The only purple folder lay on his desk. These

The only purple folder lay on his desk. These meant the worst possible thing and he could barely think it, let alone coax his hand into opening it. That would take bourbon and lots

of licorice. The treat had always stiffened his backbone. There was nothing else for it. Bourbon he had. But for licorice, a trip to Olive Street to visit

that nasty hooker who gave him a rash was in order. It had been three long years since he'd seen her, and he was itching for revenge, so to speak. He swigged a mouthful of courage

elixir that the Warlock in Chicago made for him. It was past the expiration date but he drank it anyway and ate a stale bologna sandwich. While he waited a deaf beggar came

up to him, but the Warlock realized that there was no Warlock in the musical Chicago. Then he realized that the beggar was neither deaf nor a beggar. No the Warlock was simply

being played the fool. That was no beggar, it was Morgan Freeman in disguise. Actually, it was God in disguise as Morgan Freeman. God always plays Morgan Freeman. Or vice versa.

I am so over both of them so I refused to let them in the club. Morgan usually takes it with grace, but God has such a sense of entitlement. It's all

"I made the earth", this, and "I gave you eternal life", that. Such a drama queen! Morgan hardly ever mentions his sainthood. If it hadn't been for the addiction, we might still be

in his thrall. Morgan is no less the saint for his denial and his attraction to the Flame. We are well to follow his example. Inconveniently, he also

forgot to mention that dreams die hard and that spit sizzles like garlic if you got the heat turned up right. Saints and pilgrims usually find the time to make ya come alive. Free.