Barty, as the locals called him, round as

Barty, as the locals called him, round as he was tall and lived on the grounds of the oldest monastery in Britain. When he didn't show up for Mass, the town took notice.

"Where is Barty?!" One villager could be heard saying. Meanwhile on the other side of the monastery several sneaky suspects scandalously shackled poor

Barty to Sister Goldenhairsurprise, who visited every weekend to play her guitar at the monastery bar.What started off as a little joke got blown way out of proportion when Barty

decided to tell me the joke that he told his friends when he was little, it seemed very interesting to me he has a good sense of humor

. The joke was: “What’s the difference between a young prostitute and an old prostitute? The young prostitute uses Vaseline, and the old prostitute uses Poly Grip!” The kids didn’t

know what either of those were, because kids these days are doing meth and banging each other with switchblade knife strap-ons by the time they hit grade school. Edgelord bastards.

Why, when I was a lad, we killed each other with home-made weapons, not these high falutin' death gadgets. Spoiled brats, that's what they are, today. I recall limping to church on

crutches made from my best friend's bones, not for repentance, but defiance against the church that had misshapen my young soul. But I stopped short of spitting in the holy water

knowing some of the local street kids used it for drinking sometimes. Besides, my spit was too good for this hellish place and I didn't want them to have any more of me than they

already did. The sun had gone down finally behind the crypt; a frosty mist swirled between the gravestones. I pulled my London Fog golf jacket collar up over my mouth and sighed.