After spending so many years sailing from coast to coast, Father O’Brawley had picked up a few tricks that he wasn’t necessarily proud of. He knew how to throw a knife with deadly accuracy, how to make liquor from distilled piss and even how to kill a man with his bare hands. Despite his past life as a fist-fighting, whiskey-swigging, good-for-nothing pirate, Father O’Brawley had never learned the delicate art of lock picking.
That skill would have been particularly useful right about now.
A thick door (locked) with M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E stenciled across it was the one obstacle now preventing Father O’Brawley from completing his vital task. The mess of pipes that exited the vent above the door and ran into the ceiling was a dead give away that this was the room he had been searching for. Thirty years ago, hell, maybe five years ago, the old priest may have been spry enough to pound on the door until it gave way to brute force but right now that just simply wasn’t an option.
“St. Monica please be at my side,” Father O’Brawley murmured as he stared at the door, feeling incredibly disappointed that such a simple thing like a lock was preventing him from fulfilling his promise to me.
“Padre you in the wrong church.” Came a taunting voice.
Some dumb hooligan, most likely fleeing from the terror of the Twins, slunk towards Father O’Brawley with a sneer. Though his eyes were sunken in by years of hard drugs, somewhere in his rotting mind was wounded pride. Apparently this shithead thought he could mend his injured ego by dealing out some violence to a more favorable target like an old priest.
“Better say a quick word to God, man.” The thug spat, reaching behind his back and pulling out a thick lead pipe that he had taken up as a weapon, “Cuz I am so damn stone cold I ain’t caring if I bust ya head clean open.”
The old priest saw the thick pipe in the hooligan’s hand and grinned.
“And the Lord provides!” Father O’Brawley chuckled.
Eager to finish his dark deed before fleeing into the night (and as far from the Twins as possible), the thug snarled and raised the lead pipe high into the air. He charged forward figuring that the combination of a blunt object, youth and murderous intent would be more than enough to take down some old priest.
The thug never really stood a chance.
Father O’Brawley’s fist shot out like arthritic lightning, catching the hooligan right in the nose. Cartilage broke upon impact and the hooligan snorted a mess of blood and snot. Caught off guard, the thug panic and tried to backpedal to safety but the old priest would have none of it.
Old instincts kicked in and Father O’Brawley continued his offensive. A series of left and right hooks snapped the hooligan’s head back and forth as the old priest gained momentum. Dropping the pipe, the thug threw his hands up in a feeble attempt at a defense. It was no use. A signature uppercut from the old priest easily connected to the hooligan’s chin and knocked him to the floor.
Father O’Brawley calmly wiped the blood off his knuckles with a corner of his sleeve. Spitting blood, mucus and threats, the hooligan picked himself up and scampered down the hall, heading for the nearest exit. The old priest shook his head, mumbled a prayer of forgiveness and bent over with a groan to pick the lead pipe up off the ground.
Now the old priest faced his true opponent: the locked maintenance door. Taking the pipe in both hands, Father O’Brawley raised it high before bringing it crashing down against the doorknob. It took five more strikes, each sending jarring pain into the old priest’s hands, but eventually he succeeded when the handle broke free from the door.
Wasting no more time, Father O’Brawley threw open the ruined door and stepped inside. The room itself wasn’t much more than a cement box with three enormous water heaters (or at least water containers) hugging the back wall in neglected silence. Tubes went from the containers into a single, enormous, fire-hydrant red pipe that ran directly into the ceiling.
“Faith can move mountains.” The old priest murmured, pushing past the cobwebs and placing a hand upon the largest container as he began his prayer, “We ask You, Father…”