped from
Kurt's existence.

       Chocolate. He didn't especially have a sweet tooth, like Hank,
but he would be kidding himself if he said he didn't enjoy a Hershey's bar
or hot brownies from the oven, smothered in vanilla ice cream. Hot chocolate
would have been ideal on a morning like this, but now that was unacceptable.
Even chocolate sprinkles were out of the question, he thought glumly. So were
devil's food cake, chocolate chip cookies, Oreos, Cadbury Creme Eggs, those
funky chocolate coffees that Ororo occasionally made, M&M's, and Girl Scout
cookies. He moaned in spite of himself, thinking of that box of Samoas -- the
ones right next to the box of Thin Mints -- in his bottom desk drawer. He
resolved to tell Hank where they were. Hank would, without a doubt, wolf down
the cookies and then they wouldn't be a temptation any longer.

       He spent another ten minutes looking out the window, watching the frost 
slowly recede as the sun became warmer, and then he took the final swig of 
coffee and turned back to put the mug away. After rinsing it quickly and 
carelessly leaving it in the top rack of the dishwasher, he looked around the 
kitchen, noticing for the first time what was on the kitchen table.

           NOT FAIR were the two words first in his head. It was perfection
on a platter. Tall and elegantly dark, rounded and ridged and drizzled with
chocolate syrup, the raspberries still glistened on top of its smooth,
spongy, chocolate height. The cake seemed to look back at him, not concealed
by any glass top or plastic cover. He looked at the way it sat perfectly in
the middle of the table, which was clear except for the large white plate and
the dark morsel of heaven on top of it. Every other surface in the kitchen
was littered with confetti or streamers or beer cans or empty Hurricane mix
pouches or the occasional woman's undergarment, but the table was reserved
for the cake, which had stopped just looking at him but had started crooning
his name and batting its eyes coyly.

       Moving over to stand by the table, he realized that he was
holding a fork in one hand. He must've unconsciously opened the silverware
drawer and snatched out the utensil while he was gawking. With a very
deliberate motion, he put the fork down on the table and then stepped back,
trying not to be tempted any more. He didn't need chocolate. He didn't need
this cake, or those Thin Mints. He had a box of Trefoils somewhere. Those
didn't have chocolate.

       Ah! Trefoils! No chocolate! That's what he'd do. He'd go have a
handful of Trefoils right now. He turned and moped all the way over to the
kitchen door, where his feet suddenly turned to lead and his mind said, "But
nobody likes Trefoils anyway! You just bought 'em because that Girl Scout
gave you Bambi eyes and looked pitiful!"

       Clenching his hands into fists, Kurt stood for several moments
in the doorway, feeling, but not seeing, the cake make kissy-faces at him from
across the room. Dammit, I can't do this, he thought desperately. I just went
to confession. I can't screw it up so soon!

       Father help me, for I have sinned, he thought, however, when half of
the cake was gone. It's been two and a half hours since my last confession.


"Writing is as much fun as you can have with your clothes on."
-Dave Barry

http://copperhorse.homestead/Copperhorse.html