I meet Rémi at another bar, this one is on his side of town.

The man on the cross is so plagued by Original Sin, Rémi says, eyes half-open (the bartender tells me he started far before I arrived), He is so tormented by the tears of the mothers of the boys and the girls who died for Him, that He would readily lie Himself down, hammer the nails in Himself, if it were not for the multitudes of men who grin to do it for Him.

We must deliver our children from evil, he slurs. Push.
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