Rémi asks, am I so arrogant as to believe that the Gospel has any merit?

He asks, am I so arrogant as to assume that the inconsistent apologues floating through my subconscious will manage to inspire the progeny of my unwitting disciples?

He asks, am I so arrogant as to deem the Crusades a war of worth, even when every battle is lost by both sides, even when every jar of blood spilt merely coagulates into an impassioned crust across the span of the Holy Land?

Two beers, I tell the bartender; I decide we should ease up on the hard liquor until the self-deprecation has subsided.

At this point, Rémi says, I am a parody of myself, a Hollywood remake of the Crucifixion, millions of dollars wasted on costume design, a mess of poorly directed scenes hastily cobbled together under the most fauxvant-garde of art direction.
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