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hotline regulars, and I'd expect a good number of sports fanatics in April or so. As far as the ROI

goes, those clock radios have brought us in enough revenue to nearly double our monthly donations to MUDPITT ^*andfix up the place."He cursed under his breath as an alien on his new computer screen

blasted his arm out of its socket. "Just like I told you, Bish-man, toss 'em a bone at every step. Let

'em pretend they're fetching it for what we say is at the end of that walk. But you and I both know

they'll fetch it just for a chance at another bone."

               Sister Susie was squatting near the bottom of the mirror. By this point, the sweat on her back

was starting to make her skin show through her white blouse. She wiped her forehead, brushed the

wet dirty-blonde hair out of her face, and pulled the blouse out of the back of her tight grey

sweatpants. She squatted there, rubbing the mirror, wiggling and bouncing side to side, humming the

chorus of Let It Be.

               In virtual reality, one of Father Feinstein's other limbs had been blown to eternity. He was no

longer watching the computer screen. He continued admiring the lustrous mirror, his mouth hanging

open. "Hmmm," Father Feinstein reflected, "In this office, every day should be casual day."

               The phone was sputtering with sounds of the bishop's shouts. Either the bishop was reciting a

recipe for a good meat sauce, or he was running through a list of Italian swear words. "Huh?" Father

Feinstein said, still mesmerized by the undefiled mirror. "Bones? What about bones?"Father

Feinstein rolled himself in the swivel chair over to the windowsill. "There's a hell of a draft in here,

don't you think Susie?" Father Feinstein said, closing the window. He leaned back in his chair, never

taking his eyes off the oblivious nun. With his hands behind him, he found the knob of the radiator

with his fingers, and turned counter-clockwise.

               Outside the window, the street was quiet. Last week's leaves were being pulled out of the

corners of the window ledge by the arthritic hand of an aging wind. A car door slammed. A trunk

unlatched. There was a drop of a heavy box, a brief wobble, then silence. Father Kevin walked back

to the front of his car and stopped.

*_{The Mandating Under-Developed Peoples Instead of Thinking Team}