Cuchulainn crept into the cathedral. He adored its architecture and dreamt his likeness would one day grace the stained glass. An old man sat on a bench in the first aisle. Cuchulainn sat next to him.
"You are praying?” he asked.
“Nope!” The old man smiled. “Finished praying.”
“Where is the holy man?” said Cuchulainn. “I must speak to him of destroying someone.”
The old man paused. “They don’t really do formal confession here.”
“I have no confessions! I seek advice!”
“I assure you, any priest will advise against destruction!”
“But this man is a foul crook!” Cuchulainn shouted.
“Soneone robbed you?” said the old man.
“I am thinking I will strangle him,” Cuchulainn pondered aloud.
“No! Don’t strangle anyone!”
“The way that she will see my strength.”
“Who is she?” asked the old man.
“I will squeeze the life from him,” said Cuchulainn, “only until he is like a bruise. Yes, crimson and violet! And then,” he unclenched his fist in pantomime, “he may breathe once more.”
“Son,” said the old man.
“He will glimpse death,” Cuchulainn went on, “and she will say ‘Cuchulainn shows mercy! Cuchulainn prevails! My heart is his alone!’ And cast away her ring.”
The old man was now backing away.
“What must a man do to truly break another?” Cuchulainn asked the cross. “If only I could taste his ambitions and steal them away, too!”
“Son,” said the old man. “You need more help than a priest can offer.”
But Cuchulainn ignored him. “Oh, but to take his heart, to feel his wishes bleed away. Cuchulainn prevails. Yes.”
The old man shook his head and left.
“What is that man’s problem?” Cuchulainn asked Jesus. “I am only talking.”