A Mission Of Mercy

A drinkable solution to life

Tungsdown found himself awake one fine morning face down in a patch of mud, formed there by a sudden unexpected rain storm from the night before. He was perplexed as to why he was in such an unusual place, in a state of affairs most peculiar to him and wondering why he was not at home at his normal location, fast asleep in bed.
Half of his face was burnt lobster red from the morning sun which had been toasting it for several hours. The other side was face down submerged in the cold wet mud, which was very unbecoming for a man of his stature and grace. 

Apparently the overindulgence of whiskey, coupled with debauchery and memory loss kept him from his regular routine of walking home straight away.

The plan was to have an evening out filled with merriment, a night projected in theory anyway, by a normally clear thinking man, who focused all his energies and attention on new ways to produce more adventure in an otherwise dreary life. Having fun is what it is all about but things went wrong somewhere down the line, somewhere between 3 and dawn.

He looked comical with one side of the face in a blistering red condition and the other side, a rich dark chocolate color, which could be easily remedied for him to look normal again with a hot shower and application of some cleansing cream.

Sister Eny Holy was the local w***e... I mean nun, who had spent the night with Tungsdown down at the local bar. Somehow they became separated in between missions, in their explorations to discover the perfect saloons, who would be playing the perfect tunes on jute boxes and serving delicious beverages to die for. Somewhere in the mix of things, between the witching hour of 3:00 am and dawn, things went south. Sister Holy had a reputation for playing both sides of the cross. When she was good she was very very good and when she was bad she was even better.

They became close friends several years ago when they met under very unusual circumstances. Eny was doing mission work in a dangerous section of town down by the south bay wharf. A gang of vulgarians approached her with the idea of having their way with her. She would have nothing to do with that. Sister Holy never traveled without her trusty revolver hidden in her black gown for just such occasions. You could never have too much protection in her profession.
She was able to protect her virginity but not her head. One of the hoodlums threw a solid iron spear rod. The pointed tip end of the shaft entered sister Holy with great force at the front upper left corner of her skull just above the eye and it continued through her, exited at the back of her head with a gush of blood, tissue and soft fleshy material. For sure she was dead! 

As fate would have it or perhaps divine intervention; enter one Mr. Connor Lingus Tungsdown on this dire situation on this particular night. He had been out for the evening on his constant quest to find the perfect drink and adult beverage establishment.

He was luckily still sober at this gentile hour, at least sober enough to intervene for the sake and cause of Sister Eny Holy. He quickly picked up the nuns gun and continued where she left off. He fired away as one large bullet struck the face of a perpetrator. Another found its way into the neck of a fellow criminal. It was all over except for the fact that the poor sister was in critical condition.
Good fortune continued in the favor of the injured girl. She was only 90 pounds, (in nun weight, that would include the heavy black gown and giant rosaries.) Tungsdown was a tall, well constructed healthy man who had worked out most of his life and worked at a job which gave him plenty of laborious activity to keep him fit. He carried the injured woman to the hospital at a rapid jaunt.

This is where things get weird, even a little strange. The doctors discovered that the entire left part of her brain had been damaged and destroyed from the blunt trauma. It was literally dead. 
Technology had advanced enough for the surgeons and local scientists to work together to try to save her life with an experimental brain implant. They removed the entire left side of her brain and installed a small supercomputer into her skull. It worked and when she recovered she could play one hell of a game of chess.

She continued on to have a relatively normal life. Her drink of choice was absinthe. It has nothing to do with abstinence and a lot to do with sin. This particular beverage has hallucinogenic properties which calmed her and raised her to an elevated state of consciousness. 

She rationalized, as all good Catholics do, being the litigious lot that they are, that the confessional was the remedy for her disquieting, provocative and elicit ways. She would never miss her sessions in the cubicle at St. Constance of the Northern Star of the Sea, a small chapel parish by the bay. Father Frankincense would always absolve her of her sins, be they small or most hideous. She would thank him and God in unison for their graces bestowed upon her in her hour of need. That would not dissuade her from continuing her objectionable behavior when the chance presented itself. Chance favors the mind prepared. Chance was always there to cheer her on to do bad things.

Tungsdown was simply a good friend, a guardian angel, a prevailing condition in her life. His condition was that of a full fledged drunk. In the real world he would pretend to be a land surveyor. He had to carry around heavy equipment and work in the great outdoors. He also had to use his brain to reason distances, shapes, sizes and other land related things. It was the best of both worlds. There was good money in it and there was always land in need of surveying. The world and all its earth had plenty of ground to be covered and to be measured for business purposes. He was always at risk of losing his occupation due to numerous no shows at work and rarely meeting deadlines on time. He had no memory of saving his friend. 

That was then. This is now. 
As a matter of fact, today is a perfect example of his mortal inadequacies, as he should have been at his specified assignment at 8:00 am this morning. That time has come and gone. He is just now picking himself up from the mud. He is in no physical or mental condition to work today. Perhaps a visit to the local hospital might be in order due to his state of being.

Sister Eny and he made a lovely couple. If not for her vows to the church and her commitment to God, she and he might become an item.

Weather conditions have a lot to do in large part in their relationship in general. They would go wherever the wind would blow them to get a drink, come rain or shine or hour of day or night. They formed their own mutual society of impropriety and insobriety. They became a party of two who wanted to party all the time. 

Eny Holy would steal alter wine from the rectory just after giving her confession to the priest every Saturday morning like clock work. She knew that Father Frankincense would be tied up for hours ministering to other parishioners who would be in need of his divine services, maximizing his absolution abilities, utilizing them in the never ending fight against crimes and sins, (not necessarily in that order.) It was the perfect time for her to “borrow” a bottle or two, as she would frame it or classify it for conservation purposes.

