ONCE UPON A WARLOCK ✓

A ROSE STALK FOR A VENA CAVA

"Glory to the new born King,"

Julius's frozen brows furrow at the sonority of these lyrics and suddenly, he feels drawn to it. His feet pick up their pace on their own towards the source of the sound and seconds later, he's standing before an enormous Victorian building with a bell tower erect by its right side and a giant clock -- that says 9:25 am -- etched onto it.

"Late in time behold Him come,"

St. Andrews Catholic Church -- from the small billboard in front -- has streaks of electronic lights running throughout the scenery. Which is the only thing ramifying jocundity despite yuletide. Some children wearing masks and flashy electronic accessories of the season run past his startled figure.

"Offspring of a virgin's womb."

Mesmerized by the mise en scène and hypnotized by a strange sense of solace radiating from within the building, he trots mindlessly into it.

"Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;"

"Hail the incarnate Deity!"

It's bright. Very bright. More mistletoes and vines coupled with a peppermint theme is a sharp contrast to the old-maidishly Victorian style. Mosaics exhibiting some woman carrying a baby with a sun crown, twelve men and another bleeding man donning a crown of thorns on a cross are imbedded on ancient rust walls that polygonizes the perimeter into a latitudinous space. Pewing two-thirds of the area is rather impressive timberwork.

"Pleas'd as Man with man to dwell,"

Julius further into its odd warmness, chewing the insides of his mouth. His hands run across the pew beside him, feeling its summery smoothness. His ears finally nab the song filling the church and he traces it to a tall grey-haired lady making swing gestures with a stick, effectively managing the a capella sung by a group of children.

"Jesus, our Immanuel."

Julius thinks their singing is nice. He takes a seat four pews behind a bald, black woman scolding some emo guy -- judging from his skinned head in a bandana studded with shiny thorns -- who seems like he was tolled by a crane to be present in this church.

Julius scoffs and when he's sure nobody is looking, he conjures a fat tobacco stick out of thin air. Nothing like a beautiful cock of snuff to chill out this thick lump of anxiety blocking his nostrils. Somehow, he knows he doesn't belong here. But of course he can take a smoke here -- where-the-fuck-ever he likes -- and aren't Christians supposed to be accepting?

He is still twirling the stick in his fingers when he catches the disgusted gaze of the mocha-skinned lady. Julius sits back in amusement, assessing the manner in which she strangled her scalp with a yellow scarf. Her flabby lips look permanently worn into the fleshy frown she's sporting now.

Black people are so judgemental, thinks Julius while he levels her gaze with unyielding eyes and he almost doesn't notice the guy beside her.

"Hey!"

Julius chirps, waving his hand and consequently the cigarette in the air. The last time -- and only time -- he's met him was that wild visit to Diggs Digits where Rarity flipped the salon upside down like an angsty Tasmanian devil.

The guy blinks a several times before his dark eyes light up in realization but dims again in surprise. "Yo!"

"You know him?" The woman hisses, throwing Julius a distateful glare. "What have I told you to never mix with people like, like. . ."

"Uh?"

"Evil communication corrupts good manners." She pinches his earlobe and drags him out of the seat. "We're going home right now, Bartholomew."