Finally, in disgust she pushed back the chair and stormed out of the “temple”, with the “priest” chasing after her, waving the book at her and shrieking that her soul would be damned to hell without their help.   As she headed up Russell Street, Fr. Joe finally gave up the chase and shouted out after her, “Cheap bitch!”

Startled, Louisa looked back and saw the words, “The Church of the Divine Fastbuck” over the temple doorway, and thought, That can’t be right!   Even a pseudo religion wouldn’t be honest enough to call itself that!

She started up Russell Street again, but then Louisa suddenly remembered where she had heard the term, “Church of the Divine Fastbuck” before.   It was the name of a short story that I read, she thought.   Then she recalled that it had been by the same writer who had sent her the story of the murderous hobo.   It was the story of a retired government physicist who built an atomic bomb in his back yard.   But in the story, Father Joe was the hero! she remembered.

Turning to look back, Louisa was shocked to see that the “temple” seemed to have vanished.   In its place there now stood a small record shop — William Hanna’s Import Music Store.

Almost without realising that she was doing so, Louisa began to slowly walk back to the temple-cum-record shop.   It was only after she opened the door and placed one foot inside the shop, that she realised that William Hanna had been the name of the nuclear physicist in the short story.   She started back out of the record shop, then seeing Monty and Janette Patterson still watching her, Louisa stepped inside.

“Kill all the teachers ….

“Kill all the parents ….

“Kill all policemen …

“Kill small babies …

“With a Bowie knife …

“Now let’s rap!”

Kill small babies! by the Psycho-Rappers was playing in the CD-player behind the counter, although no one appeared to be tending the shop.   Louisa walked toward the back of the shop, ducking her head occasionally, to avoid T-shirts and jeans which were suspended from the ceiling.   She thought, Give me the good-old-days when record stores only sold records.   At the back of the store she saw a life size cut out of Michael Jackson, advertising his latest multi-million selling album, and wondered whether she should buy a copy for her niece, Joanna, who was about to celebrate her fifteenth birthday.