After committing her crime she would be ready for another visit to the confessional booth but she realized it would be too soon. She would have to restrain herself and save it for next Saturday. In any event she needed more time to accumulate a longer list of bad deeds in order for the visit to be worth her while.

Two police officers took notice of Tungsdown staggering down the dirt street. He stood out like a sore thumb in the scorching hot sun. If not for his gray pinstripe business suit and yellow tie, they would have arrested him on the spot for drunken disorder. It is true that a suit makes the man. In this instance it bought him a little time to come up with some juicy lies for the constables.
The tall thin uniformed man spoke first. He wanted to know the name of the man swaying in front of him and why he was not walking correctly or in a normal manner as he thought normal should be. 

Tungsdown spoke softly and said, “Connor Lingis Tungsdown at your service ossifers.” It was obvious that he was slurring his speech and still inebriated. In a quirk of fate and quick thinking, Tungsdown turned the tables on the two law men with a diversionary tactic. He lifted his index finger and wiggled it a little bit in the direction of the thin mans mouth and said, “Is that white stuff sugar on and around your lips?” It was certainly evidence that the man had been eating powdered donuts. It was clearly not cocaine because the white substance would be around the nose and not covering the lip area. The officer blushed, wiped away the sugar with his blue coat sleeve but continued his interrogation without a missed beat or hesitation.

The funny incongruous thing about this picture was and is; the thin law man standing there had damning evidence of having consumed fattening sweet foods. His fat partner right next to him did not. He simply projected himself there in his enormity, his obscene obesity, an unusually much smaller man, almost ball like, ball shaped in his appearance, with a clean face, standing there as innocent as a sheep at pasture, with his clean unblemished face, was in and of itself hilarious to anyone present at the time. 

The tall thin cop pressed Tungsdown for answers. It must have been the half red face, half brown face that caused his suspicions to surface and be aroused. A tuxedo would not have saved the well dressed man in this particular instance. Tungsdown had guilt written all over his face. At the end of all the discussion they all ended up downtown to sort things out.

Sister Eny was never seen in public with her friends when they went out drinking together dressed in her religious garments. Today she decided to costume herself in proper attire; habit, gown, rosaries, crucifix and all accoutrements of her trade to bail her friend out of jail. It worked. Who could say no to a nun? 

Recently the Catholic pope decided to make it legal for house pets like dogs and cats to go to heaven. (Sorry goldfish and snakes. You didn't qualify and did not make the cut.)
This new decree from the pope opens the door on many religious and philosophical levels as to what constitutes and adds credence to who or what deserves validation for ever lasting life in paradise. What is holy and what is not?

It is our understanding that only creatures with souls could enter heaven. We have come to understand that only humans have that qualifier since they have souls. Cats and dogs, domestic or otherwise do not have souls so this issue becomes confusing. 

Our thoughts also become focused on Sister Eny Holy at this hour. After her operation is she truly still human with a human soul. Half of her brain is a machine. The other half is human. Is she not a cyborg by definition? When she dies will her actions, (post operation) be evaluated by our Almighty God with the same keen eye of judgment?

Is our Holy nun a human or a machine, a generated being with behaviors programmed for good or evil by her human designers? Will half of her being go into heaven and perhaps the machine part go to Hell? Like all good computer, will it simply cease to exist after a period of time and simply shut down for all eternity?

When computers become more self sufficient, more sentient, more individualistic and more unique unto themselves, will they not have surpassed human qualities and humanity itself? Will they have achieved the right to enter heaven as the intellectual good creatures they hope to evolve into over the years to come? Do they have less rights than house pets, who granted, have innocence on their side but are not self actualizing creatures? Sentient, evolved creatures who actually know right from wrong should have more at stake to win or lose in the life hereafter. After all, cats and dogs really only eat, defecate, sleep and procreate, (out of the sacred bonds and requirements of holy matrimony we might add.)

Clearly Sister Holy is a bad girl most of the time but she plays a mean game of chess. Should that be taken into consideration in her case? She seems to do more good than harm in her life. Is her chess playing abilities a handicap or an enhancement to her nature? Is it a fare enhancement when she is playing against regular humans who have regular fleshy brains in chess tournaments? Is her very humanity now in question, being that a large part of her brain and therefore her being, is a machine inside her head?

It seems like her personality is still intact. She is the same person but with some obvious changes. Pets also have personalities. We guess that concept must count as something useful in determining their usefulness here and in the hereafter.

If we stretch the idea regarding the nun and her humanity, to justify her humanity to a more drastic level to be evaluated, say, if she were to have other catastrophic events in her life where she needs to have a liver or heart replaced with mechanical devices due to her excessive drinking habits and the associated consequences to that activity. Where does it end and what if she were in need of other replacement parts for her anatomy and perhaps coupled with the necessity to replace limbs with artificial devices, where does her humanity end and her machinery begin?

Perhaps one day she might be compelled by the state to change her name from Sister Holy to Sister Cyborg.

When she dies should she be buried in the Christian cemetery or dumped in the machinery junk yard?
Perhaps we should think about eliminating pet cemeteries too. All things being equal, everything is the same in the minds of so many, the minds of those with or without consciousness or souls.

God have mercy on us all, those with or without souls.
Sister Eny and her drinking buddy really don't care. They are out to have a good time and to find the next perfect bar. Drinking is not just a condition. It is a religion. It is their mission.